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. In this episode, Janie finally meets her mysterious new master, billionaire industrialist Richard Balfour for whom she will be a Gal-Friday-with-benefits.
Read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point.
***
The next day, about 3 in the afternoon, the invitation came by way of a curt phone call from Mr. Gilpin, the butler: "Janie, Mr. Balfour will see you now. Please attend him in his study on the second floor."
Not his bedroom, but his study. It looked like it was going to be business before pleasure.
Having heard how much Mr. Balfour values discretion, and knowing how much he wanted me to appear not as a convict out on sexual work-release, but rather as an ordinary employee, I'd decided not to dress provocatively. From the walk-in closet in my room, I'd chosen a simple, navy-blue business suit with white blouse. The skirt was knee-length, and underneath it I wore pantyhose and sensible, low-heeled shoes. Just what I might be expected to wear in an office setting.
Fortunately, that morning I'd done a little recon around the vast, sprawling mansion, so I knew exactly where that second-floor study was located. Walking briskly, I made my way there as quickly as I could go.
My haste was encouraged by a sickly feeling that was slowly growing in the pit of my stomach. My chemical clock was ticking. In a purely physiological sense, I needed what Mr. Balfour had to give me, and I needed it soon.
"No sense appearing over-eager," I cautioned myself. "If Balfour were like most men, he'd be perfectly happy with a slut, who'd plop down on a swivel chair like Sharon Stone in that old movie, spread her legs and flash her hairy crotch. If that's what he wanted, he'd already have you walking around the place naked as a jaybird, in high heels." (That, as any of you who've read my earlier chapters know, was the "uniform" I'd grown used to at the training center.) "He had Gilpin read your work resumé before choosing you. You'd better look the part."
So, I did. An efficient-looking secretary, an older woman, was encamped at the desk in the outer office. Ms. Ingeborg was her name. Her graying blonde hair and nordic features made her look like some Swedish ice-maiden. She looked up as I entered the room. Her eyes met mine. They betrayed nothing of what she might or might not know about my real purpose for being there.
"Proceed," was all she said, motioning me towards a blank section of paneled wall. At that instant, perhaps because she'd pressed some hidden button, the section of wall silently slid to one side. "Mr. Balfour has directed that the two of you are not to be disturbed during the course of your interview." The door slid shut behind me.
"So that's the way it is," I thought to myself. "Good. I've never met this guy, but my body's telling me that, if I'm not swallowing his cum in the next half-hour or so, I'll be in a world of pain. Play it cool, Janie. Don't let on how desperate you are."
Balfour was standing behind his desk, looking out through a huge plate-glass window at the rolling waves of the Pacific. He was in his mid-fifties, reasonably trim, balding on top and more than a little gray at the temples. Once I saw him in person, I realized I recognized him from news articles and TV talk-shows. "God, this guy's bona-fide famous," I thought to myself.
At the sound of my approach, he turned and smiled, motioning me towards a small seating area off to one side: a small sofa, a couple of chairs and a coffee table.
I sat on the little love-seat (appropriate anme!) and he took a seat in an armchair opposite.
"You know why you're here, of course," he said to me, with all the detachment of a businessman reading a resumé (which, it so happened, he was). "I've reached the point in my life where I've grown tired of chasing after the fairer sex. As my attorney will tell you, I'm shelling out millions each year in alimony to my ex-wives, even after the most detailed pre-nups you can imagine. I look on those monthly payments as insurance premiums, to keep my name out of the tabloids. I don't think I'm a bad sort, but anyone who knows me is well aware I'm married to my work. I make no apologies for that. I've spent my life building these companies up from nothing. I can't have a relationship dissolve again - not because I can't afford the money (I can), but because I'm tired of the whole skirt-chasing thing."
He looked -- with some longing, I thought -- at my navy-blue skirt, and at my crossed legs emerging from underneath its fabric, before continuing. Not so tired as all that, it would seem. But then again, he knows that -- unlike any other woman he's ever bedded -- I don't need to be chased.
"Back in the last century, there was an author names Erica Jong, who created controversial headlines with a book called Fear of Flying. She's the one who coined the phrase, 'zipless fuck.' What attracts me about the unique correctional program you're involved in is that it promises something very close to that. Janie, I'm impressed that you have skills as a researcher and project manager. We'll make use of those talents -- not because I don't have others in my organization who can do such things, but because it's important to me that, to all appearances, our relationship be thoroughly professional, that of a personal assistant who works very closely with her boss. That's the cover story we'll use to explain why you travel with me -- while you and I know it's because your body has certain physical needs, now, that only mine can provide."
I felt a sudden gush of wetness between my legs, at the mere suggestion.
"It's also important to me that you be on the payroll -- something I realize is by no means required by the contract I've signed with Halliburton, the government's agent -- but it's part of the cover story. You'll draw 25 grand a month, which I trust you'll find more than generous. On your way out, Ms. Ingeborg will have you sign a contract that provides for that entire amount to be deposited in an offshore account, in your name only. As long as you work for me in this intensely personal way, you will lack for nothing. You'll have no need of spending money for any purpose. Think of these payments as contributions towards a retirement fund. By the way, the contract does include a non-disclosure agreement, so that, if you should ever be so foolish as to leak anything to the media about the nature of what you and I do behind closed doors, you'll lose out, big-time. Just a word to the wise."
There was a long pause, before he looked me full in the face. Our eyes locked. "Janie, do you see that low coffee table between us? It's very sturdy. Please step up onto it, and, one item at a time, remove every article of clothing you've got on."
