Before I even opened my eyes I felt the presence of soothing hands rushing to comfort me and heal my wounds. Through the haze of my semi-consciousness I heard a chorus of hushed voices, all in white, assuring me that I'll feel better soon and that my wretched, bruised body will quickly be better than before. Under a bright light and comforted by these "healing angels" I was about to rest quietly. Then I detected a sinister presence just out of my view and a chilling aura of impending evil. I sensed an unworldly spirit and felt that a devilish pall had fallen over the room. Then the haze overtook me. My dreams were wracked with frightening images of fire and smoke, creatures struggling with the eternal questions of good and evil. My body possessed and my mind turned to impurity. I fought with the notion of immediate gratification versus life everlasting. It was all too bewildering for this lost soul.
When I woke a second time, I found myself in a medical recovery room informed that I had suffered a terrible fall. An emergency room crew had struggled to stabilize me and bind my wounds. And that through all the stitches, plaster and wraps, I was told that my "good friend" had never left my side. He stood guard over me and seemed even to recite some healing words to soothe me. That was when I realized that Satan was here on Earth.
His real name was Lou Wasserman, Esq. All others saw him as tall and gaunt with fine, sharp
features. He was forever impeccably dressed and had an aloof, patrician manner with everyone. His style was pure elegance and there was always a toothy smile and a limp, bony handshake that was more foreboding than warming. You had to readily concentrate even to see his cloven hooves, horns and serpent's tail.
My name is Bill. I've spent the worst part of thirty years conning people and talking my way into and out of trouble. After appearing once-too often infront of the same night-court magistrate; I was given a "choice." Spend a couple of years in jail for my numerous transgressions or intern for a couple years with a prestigious law firm where I might learn to put my manipulative ways to good use. The court felt that my life could be turned around, they didn't know what they were doing. Having no friends in the room, I quickly agreed. A few papers were signed, an oath was sworn, and next thing I knew, I belonged to him. I was sentenced to indentured servitude and put under the tutelage of Dear 'Ol Lou.
The morning we were introduced, his staff was celebrating a huge settlement that would enhance the prestige of the company and significantly raise it's coffers. Ironically, on the television at the same time, the opposing lawyers were telling the world that they had won a major decision. Lou simply sat back with a smug expression to his face. I heard him tell a subordinate, "the Indians sold Manhattan for beads and blankets and they thought they got the better end of the deal."
Around the firm, the associates and even the partners, shivered in his shadow and only spoke of him in hushed tones. He was Mr. Wasserman and "Old Sir." And adversaries that had the painful assignment of facing him at the bar referred to him as "Loucifer." But only out of earshot.
I asked him once why his name was not on the company's letterhead. "I can't be bothered with company pissing games. Besides, I get what I want my boy. I'll give you a little secret. When you've got them by the short hairs, their hearts and minds will follow." I laughed at his expression but saw that he was deadly serious. It was then that I made a point of listening to Lou's words of wisdom, even if they were often pearls before swine.
Since I wasn't really on the payroll, or maybe because I was too stupid to know better; Mr. Wasserman didn't intimidate me, much. My duties included picking-up parcels and running errands, and serving some of my community service during the afternoons. So the late evening hours often found Lou and I sitting around his polished walnut conference table dining on cold burgers and stale coffee. In between depositions, we told dirty jokes, talked about sports and made crude sexual remarks about women in the firm. We formed a friendly alliance. I even took to calling him Uncle Lou. He usually called me S.O.B., which he told the staff meant Sweet Old Bill. But I wasn't so sure.
One thing though, without sensing it, I was learning a lot from Uncle Lou. He had many clever sayings that I keep with me to this day. Like on the occasion when I slipped on the ice.
I was living in a run-down building owned by a well-connected, absentee slumlord. With the cracked, gravelly walk and the packed ice; I took a hell of a fall. My beat-up gym bag stuffed with legal pads, sweat shirt, The Sporting News, and thermos, went flying. I cut my back and knees, broke my wrist, sprained my neck, got a concussion, and various other scrapes and bruises. When I woke up in recovery and gathered my faculties, Lou was standing over me sipping coffee. He said, "it's time to take this hog to the butcher."
About ten months later, desperate to avoid jail and bankruptcy, the building owner cut me a check for three million dollars. After taxes, the firm's cut and Lou's commission, I pocketed alittle over one and a quarter mill. "Money is just a way of keeping score," Lou reminded me. "You truly win when you crush their spirit and bend their will to fight. Someday I'll show you a few techniques, if you stay loyal, because I think you are talented enough to put them to good use. But remember this: even a dog won't shit where he eats." It was a not too subtle reminder that Lou was in charge and that I was fortunate enough to be his apprentice.
Among the many trophies was an old Victorian-style house that I had always passed on my way to work, and dreamed about owning someday if I ever won the lottery. It was an old dilapidated mansion which I now intended to restore to it's original Gothic splendor. Though how I would do it flat on my back, was a dilemma. Again, it was good to have Uncle Lou on my side. He arranged for a sweetheart deal, and called-in some favors from others he had helped.
In the mean time, since I technically worked for the firm; and to garner good press, and especially to keep Lou happy, the company put me up in a posh, rehabilitation hospital. I was pampered and powdered until my scars faded. Pretty young girls attended to my every desire, from morning Mimosas to bedtime sponge baths. In the time I was on my back, I was kept abreast of the furnishings and updating of my new/old mansion from it's four spiraled turrets to it's hidden-accessed basement wine cellar. I was inundated with pictures and reports from "generous" contractors working on the estate. I had eaten fruit from the forbidden tree.
One of the pleasures of rehab was a cute little nurses-aide named Evie. She had short brown hair, heavy legs and an average-sized chest. Not exactly the fantasy woman of my dreams. I always pictured those noir-comic book goddesses; leggy blondes built like Amazons with double-d's and lip gloss. The kind who would fight to the death while dishing-out maximum punishment but could be subdued by a master-mind like myself.
Evie also had big dimples, plump lips and round cheeks that would look so good with my cock in them. She assumed I was a partner in the firm or a celebrity client. And she stared doe-eyed at the pictorial updates of the home I had only seen in photos myself. She had an idea that I must have been somebody special, so who was I to burst her bubble? In our therapy sessions together, she admitted to running away from a dysfunctional home and spending what little she had on nursing school and rent for the dumpy apartment she shared with an older nurse. She also shared her dreams of another kind of life she wished to live. Romance, travel, fine clothes and adventure. She wanted to take a bite of the apple.
As the attendant responsible for my care, we spent many hours and days talking about our futures. She assumed that I always had had money. She saw the great big house, and watched as I flipped through brochures for fancy, luxury autos. Evie told me she would love to live in a big house and would "give anything" to be care-free and not have to worry about nickels and dimes.
We got closer still during my sponge-baths and hot-oil massages. While she gently and soothingly rubbed my tired joints. I returned the favor, stroking her cheek, brushing her hair with my fingers, and the occasional pinch or pat on her more delicate regions. She soon accepted that on our private times, I would be fondling her chest or squeezing her ripe ass. She often leaned over me and planted sloppy kisses on my neck and lips. It's a strange sensation, but when a woman bends over you and you can see her breasts hanging loosely underneath her scrubs, even small-breasted women look sexy and seductive. And Evie in particular, would shyly smile when she caught me looking and would purr seductively when I let my hand linger on her backside or inner thighs.
So she willingly gave-in to my gropings and took to going braless for our late night rendezvous. I managed to convince Evie that any thing physical was good therapy. The sponge baths became mutual massage with no sponge needed. After a few months I had her sneaking back after her shift and pleasing me in any way I wanted. As Lou had mentioned many times, "some people are sheep, and they need to be sheared for their own good."
Her oral skills were lacking and she had never experimented much beyond the Missionary position. But she was a willing student and readily acceded to my requests and followed commands without complaint. I gave her my credit card to order things online, and soon she was demonstrating new dildoes, butt-plugs and wickedly naughty clothing. I often ordered her to put on shows for me; masturbating, sucking me and using every filthy phrase she could imagine to beg me to fuck her. She progressed from lifeless lay to receptive whore. I was eventually fucking her ass while she sucked on a dildo and fingered herself. And by the time of my hospital discharge, it was already agreed that Evie would be my private-duty helper with benefits.
It was not long before we were both getting used to the house and breaking-in every room in a most medieval way. Evie worked on the first floor. She decorated the living quarters, stocked the kitchen and arranged the formal reception hall. My new hobby was turning the stone-walled cellar into a well-equipped, padded and restraint-filled dungeon. At night, we retired to the Master Suite for late night blowjobs and "straight" sex. But the more adventuresome stuff happened down stairs. She was hesitant about the shackles and ball-gags at first but quickly came to learn that she enjoyed being a submissive partner and was more free when she was subject to my discipline.
It was simply a matter of conditioning to get her accustomed to being my sexual slave. In a short time she was swallowing my seed, morning and night. She delighted in stripping for me and loved fantasyrole-play. Even quiet times were spent together with me squeezing her tits or her licking my rigid pole. On her period days, she welcomed my meaty tool between her pliant ass-cheeks and often performed sexual feats with her fingers or rubber toys. She discovered that she enjoyed having more than one hole filled at a time. And it gave her great pleasure to submit to my will, believing that any deviant desire of mine was okay because she was "forced" to obey my command.
When fucking, she admitted that her deepest fantasy was to be enslaved. A sexual being whose true pleasure comes from performing for her Master. Compelled to debase and degrade herself, reveling under my control and experiencing thunderous orgasms along the way. She loved to be controlled and visibly and physically shook when I led her by the collar down the stone steps. She tingled with excitement when I strapped her to a table or chained her to one of the padded racks. She screamed with delight when I paddled her or pulled her hair.
