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 gets better acquainted with new master, billionaire industrialist Richard Balfour for whom she is working as a Gal-Friday-with-benefits.
Read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point.
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When I got back to my room, I found a new iPhone 16, along with a note from Gilpin, the butler, saying Mr. Balfour wanted me to have it. I opened it eagerly, and spent the rest of the day setting it up.
From time to time, my thoughts would wander to my experience of the previous night. Stepping up onto of my Master's coffee table, like some newly-animated statue mounting her pedestal. Stripping off, and letting him examine every part of my body with approval. Feeling his stiff cock pass my moist lips, inch by inch, until that glorious moment when my mouth was filled with the precious nectar his body had prepared for mine.
Like an addict mooning over the memory of her last fix, my memories kept returning to the sight of Mr. Balfour's sturdy erection. Its slight upward curve as it emerged from the dense tangle of graying pubic hair. The hefty ball-sac beneath, loaded with the medicinal treasure my body was crying for. The way it bounced a little, up and down, as his tightening muscles strove to raise it even higher, in the universal male salute to the naked female form.
I used to think penises were odd and funny-looking. In the girl's locker room back in high school, they'd been the subject of endless quips and jokes, as we speculated about the endowments of various boys we knew. Back then, we girls felt a mixture of repulsion and fascination, as we envisioned those shriveled, wrinkle-skinned sausages, swaying from side to side as their naked owners walked along – not that any of us had seen many of them, at that stage of our young lives. We all pretended to know more than we did.
That all changed, of course, as we grew older. As I moved into and out of various relationships with men in my late teens and early twenties, I came to frankly appreciate the pleasure a hard dick could bring me. I learned I couldn't just lie there on my back, legs splayed wide, letting the man have his way with me (though on occasion that could be a spicy diversion, playing out a fantasy scenario). No, I had to take charge. Gripping his member, hard, through the trouser material. Pulling down the zipper and reaching into the shadowed man-cave within. Freeing it from its captivity, so it came to rest in the palm of my hand. I learned to love the feel of it: the incredibly soft skin stretched over the inner hardness; the way it throbbed and twitched; the measure of control I had over the angle of its dangle, under the ministrations of my encircling fingers and, later, my lips and tongue.
It wasn't until the following evening that I heard from my Master again. Hearing my new iPhone chirp, I saw a simple text illuminated on the screen: "Door is unlocked."
He didn't say which door, but I didn't need to ask. He could only mean the door at the back of my walk-in cedar closet, the one that connected to a corresponding door at the back of his. Those two connecting closets formed a sort of secret passage, conveniently linking our rooms – and, our bodies.
How was I to interpret the text? Was it a summons to come immediately and service him? Or simply a notification that he wanted me tonight, and I should plan to pad in later, naked, and crawl between his sheets?
From my brief acquaintance with Richard Balfour, it could have been either. For a man who essentially owned me, body and soul, he had exercised far more kindness towards me than I could ever have expected. He offered me a generous salary, beyond the parameters of his contract with the government. He talked to me like a real person, not some flesh-and-blood version of an inflatable sex-toy. Even when he was lustily examining my body, running his inquisitive, middle-aged fingers over my pliant flesh, he seemed to be tracking my reactions to his touch, as if they mattered to him. So, I didn't take his cryptic text to be an imperious command.
Still, our relationship was new. If, on his side of the conjoined cedar closets, his experience today had been anything like my own, he'd been spending a good deal of time thinking of me, wondering where I was and what I was doing. Not to mention re-living the roaring orgasm of the day before (his had come at the moment of ejaculation; mine was delayed until I was back in my room, reclining in the jacuzzi, directing throbbing jets of water to my swollen clit and labia).
My instincts told me not to delay (not that I wanted to). Maybe the summons was implicit, but I was reasonably sure it was a summons. Were he sitting there stroking a hard-on, I surely didn't want to waste it.
My only question was, how to make my entrance? Would he want to see me nude, emerging from his closet like some wardrobe nymph? Or would he take more pleasure in disrobing me himself? The laconic, three-word text told me very little.
