Tae Only as Directed

This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. Janie's just been chosen by Mr. Gilpin, the butler of billionaire industrialist Richard Balfour, to be his boss's Gal-Friday-with-benefits, but she's not yet met him.

Read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point.

***

Richard Balfour's house was like none other I'd ever seen, or imagined. It was a vast and sprawling mansion built on several levels on a Northern California hillside, overlooking the rolling waves of the Pacific. The place had been built to his specifications, and included every comfort.

Because Balfour's fortune came from computer hardware and software, it also wasn't surprising that the house boasted the latest wireless connections throughout, as well as a host of "smart" features that I was forever discovering.

Balfour had a number of people discreetly working for him both inside the house and out. Except for Mr. Gilpin, the butler-cum-household-manager, few had clearly-defined roles, but all seemed to pitch in where needed, under Gilpin's overall direction. Phil, the Asian-American man who drove us from the local executive airport to the house, for instance, wasn't a chauffeur in the old-fashioned sense. He had responsibilities in grounds maintenance and security. The car he drove us in was nothing so ostentatious as a limo -- that wasn't Balfour's style, it seemed -- but rather a well-appointed luxury SUV.

Gilpin led me in through a back door and gave me a quick tour of the house's principal rooms. There were grand spaces for entertaining a large number of guests, as well as smaller, cozier rooms for times when the master of the house pretty much had the place to himself.

"This will be your room," Gilpin said at last, pushing open a solid-wood door. I was astounded at the size of it, as well as the view over the Pacific visible from its small balcony.

It contained a king-sized bed, a flat-screen TV, a stereo sound system and a bathroom that contained a two-person Jacuzzi, a large walk-in shower with multiple spray-jets and a bidet. I had never in my life stayed in such a luxurious place, even for one night. The thought of living there astounded me.

"The room you're in," explained the butler, "was first occupied by Mr. Balfour's most recent ex-wife, and at various times after that by women friends he invited to join him here for briefer periods. I will leave it to him to explain the details of his recent relationship history, but here's the shorthand version. After three bitterly-contested divorces and a series of failed romantic relationships, at the age of 54 he's sworn off any serious commitments. He is looking to you, Janie, to see to his day-to-day personal needs, in a way that will allow him to devote as much time as he needs to chairing the board of the Balfour Group of companies and pursuing his various philanthropic interests. Now, let me show you what's over here."

Opening a door, he led me into a walk-in cedar closet. There were a few clothing items on hangers that looked like they would fit me, with space for many more.

"The clothing here has been selected for you, but you'll also have the opportunity to order additional items online, not to mention the side shopping-trips you can take when you're accompanying Mr. Balfour on business trips to major cities. He'll provide you with a cash card to purchase whatever you think you need, within reason. What I'd really like to show you, though, is this."

Gesturing towards the back of the closet, Gilpin indicated another door. "This door, which is locked from this side, opens into a similar but much larger closet just off Mr. Balfour's bedroom. You'll see plenty of that room in time, but not today. The positioning of the doors, as well as the thickness of the walls, means the connection between the two rooms is soundproof. When Mr. Balfour desires you to attend him in his bedroom, he'll unlock the door from his end. Or, he may simply come through and visit you here in your room. The arrangement is designed for maximum discretion. Even if the house is full of guests, no one will know if that connecting door is unlocked except the two of you.

Suddenly I felt dampness between my legs. After our long day of jet and car travel, I realized I'd gone without sexual release, now, for nearly 24 hours. That wouldn't have been exceptional in my former life, but it was my longest period of abstinence since arriving at the Training Center. The mere thought of padding through that cedar-scented passage, barefoot and bare-assed, then falling backwards onto the bed and offering the Chairman of the Board his choice of orifices made me, in a word, horny as hell. And I hadn't even met the guy yet. He could turn out to be a real creep, for all I knew. But the chemical changes wrought in my body led me to overlook such niceties. My imaginings were focused like a laser beam on trying to picture my new Master's package dangling between his legs.

I was feeling fine -- the emergency pill I'd swallowed before I left the Training Center was still staving off any nausea, chills and other side-effects of abstinence -- but I'd grown so used to the Center's non-stop fuckathon that I knew the next few days would be an adjustment. How often would Balfour unlock that door, I wondered?

I couldn't ask Mr. Gilpin that -- nor would he have known the answer -- so I chose a more ordinary question instead. "And where is Mr. Balfour now?"

"He's jetting back, as we speak, from the world economics summit at Davos, in Switzerland. I expect him here by mid-morning tomorrow. He knows of your arrival, and is eager to meet you. He'll advise you when he has need of you. Let me remind you that your duties will be varied, to assist him in whatever he needs. He's just as likely to ask you to run errands or do research on the internet as he is to invite you to crawl between his sheets. He desires, at this stage of his life, for you to satisfy his physical needs in as low-key and discreet a way as possible. That's your job, Janie: to serve him in every sense. You'll need to rely just as much on what you've got between your ears as what you've got between your legs."

Gilpin looked at me and smiled. "You'll find it in your self-interest to make Mr. Balfour your object of study. Learn what he needs, so you can discreetly offer it before he asks. Make yourself available in every way, but don't press yourself upon him, neither physically nor in conversation. He's aware of his responsibility to keep you supplied with your rescue dose of medicine, and will conscientiously see that you get it at least every 48 hours. Failing that, just call me, night or day, and I'll make sure you have access to the emergency pills."

Gilpin gave me a knowing look before continuing. "When Mr. Balfour travels, you will travel with him. He expects you to present yourself to the world as his personal assistant, his 'Gal Friday,' and to comport yourself professionally and discreetly. You are to give no hint of the physical aspects of your relationship. No one but he and I are to know of the arrangements under which you've come here -- which is why he sent me to represent him at the Training Center rather than going himself. Remember, he has purchased the rights to your body and your mind. If you grasp the fundamental nature of your responsibilities, your stay here is likely to be long. If not, he'll have no compunction about sending you back to the Center in exchange for another candidate. The best way to extend your stay is by making yourself indispensable."

Whereupon the ever-courteous Mr. Gilpin nodded a farewell and left me to my own devices.

I realized, then, that he and I had a mutual interest in making this thing work. He'd made the choice on our Master's behalf, so he had an investment in making sure I knew what I was doing. I filed that thought away, for future reference.

After my close confinement and constant supervision in the Center, you'd better believe I took full advantage of that well-appointed guest room. After eating dinner off a tray the kitchen staff sent up at my request, I filled the Jacuzzi with lavender bath salts and submerged myself up to my neck.

The fragrant, sudsy water felt like hundreds of tiny masseur-fingers, caressing every inch of my skin. Looking up, I discovered that the ceiling over the tub was covered with mirror-tiles. I sat up a little, then, causing my rounded breasts, topped by their dark-brown nipples, to emerge from the water like islands in a soapy sea. I lifted them in both hands, raising them as an oblation to my voluptuous alter-ego in the ceiling tiles. Sliding my arm across my chest, I rolled and tweaked first one impertinently erect nipple, then the other. Then, I let my fingers drift downwards, gently tangling themselves in my thick, black bush. Ecstasy.

After toweling off and blow-drying my shoulder-length brown hair, I padded naked into the alcove where my bed was located. Picking up a remote control to the entertainment system, I chose some relaxing, New Age music. Then, arranging the fluffy bed-pillows into a satiny mountain, I leaned back, allowing the bath-softened fingertips of my left hand to gently caress the curve of my breasts. With my right hand, I continued what I'd begun in the tub, gently stroking my pussy. My fingers had no trouble gaining admission to the dark treasure-house within, and stroked the labia, up and down -- first languidly, then in a slowly-mounting rhythm. Bringing them up to my other lips for a taste, I found they were coated with what my dyke high-school health teacher used to clinically refer to as "viscous fluids."

Faster and faster my nimble fingers danced, until I was three-finger fucking myself: thumb and forefinger taking turns circling my clit and moving into and out of my dripping pussy, while my middle finger was sunk to the second knuckle in my puckered asshole. In no time at all, waves of sweet pleasure washed over me, but did I stop? Why should I? I had noplace else to go, nothing I had to do. I kept going, enjoying one rolling, pelvis-shaking orgasm after another.

Damn. I could get used to this.