Training Rebecca

Training Rebecca I

Rebecca prepared for the day as usual. Out of bed extra early, a workout in the home gym, breakfast prepared to a tee as usual by the maid, a shower, and then up to change. John had just come out of the shower. He still possessed the hard lean body that had attracted her a dozen years before. As she donned conservative, but expensive lingerie followed by a dress suit, he reminded her that his plane would be leaving in 2 hours, so they had to hurry.

As she put on her make-up and put up her hair, she remembered the love making session of the night before, the usual before one of his many business trips abroad. She had faked an orgasm to get him to stop pumping and cum. She felt slightly guilty, but then brushed it off as a necessary part of life. It was like their whole existence of late—everybody smiled at the appropriate time, and said the right things, but it all rang hollow.

Descending into the kitchen again, Maria was feeding the boys, 12 and 10, otherwise ready for school. John gave them the obligatory line about their behavior when he was gone and then he and Rebecca fed baggage into the trunk, climbed into the Mercedes, and headed for the airport. On the way, they talked about the mundane—the countries he would be in this time, the vacation planned after school was out two months hence, upcoming events in the boy's lives, yadda, yadda. Then the turn-off. He gave her a perfunctory kiss, dug the baggage out of the trunk, and watched as she sped off heading for work.

After parking in her spot, she nodded to the girl at the front desk and ascended the elevator to her office. Her secretary was already at work: Type A efficiency personified in an attractive middle aged, body. “Good morning, Mrs. Dunbar,” she said as usual. Rebecca nodded at the greeting, opened the door and entered her office. The blinds were already open and coffee was brewing in the kitchenette that served her office and the boardroom from the other side. The calendar for the day was reviewed, morning e-mails read and she went to work before her first meeting of the day. That was followed by a conference with some important customers and lunch with her executives. There they discussed a new strategy she had been working on to increase sales even more. The details were handed over to marketing to work out, with a preliminary report due in a week.

It was after six before she left her office building, a gnawing in her stomach reminding her that the salad at lunch hadn't amounted to very much. The Mercedes glided through traffic, she stopped at the bank to deposit some cash, and then into the upper middle-class home that was theirs. The boys were pretending to do homework while Maria bustled around the kitchen.

Rebecca entered her office, removed her jacket, poured a drink, and started through the mail. Credit card offers, country club membership renewal, a letter from the IRS—the IRS, that made her sit up. She opened the letter and read the summons. She and John were to meet with an agent a week from Thursday, time and location given. She frowned, wondering what it was all about. They were to bring income statements, documentation of charitable contributions, and documents relating to John's business, which had lost money for the past 5 years. He was to be gone for 3 weeks, so he wouldn't be back for the meeting.

She picked up the phone and called him. Finally getting though, as it was in the middle of the night in Dresden, she explained the situation to him. He didn't seem to think there was any problem, just routine, and he was sure she could handle it without him. Everything was in the files provided yearly by their accountant. She wasn't so sure, but was buoyed by his confidence. The IRS missive was pushed aside as Maria called her for dinner.

The days flew past with the work on new contracts her company was negotiating. Before she knew it, it was Thursday. She had taken the morning off so she didn't have to leave so early. She loaded the files requested into the car and headed for the Federal Office Building. Entering at 8:45 for her 9:00 appointment, she went through security, and was directed three floors up and to a nice office at the end of the hall. A very attractive secretary received her and asked her to be seated. 9:00 came and went. She fidgeted in her chair, glancing at her watch every few minutes. She got up and asked the secretary when the agent would be ready. She was informed that as her appointment was set up for 9:30, it should be starting shortly. Rebecca looked at her notice and started to say something, but thought better of it, and returned to her seat. Finally at 10:05 a tall, well-tanned man entered the office and went through the door. It couldn't be the IRS agent, she thought, since a government hire wouldn't be able to buy that suit.

Five minutes later she was summoned into the office to be greeted by the suit. He was perhaps 50, with piercing eyes and an amiable smile. It was not at all like the bean counter she expected. For his part he just paused a moment and took her in. Her hair was dark, pulled back to leave bare an attractive neck. An expensive dark blue suit set off well-toned legs encased in hose Her face was determined with a full mouth and expressive eyes. She had long fingers with diamond and wedding rings. The skirt had a slit in the front and she tried to bring it together after crossing her legs. She tried again, unsuccessfully, and then ignored the leg above the knee as he glanced down at it, appreciatively.

“Thank you for coming in today, Mrs. Dunbar. My name is Kyle Laughton. Mr. Dunbar won't be joining us?”

“No, he is in Europe on business. If we can move things along, I have been waiting for over an hour,” she said bruskly. I have brought the materials you requested.”

“Good. Let's get a few things out of the way. You and your husband are both 35 years old. Your address and SS numbers are accurate?” She nodded. “You are President of Royal Manufacturing with 120+ employees. Your husband has his own company called Ex/Im Consulting at your home address.”

“Yes, that's true.”

“I see you have paid proper Social Security taxes on Maria Sanchez, your housekeeper.”

“Yes, we try and obey the laws.”

“Do you have an appraisal for the painting you donated to the museum 2 years ago?”

Rebecca dug around in the folders and produced the document in question. He considered it for a moment. “Yes, they are a reliable firm—we will happily accept their assessment of the painting's value.”

She relaxed a bit at his statement. Maybe this would go better than she thought.

He handed her the appraisal. “Your income was about $435,000 last year.”

“That is close, yes”

“You make frequent bank deposits of cash in the 8 different banks and 2 Credit Unions where you and your husband each have accounts. As a matter of fact, I notice that you and your husband made an average of $2,000 in cash deposits every business day last year. It all stayed under the radar of the money laundering regulations and so was never reported. That amounted to about $43,000 a month and came in at $520,000, plus change, for the year. That was pretty amazing, given the fact that your husband lost $80,000 last year, and you didn't need to borrow any money. ”

“I...I'm not sure,” she responded slowly, trying desperately to think of something that might account for the cash deposits. “We might have dipped into our savings,” she said lamely.

“Actually, you had such a good year, you moved a goodly sum of money to your account in Banco Santander Central Hispania in Spain, as you have for the past 5 years.”

Her heart sank. How was anyone able to track their transactions, and what could have triggered this man's interest. Everything had gone so well for so long, that she had just accepted it as the way things were.

“From Banco Santander, you transferred the money to Dresdner Bank CZ, and from there to your account in Bank Vontobel Cayman. Shall I give you the account number of the Grand Cayman bank?”

She was crushed. But there was still a chance she could get out of the country. She had been told that the U.S. Government couldn't get at money stashed off-shore. He could see that glimmer of hope reflected for a moment in her eyes, and smiled to himself.

“Now let's see. Your husband works with a dozen different foreign businesses. Most of his pay is deposited directly into the Grand Cayman account. Nice to keep those things away from Uncle Sam's greedy hands, isn't it? My records show many such deposits over the past 5 years, and none of it showed up on your income tax forms.”

Rebecca had fallen into a stupor, and just nodded. This was all going too fast for her to comprehend. He had her where he wanted her, and was ready to pounce.

“I imagine you know that the U.S. government has no jurisdiction over accounts in Grand Cayman.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“Let me tell you a little about myself. I am sort of a freelancer, who does odd jobs for the bureau, although most of my time is spent with my own business ventures throughout the world. I take on 4 or 5 cases a year of my choosing for the IRS. My connections allow me access where there is none allowed through normal government channels. The CEO of Bank Vontobel Cayman in Grand Cayman is a close friend, and the managing director, Andreas Weck, has frozen your assets there as a personal favor. Your bank accounts here are frozen as well, by the way—that is where I was before we met. The ones in Europe aren't worth the bother. From your case, I will earn 40% of what the government recovers in back taxes, fines, and interest—at least $4 million. I have special talents that are highly compensated. The government prefers that to getting nothing.”

Her last hope dashed, a tear of anguish found its way down her cheek.

“I will turn my evidence over to the department tomorrow.”

There was a chance, she thought, only a slim one, but she had to take it. If he hadn't turned over the evidence yet.... “But what if you forgot all about this little indiscretion. We would pay handsomely for your help in clearing up government red tape.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“What if I were to offer you $5 million, no $6 million without Uncle Sam taking his percentage off the top.”

“You would be willing to do that?”

“Yes.”

“And where would you get that kind of money?”

“You would have to allow us access to the account in Bank Vontobel Cayman.”

“So that you could take the money and run, you mean,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

She decided that he was no fool, and was not about to cross him. “I'm sure we could work out an arrangement that would be acceptable to you,” she responded.

“So you are asking me to take bribe money so you can avoid jail and fines,” he said.

“It wouldn't be a bribe exactly. And we will promise to declare all income in the future.”

He thought for a long moment. Then said, “I will consider your request, although it might cost you more than you anticipate. Meet me for dinner tonight at Restaurant Athenian and I will give you my answer there. 8:00, don't be late.”

Rebecca let out a long breath and nodded. She gathered up her things and left the office.

Rebecca Dunbar sat in her car for long minutes in a daze. Then she went to her office. She put her purse on the conference table and sat on the leather-bound couch. For 20 minutes, she just sat there, before going over to her desk. Pulling up the web site for the Grand Cayman bank, she punched in the account number and password. Everything came up as usual. She pulled out the book with all her account numbers and transferred money to one of them. After a few moments she read, “transfer aborted, contact Bank Vontobel Cayman.” She slumped in her chair, trying to think of a way out. The plans she and John were using were her invention. They had started out small, but it had been so easy to get away with that they had increased the amount over the years. She picked up the phone and tried to call John, but was unable to get through. She put in part of the afternoon and left early. A stiff drink followed by a massage and the steam room left her feeling some better. At home, she told Maria she would be out for a dinner appointment, then spent some time with the boys. From there she relaxed waiting for time to pass, showered, put her hair up again, put on evening make-up, and dressed, again in elegant, but conservative attire.

It was 10 minutes to 8 when Rebecca entered the restaurant. The maitre d' took in her beauty, and the professionally tailored red suit and ushered her to the bar where the bartender offered her a glass of Black Tower, and imported Rhine white wine. This startled her more than anything else during the day since it was her favorite drink. She listened to the sounds of a jazz pianist in the background and looked around. No sign of him yet. She drank quickly, not savoring the taste as she usually did. Another glass appeared in its place.

The Maitre d' appeared again saying, “will you join the gentleman at the piano?”

Rebecca followed him and saw Mr. Laughlin playing the piano, eyes closed. She stood behind him and watched as he moved from one Gershwin tune into another—all of which she liked. His improvisations were fresh and clean, but the tune was always there. Then he stopped and looked around, seeing her waiting. He rose and directed her to a table in an alcove, providing a bit of privacy saying, “They don't have a piano player on Thusdays.” She placed her purse on the table and sat. A waiter offered menus, which were waived away.

“Kalemera, Kerie ke Keria. To Onoma mou ena Nikolaus. Ti tha fate?

“In English tonight,” he said. For appetizers, bring us tzatziki, teramosalata, and stuffed grape leaves. Your special soup after that.”

“Amesos,” he nodded and left.

Rebecca launched right in, wanting to get it all over with. “Mr. Laughlin, are you willing to accept my offer of $6 million in return for dropping your IRS case. I'm sure we can work out the details to your satisfaction.”

He laughed, but the laugh didn't reach as far as his eyes. “I told you this afternoon that I would require more than that.”

He picked up her purse from the table and opened it before she could protest. He pulled out the tape recorder still running, and, with microphone dangling, walked over to a fish tank, and dropped it in.

“Let me make the situation clear,” he said sitting down. He pulled another recorder from his pocket and pressed play. She heard her own voice, “But what if you forgot all about this little indiscretion. We would pay handsomely for your help in clearing up government red tape.” “What do you have in mind?” “What if I were to offer you $5 million, no $6 million without Uncle Sam taking his percentage off the top.” “You would be willing to do that?” “Yes.” He pressed the stop button.

“That is recorded in video as well—so much easier to present evidence in court.” So here we have you falsifying your tax records for years, and then trying to cover it up by bribing an IRS employee. The real question is what are you willing to do to avoid exposure, trial, and incarceration? It will wipe out your savings. Who will care for your boys while you and John are in jail? Foster care? Have you ever been in a woman's prison? You will lose your job. Who will hire someone with your record when you get out?”

She shuddered, images flooding into her mind. But he seemed to be offering a way out.

The hors d'oeuvres arrived. “This is cucumber dip, these stuffed grape leaves,” he said. She wasn't hungry, but ate mechanically.

“What is your price,” she asked already anticipating the response.

“You,” he paused to let it sink in. “But the real question is not will you agree, but rather are you worth the money I would be giving up?”

A ray of hope crossed her face. She could screw him as much as he wanted, and would do it very, very well for what she would be getting in return.

“That seems fair,” she said, knowing that it wasn't really. “But how do I know you won't double cross me later?”

“You don't. But that is a chance you'll have to take. I make multi-million dollar agreements with my word,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It has never been broken.”

“It seems that you have all the cards,” she said tasting the cucumber dip. “Where do we go from here?”

“I need to know a little about you first. Rule #1: When I ask a question, I will require a detailed, complete and honest response. Let's begin with what you are wearing.”

This took her by surprise. “A red jacket with scarf, white blouse, red skirt with matching shoes, and pantyhose. Oh, yes, and dolphin earrings and a red purse.”

“That is all you have on?”

“Well, I...”

“Go to the Men's bathroom, remove your panties and bring them back to me. And leave the damn pantyhose in the trash.” When she looked at him in amazement he continued “or leave the restaurant now. I said that YOU would be the price, but if you are unable to deliver that is your decision.”

“The Men's restroom?”

“If I have to repeat myself, I will get very angry. On the other hand, the guests here might enjoy the show at your expense. Let's see, what else could I have you remove?”

Rebecca glanced in the direction of the restrooms and moved quickly before he thought of something else. A man at the urinal looked at her as she entered. “The ladies room is packed,” she said going into a stall. Reaching under her skirt, she removed her pantyhose and then her panties. Leaving the stall she put the pantyhose in the trash and wadded up the panties as best she could in her hand. She hurried out and back to the table, reaching under it with the hand holding the panties. He remained as he was with his hands on the table. “Here,” she said reaching farther. When he made no move she looked around and then put them in his hand on the table. He took them, put them to his nose and inhaled. She shuttered at the raw sensuality of the act and felt the heat rise in her as he placed them on the table in plain sight.

He reached under her jacket with his right hand and pinched her nipple through bra and blouse, then twisted. She stiffened, eyes wide, and let out an “aaaiii” almost before she could stop herself. “Now I have your attention. Rule one was a detailed, complete, and honest answer to all my questions. Did you comply?”

“No, I guess not.”

“You guess not what? How should I be addressed? As one of your lackeys at work?”

She thought. “I'm sorry I didn't give a detailed and complete response, Sir.”

“That form of address is much more appropriate. What else were you wearing?”

“I also had on red panties with a high leg cut and a white cotton strip in the crotch and a red lace bra with full cups and a back closure, and French perfume.” She tried to think if there was anything she had omitted. “And my rings, one a quarter caret engagement ring and the other my wedding ring, both in yellow gold.”

“Rule # 2. You will never wear panties in my presence without my express permission. And you will never, ever, sit on your skirt. It will get all slimy,” he said increasing the pressure on her nipple and pulling it toward him for emphasis.

“Yes, Sir,” she winced. The dark haired beauty glanced around quickly and partially rose so she could pull up her skirt in the back. Sitting back down she felt the seat against her bare skin and smoothed out her skirt in the front. He released the grip on her now tender nipple and she let out her breath.

“Now where did we leave off? Oh yes, your attire. You are not having your period now so no tampon?”

“No, Sir,” she said blushing.

“When did the last one end?”

“Last Thursday, I think, Sir.”

“What is your bra size?”

“34 C.”

His eyebrows went up.

“Sir.”

“Waist?”

“24 inches, Sir.”

“You will throw out ALL your pantyhose as soon as you get home. Do you have any real stockings?”

“Yes, Sir”

“Good, you will wear them from now on as a part of Rule #2. What is Rule #2 then?”

“I am not to wear panties in your presence without your permission, and I am not to sit on the back of my skirt. I will throw out all my pantyhose and wear stockings. If I may ask, Sir, should I wear stockings with elastic tops, or a garter?”

“You may ask. A garter is the preferred method.”

The waiter had arrived with the Avgolemono soup. His eyebrow went up as he saw the red panties lying on the table, but he said nothing. Rebecca reddened when she saw his eyes. The soup was delicious, although she didn't fully appreciate it. They ate it still munching on the appetizers. When they had finished Kyle leaned back and studied her. She became uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Are you wet?” he asked her.

“What?”

“If you are not able to remember a simple request such as the proper way to address me then I will have to take measures to ensure that your memory is enhanced. I don't really think you are that stupid.”

“I'm sorry, Sir. My mind has been in such a whirl tonight. I'm sure I can do better, Sir,” she said trying to sound deferential.

“We shall see. Again I find that I am repeating myself. Are you wet?”

“I...I don't think so, Sir.

“Reach down and run a finger through your pussy.”

Rebecca colored as she reached under her skirt and dragged her index finger from the bottom to the top of her slit. She jumped slightly when it contacted her clit. Then she brought it out and held it up for him to see. They both saw the telltale signs of her arousal.

“Smell yourself,” he commanded her.

She stared at it for a moment, as if disbelief, and then raised the finger to her nose, inhaling the musky aroma.

“Lick it off.”.

She tasted her secretions as ordered. She couldn't understand it, but she was getting all tingly - down there. While she had never tasted herself, she had certainly smelled her female odor and it hadn't had this effect. Why didn't he just take her? She had already told him she would please him.

The waiter reappeared, whisked off the plates and bowls, and then returned for the main entree. Kyle ordered calamari with rice and a Greek salad,” and the waiter glided off to attend to it.

“Unbutton the top two buttons on your blouse,” Kyle said.

Rebecca did a it, with a “Yes, Sir.”

“Do you shave your pussy?”

“No, Sir. I do trim it,” she responded knowing that even these personal questions had to be answered.

“Rule # 3, your pussy will be kept free of hair at all times except for a little strip at the top. You will leave work early tomorrow and have it waxed at this beauty shop. They will be expecting you at 3:30,” he said handing her a card.

“Now just wait a minute, SIR,” Rebecca began, the color rising in her face.

“Off to the Men's Room and remove your bra. Bring it to me in 3 minutes. Your may re-button 2 buttons and keep the jacket if you are on time.” He looked at his watch.

Rebecca started to say something and stopped. “Yes, Sir,” was all she could manage as she dashed away from the table. Three minutes wasn't much time for this. She tore into the stall and pulled off her jacket without even closing the door. Next came the blouse and finally the bra. It nearly fell into the toilet as she laid it on the seat. Then back on with the blouse without even tucking it into her skirt, a middle button and a bottom one. Then the jacket and she raced off not even trying to conceal the bra. She was out of breath when she appeared at the table again holding the red bra with other dinners wondering what was going on. “Here, Sir,” she said handing it to him. “Does everything meet with your approval, Sir?”

He nodded, “2 minutes and 54 seconds,” and placed the bra next to the matching panties. “But you have made a mess on your chair. Wipe it up,” he said handing her a handkerchief.

She wiped at the embarrassing pool, and then sat, pulling up the back of her skirt as she did so. She studied the silverware in front of her wondering what other people in the restaurant were thinking of her. She hoped none of them knew her. On the one hand he was handsome and self-assured. He never raised his voice or was offensive to those around him, yet his presence was commanding. She knew that in another circumstance she would have found him very attractive. He had taken her on a roller-coaster ride ever since this morning—everything well planned out, it seemed. It was disconcerting that he was pushing buttons in her feelings she never knew existed, and she found her reactions to what he was doing very scary. She knew she could take whatever he chose to dish out, but her own mind was betraying her. The card was still sitting on her plate where she had left it. She picked it up, looked at the address, and put it in her purse thinking about the chore ahead of her tomorrow.

“How will I explain my lack of hair to my husband? He has tried to get me to do that before and I have always refused. He knows that I hate looking like a little girl down there, as well as the itching and soreness.”

“I'm sure you will think of a response,” was the unsympathetic answer.

The main course arrived and the wine was poured. She liked squid, and the rice was well prepared. The salad was without lettuce with a tasty Greek dressing. It was a good choice on his part—as always, it seemed. As they ate, he engaged her in general conversation, pouring wine as the glasses emptied. Soon he had her laughing and she almost forgot the circumstances that brought her here.

Dessert was a Greek pastry and coffee. As Niko came to clear the dessert dishes, Kyle said, “Niko, you have been very helpful tonight. Rebecca has been learning a few lessons in proper deportment, Haven't you Rebecca?”

“Yes, Sir,” she responded.

“Before we leave, Niko should have a proper tip. Open your blouse for him.”

She hesitated and looked into Kyle's eyes like a deer caught in the headlights. Then seeing the hardness there, she undid the two remaining buttons. Grasping blouse and jacket, she opened them far enough for him to see her nipples before closing it.

“Did I ask you to close it?” a cold voice inquired.

“No, Sir,” she said opening it again and holding it open with eyes squeezed shut.

“Farther,” he ordered, noticing that a blush was washing over her upper chest. When she complied he said, “What do you think of them Niko?”

“Very beautiful, if I may say so.”

“They do have the slightest bit of sag.”

“That is just because they are full,” said the appreciative waiter.

“Would they look better with nipple rings or nipple studs, do you think?”

“I would have to think on that,” was his studied reply.

“She will come back again for your decision,” Kyle said. “You may close your blouse now, but leave it unbuttoned. Check, please.” As they stood, Rebecca looked over at the bra and panties. Kyle shook his head and they headed for the door. The Maitre d' wished them well. As they walked into the parking lot she looked at him expectantly. He ignored her leading the way to his Jaguar and opened the door for her.

“My car, Sir?” She said sitting down.

“Is already at your house,” he said to her amazement and slid into the driver's seat.

He reached into her blouse and took a naked tit between thumb and finger. He rolled it back and forth until a moan escaped from her mouth. Then he pinched harder and harder until the tears came. Only then did she remember and pull up the back of her skirt. This was not going to be as simple as she had anticipated. He had thoroughly humiliated her in the restaurant. Was this part of her punishment for cheating the government? Or was there some other ulterior motive in all this she couldn't understand?

He started the engine and drove through the city. “Do you remember the 3 rules I have given you?” he asked?

“Yes, Sir,” was her reply.

“Slide down in the seat and masturbate for me.”

She had always hated that word, but she was resigned to her fate and said “Yes, Sir.” She pulled the front of her skirt up, trying to keep herself partially covered, and rubbed her finger up and down the slit. Then she pushed it into herself, hearing an embarrasing squish as she did so. She couldn't remember ever having been this wet before. She looked over at him and started to rub her clit. Her eyes closed, feeling the sway of the car in motion for a few moments, before blocking even that out. Although she was rubbing very slowly, she couldn't believe how soon she was on the verge of an orgasm.

“Stop,” Kyle said in a deep voice. She sat there with eyes closed for a minute before coming back to consciousness. “Rule #4. You may cum only with my permission. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What does the rule mean?”

“That I cannot cum when I want to cum. I will have to wait until you tell me to, Sir?”

“And if I order you to cum?”

“I will obey you, Sir,” she said, although her heart wasn't quite in it.

“Very good. You may continue.”

Rebecca began stroking her clit again and shut her eyes avoiding his gaze. Soon she was close to cumming again. She stopped rubbing to keep from breaking rule #4.

“Did I tell you to stop?” he asked crossly.

“No, Sir. But if I don't stop I'll break rule #4, and I know that would displease you, Sir.”

“You are right, you will be punished most severely if you break that rule. You must learn self-discipline, Rebecca. Your mind controls your body and not the other way around. Your nipple hurt a few minutes ago, but your mind told it that it must be endured, and so it was. You will cum when your mind tells you to cum. And who controls your mind?”

“I suppose you want me to say you do, Sir.”

“It is your choice. We all have choices to make in life. You can submit your mind to me or not as you choose. Although every action you take or don't take is also a choice made by your mind. Why have you chosen to obey me tonight?”

“I had no other choice.”

“Of course you did. We often make choices we would prefer not to make because of another overriding interest. Does that mean we should not make them then?”

“No, not necessarily.”

“So what do you chose tonight? Will you cum when your body wants to, or when I want you to?”

“I will obey you, Sir. Which I guess means that my mind is yours too, Sir.”

“We shall see whether that is the case or not. Continue.”

She did as he said and was soon thrashing about on the seat next to him. Before long, she was out of her mind with lust. Her moans turned to pleading. She begged Sir to let her cum. She would give anything for the orgasm she had stored up all night. He smiled as he watched her writhing beside him.

“You may stop,” he said as he pulled into her driveway and turning on the overhead light. She seemed to be in another world and continued the ministrations on her clit unaware of his command. “Stop,” he said firmly and loudly. She obeyed, breathing like a distance runner with perspiration running down her face. Her blouse had parted over the last 15 minutes and he admired her breasts again, flushed with arousal and nipples hard as pebbles.

“You are home,” he said. “Have you told your husband about our meeting?”

She shook her head to clear it. “He knew we had a summons for today. But I was unable to reach him to tell him about the meeting this morning.” God was it only this morning?

“Good. We will keep it that way for the time being. And now I need relief,” he said moving his seat back and unzipping his pants.

The look in her face was wild as she moved across to put her mouth on him. She hadn't had sex in a car since college. Oral sex wasn't one of her favorites anyway, although she did it once in a while, usually as a reward for something John had done. She went partially down on him with her mouth and jerked him with her hand. He didn't force her this time but let the events of the day, and her warm mouth, do their work.

When she could tell he was getting close, she looked up and said, “You can take me if you want.”

“Not tonight,” he said pushing her head down to the task at hand.

She had never swallowed before, but instinctively knew that it was required of her. Then he was shooting gobs of cum into her mouth and she was swallowing as fast as she could, choking on the thick liquid. Her cunt tingled and she wondered why he didn't cum inside her. She knew she was attractive, so it couldn't be that. He gave her the same handkerchief she had wiped the chair with earlier, and she wiped his cum off her face.

“If you are really turned on, you may bring yourself off in the house tonight,” he said condescendingly.

“No, I am fine really,” she lied. She had never been one for “bringing herself off”, preferring to cum with her husband. That had been hard with his travel schedule the past few years, so she had just gone without.

“I will contact you when I want to meet again.”

“Yes, Sir. And thank you Sir for not reporting us,” she said truthfully.

“Whether or not I report you remains to be seen. I will continue to evaluate your progress. You just barely passed tonight.”

“Yes, Sir. I know I can do better than I did tonight,” she said wondering for the umpteenth time what he had in store for her, and even more, how she would respond. Her response to what he made her do was more troubling to her than what he had made her do.

“You may leave now,” he said, and she opened the car door to get out.

“You will need this,” he said handing her the purse. “And if you ever get it into your head to try and entrap me the way you did with the tape recorder, Mike and Matt will be without a mother.”

She caught the snarl in his voice and knew instantly that it was no idle threat. She buttoned up her blouse, fished the keys out of her purse, and went inside. She checked to see that the car was indeed in the garage, made a stiff drink, and carried it upstairs. She sat on the edge of the bed, took two large swallows, choked, and set the glass on the night table. Damn him, she thought. Damn him to hell. She pulled her skirt up and started to massage her clit again, the feelings as strong as before. Then she thought of his words “If you are really turned on, you may bring yourself off in the house tonight.” Angrily she pulled her hand away. She was not going to let him control her any more than she absolutely had to, and masturbating just wasn't her thing. Disgusted with herself, she undressed, took a shower, and spent a restless night.

 

If you enjoyed the story, let me know and I will continue it. Comments and suggestions are always welcome as well as ideas for story lnes. I may be reached at simplysizzlingwriter@yahoo.com (I know, I know, but finding a name there seems an impossibility nowadays <S>). Should you want to post this story on another web site, please ask first.