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. In this episode, Janie's concubinage takes on a decidedly submissive tone, and no one is more surprised than Janie at how much she enjoys it.

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

***

"Janie, I need you to attend my bath."

"Hello. Here's a different angle," I said to myself, even as I felt the humid, hairy cavern between my legs grow suddenly very moist. What does it mean to "attend" a bath? Where I come from, a party is what you attend. Or a concert. Or a college class. Never a bath.

Another text followed hard on the heels of that one: "Wear your collar. Nothing else."

I smiled. So this is what it's come to. In little more than a month, I've gone from an independent-minded working girl, struggling to make her own way in the big city, to an erotic version of one of Pavlov's dogs. The virtual bell rings, and my cunt starts to drip. Go figure.

A word like "cunt" would have seldom entered my mind, in days gone by -- unless it was part of some rest-room graffiti I'd idly read while sitting on the john, balled-up toilet paper in hand, or an insult I'd heard some man mutter under his breath. I always thought it an especially vulgar shard of vocabulary. Now, it was fast become one of my anatomical terms of choice. My master, Richard Balfour, didn't teach me to use it. It seemed to well up from my very being, as my sexual servitude grew deeper.

"Cunt" is a word tailor-made for women like me. Not that I consider myself "a cunt" -- that's a truly demeaning expression I don't think I'll ever get comfortable with -- but it does evoke the image of a body part exquisitely designed, complete with its own efficient lubrication system, for sheathing an erect cock. ("Cock" isn't a word I would have used much in my former life, either, but things do change when your entire body has become the playground of hormones, aphrodisiacs, and God knows what else Halliburton has mixed up, shaken and poured out into that blessed chemical cocktail.)

Without a word, I began to walk towards the cedar closet, the one whose concealed inner door opened into my master's closet.

As I walked, I began to shed my clothing. First, the Hooters t-shirt -- a little joke of Gilpin, the butler, who had helped stock my wardrobe, and was one of the few members of the household staff who knew my work as the boss' gal Friday came "with benefits."

Then, the lacy black bra.

Then, I unsnapped my pair of hip-hugging denim pedal-pushers, stopping for a moment to wiggle my tight little butt out of them. There I let 'em lie, right in the middle of the carpet.

I stepped out of the flip-flops on my feet.

Finally, I hooked two thumbs inside my tighty-whitey panties and, in a practiced gesture, pulled them down to my knees, stepping out of them as well.

By the time I'd done this, I was in front of the closet door. Opening it, I flipped on the light and stepped inside. Reaching up to a high shelf, I found the dog collar and buckled it around my neck. Thus clad -- or unclad -- I felt ready for my session of bath-attendance, whatever that meant.

As I pushed the hanging clothing aside and opened the door into Mr. Balfour's expansive bedroom -- which was more like some grand apartment, entire unto itself -- I saw Himself sitting at the computer desk, talking on his cell phone.

He raised his eyebrows a little, at the sound of the opening door, and glanced up at me for just a moment, before looking down again at his work. He waved his arm in a vague gesture, directing me to his private bathroom.

As I walked away from him towards the bathroom door, I could feel his eyes on my back -- or, my backside, to be more precise. I gave those rounded cheeks of mine a little extra swing, as I leisurely strolled away from him. Nothing too obvious. Just a slight flourish, to distract him from that phone call that was so important, it had intruded on his personal nookie-time.

I knew he was watching, that old horn-dog.

That's OK, I thought to myself. I wasn't ready for him, anyway. Even with its state-of-the-plumber's-art pumps and jets, that huge, marble tub took a fair amount of time to fill.

Which is exactly what I did next: turning on the gold-plated taps, testing the water temperature, selecting something very special from the array of bath-salts bottles and jars arrayed on the shelf, lighting a scented candle or two. A touch-panel on the wall let me choose from a series of music playlists especially chosen -- by Gilpin? By a former wife or lover? By Balfour himself? -- to enhance the Chairman's bathing experience.

I sat my cheeks down on a small bench, my spine erect, both feet flat on the floor, my hands folded in my lap. Like I was perched on a settee at some old-fashioned girls' finishing-school, except for the fact that I was wearing not a stitch of clothing and was sporting a dog-collar around my neck.

I didn't have to wait long. I like to think it was the soft curve of my buttocks, the tight muscles of the back of my thighs, the wiry wisp of pubic hair he could just glimpse, hanging down between them, that had caused his dick to rise, that had enticed him to wrap up his phone call and hustle that athletic, fiftysomething bod of his into the bathroom and fuck me.

If that, was, indeed, what "attending" his bath meant. I would soon find out.

Balfour came in, wearing the white terrycloth bathrobe he favored for everyday use. He was all business. Dropping his robe, he walked over to the tub, flaccid dick swinging from side to side, and stepped in, walking down the sunken steps until he'd immersed himself in the warm, soapy water. He slid over to a place where he could sit back against the side of the tub, resting his head on a folded towel I had placed there for his comfort.

Comfort. That was what I was all about, in this new life of mine. I understand the Japanese used to run brothels for their soldiers in captured territories, during the Second World War. They called the local women they forced to work there "comfort girls." I knew that, if I kept Richard Balfour's personal comfort -- his very personal comfort -- as my first priority, everything would be copacetic. He'd get his rocks off, and I'd get a regular injection of the chemically-enhanced semen I craved, delivered into one bodily orifice or another (it mattered not which, from the standpoint of the high I'd receive, though I had developed a certain fascination, of late, with long, sloppy, leisurely acts of fellatio).

"Is the water temperature to your satisfaction, my Lord?" (I'd started using the "Lord" appellation a few days before, when he and I were alone together, and he hadn't corrected me. I think he secretly liked its old-school subservience.)

"Yes, Janie, you do that so well. You do many things so very well. Things that matter a lot to me." He shot me a little smile.

I smiled back, and felt a flush rise to my cheeks, like some blushing schoolgirl on her first date. Whatever chemicals those were, pumping through my veins, they ramped up the personal bond between Richard and me to no end. They truly made me desire nothing more than to please him.

"Come," he said, beckoning with one finger.

I stepped into the softly-bubbling water, descending the steps. I stumbled a little on the last one, causing my large, natural tits to swing from side to side as I struggled to regain my balance.

They weren't a young, nubile girl's breasts. To be perfectly frank, they sagged a bit, and the right one was a little larger than the left, if you truly scrutinized them. As Richard most certainly had, not long after I'd come into his employ. But he confessed to me, one evening when his faced was buried between my two dear girls, that he preferred them that way.

"I like a woman who's a real woman," he'd said at the time. "Not some sculpted product of the plastic surgeon's art."

Good thing. I've never had plastic surgery in my life. What you see is what you've always been able to see -- if I stand before you naked -- and what you see is what you get.

I settled in beside him, spooning my thighs up against his, and running my fingers through the graying, wet hairs on his chest. I never pictured myself doing the nasty with a guy so much older than me, but God, I loved what the slippery feel of his skin up against mine did to me.

"Would you like me to wash you, Master?"

"Yes, my dear girl, I'd like nothing better."

He stood, and I reached for a natural sponge sitting at the edge of the tub. Dipping it into the water, I used it to make the soapsuds cascade down his hairy chest, his muscled abdomen, his tree-trunk thighs -- and, yes, the softly-twitching love-organ hanging between them. I scrubbed his body from head to mid-thigh, as high as the bubbling bath-water reached. I used my fingertips to massage soapy, scented lotions into his skin.

When I was done caressing every other part of him, I coated my index finger with a scented lubricant and gently inserted it between his ass-cheeks. His sphincter offered vain resistance at first, but I refused to take its prudish no for an answer. Redoubling my gentle invasion, I gained entrance to the inner recesses, pressing it into him as far as it would go.

He sighed a deep, soul-releasing sigh.

What an intimate thing it is for one lover to do to another, to insinuate even a tiny finger into that dark cavern that we've been taught is so taboo. Never has Richard asked me to perform this service for him, yet never has he refused the offer.

A real man, a man with a sense of who he truly is, will not object to this. Or so I think, anyway. The sigh of deep relaxation that inevitably ensues is a sign of a surrender, of sorts -- the ultimate act of turning one's body over to someone very dear, to let that one give you pleasure.

I gently stroked the bulge of his prostate with my fingertip. He sighed again.

I knew, by now, that Richard's formerly flaccid penis would be in that state no longer. Reaching around with my other hand, I grasped hold of his member, and began to stroke it, slowly, from its soft-mushroom head to the forest of pubic hair out of which it had arisen.

Feeling him go weak in the knees at these ministrations, I turned him around and pressed him softly backwards, through the swirling waters, until the back of his calves came up against the submerged bench that ran the length of the tub. He knew what to do.

Rather than sitting down, he stepped up with one leg. Reluctantly removing my finger from his anus, I held tight to his rigid member.

Richard sat down on the side of the tub, his lower legs still in the scented water. I knelt down on the lower step and bent forward at the waist, angling his dick upward to meet the descending "O" of my open lips.

Giving him a little lick on the soft head to get started, I engulfed his hard-on with my lips, letting it slide deep into the back of my throat and back again. Erect, Richard's dick is average-sized (at least according to my limited past experience), which is just fine with me. Blowjobs are no fun if they make you choke. It really is true that it doesn't take a honking big phallus to generate the clitoral friction that's the ticket to multiple orgasms.

The old adage is true. It's all in how you use it. For my money, Richard Balfour is an accomplished practitioner of the art.

As I soon discovered when, after many long minutes of my oral satisfaction and his, he gently pressed my head up and away, and pulled me close to him. I was still in a kneeling position. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace. Pressing his lips hard up against mine, he inserted his tongue deep into the soft, wet tunnel where his throbbing cock had so recently been accommodated.

I felt my muscles go slack. I'm a sucker for a good kiss. Or, I suppose, a kisser after a good suck.

Sliding back down into the tub, he gently led me by the hand, over to the side of the tub where there's no submerged bench. Locking into eye contact with me for an instant, he placed his hands firmly on my ample hips, and began to turn me around. He kept looking into my eyes until the last possible moment, and what I saw there, in that fleeting, non-verbal communication, was purest lust.

Ah, lust. Love is surely a wonderful thing. But, just as surely, lust is underrated. I'm not sure I'd use the word "love" to describe the overpowering feeling radiating from every part of my Master's body that day, to be absorbed by my physical being -- and, yes, it was reciprocated on my part -- but that other L-word surely does the job. Yes, indeed. And I like it.

Pressing his hand to the middle of my back, Richard gently bent me forward at the waist, away from him. Oh, good, I thought to myself. Doggy-style. I dearly love doggy-style. Standing there at the deep end of the tub, I leaned my elbows on the marble tiles in front of me and clasped my hands together.

Isn't it strange that this part of "assuming the position" is so much like an attitude of prayer? Yes, I suppose it is prayer of a sort, a heartfelt intercession offered to the god, or goddess, of love. Not a single word is required. "Make me whole," my body was saying. "Make me complete. Make us one."

What ensued is exactly what you'd expect. The soft head of his penis pressed up against the equally soft skin of my derriere. It dallied for a few moments between my butt-cheeks, giving me a tantalizing hint of anal delights (perhaps) yet to come, but on this particular occasion the target sought by the Chairman of the Board of Balfour Enterprises was just a little bit lower.

I was more than wet enough for him by now. Had been for quite some time. His dick encountered no resistance whatsoever as my copious lubricating-juices welcomed it home, as he sheathed it to the hilt, unsheathed it, then sheathed it again. All the time, his hands kneaded my jiggling breasts, the satiny water of the bath creating a smooth and most hypnotic effect.

One of the things I truly appreciate about an older lover is how he knows there is truly no hurry about this primal exercise. Sure, there's something to be said for the pussy-pounding exuberance of youth, but there's something even more engaging about the slow and steady rhythm, ever-so-slowly building towards the inevitable climax.

My climaxes began almost as soon as this man entered me, and continued, one banging arrival after another, until my dear Mr. Balfour pressed his cock as deeply into me as it would go, and with a groan unleashed his balls' entire accumulation into my welcoming pussy.

I didn't have to wait for long. That warm glow of the chemical cocktail began to do its work. Don't get me wrong, the orgasms were great -- all of them, and I lost count -- but there's something about this new delight, this modern-day love-potion delivered into the deepest part of myself, that dwarfs the ordinary pleasure of sex.

I don't think Richard fully appreciates what he does to me, as he opens his genital floodgates and lets that creamy libation explode inside me. He doesn't have any idea. How could he? Nobody knows, I suppose, except my fellow-members of the sisterhood of the penal pussy, who have experienced the inrush of carefully-crafted medication, that bonds with the formula already circulating inside our own bloodstreams, that sets the brain's pleasure-centers a-humming.

I sighed an unbelievably deep sigh. Richard laughed out loud at the thought that his humble little dick had brought a woman such a rumbling, rolling tsunami of pleasure.

I could barely stand. He led me gently by the hand, up the steps of the tub, and tenderly toweled me off. There was no question of my attending his bath now. He was attending mine, and he seemed to love doing it.

Leaning down and reaching a powerful arm around my waist, he lifted me to his shoulder, my head and arms flopping like a rag-doll floozy against his back, my butt-cheeks pointing triumphantly to the ceiling, his one hand resting firmly upon them.

I was barely conscious as he walked us out of the bathroom, into the alcove that contains his king-sized bed, then dropped me onto the mattress' soft embrace. Climbing in beside me, he spooned his body up against mine, his now-softened penis insinuating itself between my ass-cheeks. He gently massaged my breast with his hand.

Our sighs of contentment were all the lullaby we needed.