With Interest Ch 1

This is part one of five.

"Well, Ms. Lord?"

I had her, and I had to fight to keep a sly smile of triumph off my lips. "Do you, or do you not accept my offer?"

Poor Penelope! Her eyes were big, brown saucers. The look of disbelief was almost complete, but I could see, surfacing pathetically, beneath her incredibly cute features, the realization that she had no options. I, indeed, had her.

It had actually begun six weeks earlier as a simple, mundane business transaction. This young woman had come into my office at Downtown Mortgage and Loans, looking for a loan. She was an innocent, rather naïve looking blonde, who wanted to borrow a half a mil, quick. Her boyfriend had said if they could move really quickly they could double their money in just a few weeks. She was willing to put up her car – a Mercedes 500 SL – and her West End condo as security. Now, I've got to admit, we, here at DM&L, are not necessarily the most scrupulous of financial institutions, so, despite my personal misgivings regarding amorphous get-rich-quick schemes, given the security she was offering, I agreed to loan her the money.

"Don't worry," she had said as she left my office with a bank draft, "we'll pay it all back, with interest."

"You bet you will," I whispered as she roared off in her sporty silver bullet.

Despite her good intentions, she had missed the first payment. I called her shortly after the due date to make an appointment for her to see me. She had come earlier that afternoon, and sat before me wringing her hands. Her frightened look was almost enough to melt my heart – certainly enough to fire my loins. She was beyond apologetic; she was distraught. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Jackson," she sobbed. "I just don't know what to do." A very small idea of just what she might do began germinating in my head. I asked her to tell me what had happened, and through an accompaniment of tears and nose blowing, she explained.

The boyfriend, it seemed, had put the money into some sort of scam that went bad. All Ms. Lord knew was that he had come home a week earlier looking terrified. He'd said that the money had been lost and when she had asked him how, he gave her some long convoluted song and dance about investment risks. The next day she couldn't get a hold of him, and a few days later, just as she really started to get worried about his disappearance, he'd called her to say he had to go away for a bit and he didn't know when he'd be back.

"'Don't worry,' he said, as if that were possible." Penelope gave an almost derisive snort, and wiped her nose once more. "Anyway, the bastard left me to look after the loan payment." Her eyes were beginning to crackle with affront. "And this, after he had already 'invested' all our – my savings!" She was starting to seethe, but that was not my problem.

"I'm very sorry about that, Ms. Lord," I said as sympathetically as I could, "but that doesn't change the fact that you still owe $26000 plus $6500 extra accrued interest on the missed payment. And that's not to mention the next installment of $26000." I paused to let the amounts sink in, before continuing. "Let's talk about how you're going to meet these obligations. I don't really want to foreclose – I don't want your condo and car, but…" I left the threat hanging.

Her jaw dropped. "But – but – but I can't afford that."

Putting a rather pompous edge in my voice, I replied, "Ms. Lord, DM&L is not a charity. We lent you the money in good faith. If you lost it in some nefarious business dealing, that's not my concern."

"But, Mr. Jackson, I didn't lose it," she moaned.

I kept the edge in my voice. "Neither did I!" I didn't really enjoy being a smart-ass shit, but I was trying to make a point. "It's gone, nonetheless."

"Robbie did it," Penelope whispered, her voice quavering with despair, "and he's gone, too!"

"So, go after the bastard." She started to say something but all that happened was that her mouth dropped open. Oh, what a perfect sight. Her succulent lips, pouty and moist, looked almost irresistible. "You should have been more careful. He was obviously a very bad risk," I reprimanded. "In any case, if you're not prepared to make good the schedule, I'll proceed with foreclosure."

"Isn't there some way we could renegotiate this," she cried. "I can't lose the condo. I just can't. It was my inheritance. It's all I've got left."

"You got your looks and a body to kill for," I thought to myself, but I simply said, in a smarmy voice, "It would seem, my dear, that you can't even afford the interest. Just how were you planning to renegotiate."

"I don't know." She was shamelessly whining now. "There's got to be something I could do."

"Hmmm." I put my chin in my hand and thought. I had already figured out what the 'best' solution would be – for me, anyway. Now I was trying to decide if it was worth the risk – could I actually get away with it. "Just let me think, Ms. Lord. There may be a way out of this."

Her red eyes sparkled again. She leaned forward, her luscious breasts rising wondrously with a quick intake of anticipation. "How?" She looked so charmingly hopeful. "What is it?"

"Well," I began, standing up and walking thoughtfully from behind my desk. Maybe, I thought, maybe it might just work. I think she's eager enough – or desperate enough. With a little bit of creative book-keeping I might just pull it off. I heaved a deep sigh. I knew I couldn't pass up the chance. So I plunged right in. "Perhaps, Penelope – may I call you Penelope? Perhaps you can work off the debt."

She looked a bit puzzled at first, then disbelieving. "Oh, come on," she said. "Even if you paid me fifty bucks an hour full-time, I'd barely be able to cover the interest." Maybe she's not quite the ditz that I suspected.

I held out my hand, "Hear me out. This may not be as difficult as you think."

Pacing the room, swinging back around, behind her chair, I laid out my proposal in the most business-like manner. I told her that I could hire her as my personal assistant for one hundred dollars an hour.

"Could you do that?" she asked, almost hopeful once more.

"Oh, yes," I assured her, adding, not untruthfully, "I have quite a bit of autonomy."

Again she impressed me with her quickness. "But even at a hundred bucks an hour, it would take over two years to pay off just the principal."

"People usually stay at jobs for over two years."

"Okay, then," she was definitely suspicious, and now, perhaps, that she wasn't quite so frightened, her suspicions grew. "What would my job description be?"

"Oh," my nonchalance sounded phony, even to myself, but I pressed on, watching her marvelously pretty face intently, "just generally help around my office; find files, take calls, photocopy, organize, greet clients and colleagues," and here was the moment of impact, "give and accept comfort and caress."

"Unh," she started to respond but couldn't seem to get anything out. Her face wore a look of complete incredulity. I quickly forged on.

"And there would be plenty of opportunity for bonuses." I paused. Her mouth was still agape, but her staring eyes bored into me with an exciting intensity. This whole scheme had emerged full-blown into my head, so, as I laid it out for her, reciting figures as if this was a commonplace agreement, I jotted down notes. After all, if she agreed, I'd want to be completely fair about it.

"As I said, your basic wage would be one hundred dollars an hour. Now, for every eight-hour shift, I would allow you to keep two hundred dollars – two hours pay – to live on. You, of course, would have to declare that amount and pay taxes on it; however, the rest of your wage would go directly against your debt – which is accumulating interest at a rate of twenty-five percent per annum, even as we speak." She continued to stare intently.

Whether it was an actual nod or not, I don't know, but something in her look said, "Go on."

"So," I continued, making it sound rather routine, "on top of that, there would be bonuses." I tried not to change anything in my voice, although my heart was pounding. "You would get one-fifty extra – that's one hundred fifty dollars, of course, extra – for the successful completion of a hand job; two-fifty for a blowjob; five hundred for regular copulation; and a grand for anal intercourse. The same bonus rates would apply regarding activities with any of my colleagues or clients – if performed at my direction." She hadn't moved – she'd hardly blinked, so I went on. "You'd also get an extra two-fifty for bringing any female partner off; and, as an added incentive, an extra five hundred dollars for getting to orgasm yourself during the course of your duties."

If possible, her jaw fell open a little more, still, she hadn't uttered a word, so I finished off. "However, any orgasms of your own will have to be confirmed by me, personally. And if you were to try to claim for an orgasm that I thought was faked, you would be fined five hundred dollars." Holy shit! I couldn't believe my own audacity. This was sounding great, and I was on a roll. As she hadn't objected, yet, I added yet another condition. "Any official activity that I'm not actually present at, will need to be confirmed by video. We'll set up surveillance cameras if we need to. Bonuses for other duties will be negotiated as necessary."

There! I sat back against the front of my desk and folded my hands in my lap. Satisfied with the proposal and my presentation, a beatific smile on my face, I awaited her comment.

"You want me to be a common whore?" she gasped. It was a statement more than a question.

"I'd prefer 'Personal Assistant,' but call it what you will, that is my offer. Take it or lose the condo and the SL," I answered giving a sort of what-can-I-do shrug.

"But you can't…" she started to say, but I cut her off with a flippant wave of my hand.

"Penelope, you're repeating yourself." I gave an exasperated sigh that belied the bubbling effervescence in my gut. "You see," I explained patiently, "my loan to you was legal. How or why you lost the money is not really any of my concern. It will be repaid in full, with interest, one way of another."

So here I was, looking down on this delightfully fragile looking woman. I was about to pull off the biggest – or at least best scam ever.

"Well, Ms. Lord?"

She took some quick deep breaths then closed her mouth. I could see her willing her breathing to slow. Finally her eyes blinked. "I – I –" she lowered her gaze to the floor and with a shrug of her shoulders, answered, "I guess so. What choice have I got."

"Practically none," I answered trying to stay up-beat and calm. "Practically? None." I stood suddenly and moved back around behind my desk. "I'll give you the rest of this week to get clear of your other employer. And," I looked at her brightly, as if we had just completed a successful interview, "we'll see you Monday morning – eight sharp. Bye-bye for now."

She stood, uncertainly, and paused. I caught the quizzical look in her eyes as I turned my attention, ostensibly, at least, back to my desk. She uttered a whispered good-bye as she quietly left.

I collapsed into my chair. I couldn't believe I'd done it. Well, I hadn't quite done it; she might have a change in heart. "We'll see," I muttered to myself, "We'll see." I could hardly wait for Monday to arrive.

–– o ––

I had gone over the next steps so many times in my head that, on Monday morning, when I got to the office and found her waiting outside my door, I really was as calm as I sounded – as calm as she was anxious. Taking her into the office, I asked her to sit, then asked her to read the contract I had written. As she read, her eyes widened, her face flushed, and her throat swallowed. She sat motionless, staring at the sheet of paper for several minutes.

Finally I broke the silence, keeping all inflection out of my voice, asking, "Is that our contract, as you understood it?" She raised her eyes to my gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly. "That is the only written copy of this agreement. Please sign it," I gestured at the pen on the desk, which she picked up and signed woodenly. "I shall keep it secured under lock and key, until such time as it is terminated," I lifted my eyebrows at her, momentarily. "Okay?" I took the paper from her as she nodded mutely, folded it and placed it in my wall safe. Then I continued, "The two hundred a day you will actually receive will go through our payroll service – you know, income tax, deductions, etc.; and, I will keep a close account of your debt service, including bonuses, if any. You'll be able to view the loan status whenever; however, I won't actually print statements – of course – reducing the paper trail of an arrangement that may not be totally legal. You know what I mean?" She just nodded slightly, once again.

I remained very business-like throughout the rest of that first day, except for the odd palming of her oh-so-tight bottom, which I just couldn't resist.

"I don't believe these are necessary," I remarked casually, flipping the elastic of her panties through the material of her dress, while she stood at my desk, taking instruction on the intercom/phone system.

"Yes, Sir," she whispered. She was a fast learner – attentive and focused. She was dressed in a smart business suit, and looked every bit the career woman; however, just beneath the surface she was incredibly tense – glancing about like a penned fox – just waiting for it, whatever 'it' might be. I didn't mention the 'agreement' again nor anything about her previous job.

At three-thirty I asked her to massage my shoulders. Tentative at first, she did an eminently satisfactory job. While she stood behind me I suggested that she might consider dressing more alluringly – less straight-laced – shorter, tighter skirts and dresses; deeper neck lines; higher heels. I turned to face her, cupping one of her perfect breasts as I turned. To her credit, she successfully quashed her reflex flinch.

"Beautiful," I exclaimed, giving it a light squeeze and smiling into her clear blue eyes. "Surely you don't need to contain these with a bra," molding my other hand to her other, "– certainly not around here." She gave a slight nod, acknowledging the remark as a veiled direction. "I hope you've had a good day, Ms. Lord. Your debt has been reduced by six hundred dollars and your payroll account credited two hundred. Have a nice evening. I'll see you tomorrow."

Giving more than a couple of puzzled, sideways glances, she picked up her purse and took her coat from the stand. "Good night." Her confusion was priceless. She was obviously dying to ask, "Is that all?" but thought better of it, adding, instead, "Tomorrow, then," and made her studied, deliberate escape.

Tuesday morning, as she hung her jacket, I abruptly reached beneath her dress and grabbed her bare pudendum. She froze and let out a quick gasp. Running a finger lightly along her slit, I leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "Just checking out the underwear situation. Good work, Ms. Lord."

While I gave her legitimate things to do around the office, I pawed her tits and twiddled her nipples frequently. She just stopped and waited whenever I touched her. Toward the later part of the afternoon, after spending a few minutes kneading her lovely boobs, I swung a hand up into her crotch. Pushing a finger momentarily up between her slick labia, I swirled the naturally lubricated digit around her clit. She couldn't quite conceal the sigh, as she stood motionless, bending over the filing drawer – waiting. Slipping my other arm around her waist, I withdrew my invading finger, lifted it to her face and drew it across her trembling lips. "Things could be worse, eh?" I whispered before releasing her to complete her task.

At four, I stepped in front of her, took her hand, and laid it against the front of my pants and my considerable boner. She still had a sort of wild, lost, vulnerable look in her huge eyes, but a slight flush surfaced on her face. After a moment I leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth. She stood frozen and unresponsive as I pulled back. "Good night, Ms. Lord. I'll see you tomorrow. Have a pleasant evening."

She went for her coat, rather woodenly. "Good night, Mr. Jackson," she breathed. She still hadn't smiled; but these were early days.

The next two days were basically the same. I gave her all my photocopying to do, consequently, I had fair opportunity to grope her unexpectedly from behind. I mauled her breasts, kissed her now and then, stroked her clit a few times, even brought dew to her nether regions. She would simply stop – stand motionless whenever I touched her. But that was all right – for now. She showed no signs of resistance. But then again, I put no real demands on her.

Thursday afternoon, as she left – as she said, "See you tomorrow," the faintest hint of a smile touched her lips.

"Ah, yes," I thought, although I simply, replied, smiling amicably, "Absolutely, Ms. Lord. Good night."

Friday morning, Penelope was, again, waiting as I arrived, and I noticed she had a sort of "Thank goodness it's Friday" look of relief on her face. She looked far more relaxed than she had thus far, and she gave me a slight, shy smile when I let her in. Truth was, I hadn't realized how much I had actually needed a bona fide assistant. She was a godsend in the office – getting backlogs cleaned up, and organizing things. Her word processing skills were second to none, and she seemed to have a sixth sense regarding what was needed from her in the way of office management. Yes, certainly the legitimate aspect of her performance was, itself, worth the money I was actually paying her. Nonetheless, I wasn't about to forget the other aspect of her employment.

She didn't actually tense up any more when I groped her. She still froze at my touch, but it was becoming a softer freeze. By the afternoon, she had taken on a glow, almost. As subtle as it was, it was warm and sensuous. Maybe it was just me, but her movement around the office was developing a rather slinky, seductive grace.

Finally, I could stand no more. "Ms. Lord," I called across the office, as she bent to file one last folder, "when you're done there, would you please come over here?" I looked down and feigned concentration with the file on my desk.

In a moment she was there beside me. "Yes, Mr. Jackson?" Was there really a hint of tease in her voice? Probably not, but I wasn't sure.

"Ah, Ms. Lord," I started, loosening my tie as I spoke, "your performance this week has been invaluable. I believe we have got through the first week of a very productive business – uh – arrangement." I paused, and she muttered her virtually inaudible thanks. "However," I continued, putting a concerned tone in my voice, "the three thousand dollars you've put on your debt, actually, barely covers the interest. At this rate, it will take you ten years to pay us off." I gave her a meaningful glance that she returned with a look of silent encouragement to go on. "So," somehow, I hadn't quite figured out this part. "So, if you want to reduce your debt, you'll need to earn some bonus money."

I couldn't believe it. She gave me such a sweet look of questioning innocence. "Oh, come on, Penelope," I screamed silently, "Do I have to spell it out?" She looked on, simply waiting. "I guess I do."

I sat back and let my knees fall open. "My member could certainly use a massage." Jeez, it sounded so corny I was embarrassed as I rushed on – finally getting to the point. "Get me off, and you'll get your first bonus."

"Okay," she said in a tiny voice. With her eyes lowered, she swept a chair in next to me and reached for my fly.

"Okay," I thought, as she unzipped me and gently pulled out my turgid cock. "At last." Without looking up, she began to tenderly stroke me to full erection. I could tell it wasn't going to take long. She seemed intent on her job, and as I got stiffer she seemed to get a little more determined. "Oh Christ," I muttered as she worked me closer and closer. She stopped for just a moment to spit on her hands, without taking her eyes off my rod, then, with both hands lubricated, she resumed her measured, firm, delicious stroking.