Time flies by. Work seems so much less dreadful. My training is finished. Master Luke claims that I am a natural submissive.
Relinquishing control—even for the few times that I have—has been such a relief. It is a sensation unlike any other. It is a breath of fresh air to relieve myself of all responsibility.
Master Luke invited me to attend a cocktail party with him. A friend of his is opening an advertising company. They are having an extravaganza to celebrate and spread the word. He sent me a little black dress with strappy three-inch heels to wear.
I realize that some women may fret over not being able to choose their own outfit. However, he has impeccable taste, the means, and the desire to please. It is also nice to not have that decision of what to wear to fret over for days—only to second guess my decision once I reach the event.
Everyone at the party is friendly and accommodating. They are also a little curious as to who I am. I suppose Master Luke’s love life is a bit of a mystery.
“You don’t think it is important for the United States to keep a military presence in Kuwait indefinitely? I’d love to know why,” I tell Mr. Jernigan, the intellectual property lawyer who works with Master Luke.
“Is it really our responsibility?” he asks. “I lean more toward the Libertarian beliefs in international politics.”
“Understandable. I probably lean more that way, too, except for when it comes to defense. I’d rather take any means necessary to keep the terrorists off our soil,” I explain.
“Yes, but unfortunately, they are on our soil—whether literally or virtually.”
“I agree with that,” I concede.
Master Luke puts his arm lightly around my waist as a signal to move on. “Katherine, as much as you love these talks about defense, I do believe we need to mingle.”
“Mr. Jernigan, I have enjoyed our talk. Perhaps next time, I can bend your ear about the fruitless war on drugs.”
Mr. Jernigan turns to Master Luke. “I bet you two never have a dull moment.”
Master smiles at me. “Never,” he agrees.
We mingle for another hour or so. I talk with his co-workers, who are all male. I also talk with the spouses. They think I am a girlfriend, so they accept me well. That makes me wonder. Am I a girlfriend? What am I?
I think they like me, because I do not talk down to them. True, most of them have opted to stay home to raise their growing families. However, most of them are also highly educated. They all have an opinion that few listen to.
They can talk politics, economics, and history just as well as the men. They also have much funnier anecdotes. I’d take a funny story involving a toddler, snot, exploding diapers, and breastfeeding issues over negotiation deal drama any day.
Yes, I want a family. I madly want a family. With all of my being, I want to be a loving wife who diligently perfects my loving husband’s favorite meals and desserts. I want to be that wife who decorates the home for every holiday, hosts meals, and bears a gaggle of babies.
I want to have a copious amount of sex. Baby-making sex. Sex that is so outrageously amazing that we lay back and say, “That was a baby-maker.” Then, we lovingly look into each other’s eyes and tell each other how madly in love we are.
I want babies. Yes, lots of them. I want to name them all with names that start with the same letter. I want to get one of those sewing machines that can monogram those cute, dotted initials on toddler and pre-school dresses. Matching shoes. Little boys and girls look darling in shoes that match their outfits to the “T.”
However, I still want to work. I still want the challenge of closing a deal, making things happen. I want adult conversations. I want to work in heels and suits. I simply want to do it all with a gaggle of babies and a husband who looks at me as if I am the only woman in the room.
I look over at Master Luke. Could he be the man to make all that come true for me?
“You are three months behind on your mortgage. What reasons do I have for not foreclosing on the property?” I lean back in my chair and examine my manicure. I really need to make an appointment. I wait for the begging to begin.
“You know that this is not just ‘property.’ This is my business. This is my entire means of supporting my family.”
I am silent while I look at him through my tortoise shell glasses. He is the perfect combination of ruggedness and intelligence. He has dark hair that probably never sees a comb and an olive complexion. He is freshly shaven. I bet he wears a lot of flannel.
“What is your exit strategy?” I want to watch him squirm in his seat. However, he does not squirm.
He looks me squarely in the eye. “I don’t believe in exit strategies.”
I look at him with disbelief. I stand and go to my window. I stare at all the hustle and bustle below me to gather my thoughts.
I turn briskly. “Mr. Townsend, it is in every business textbook that you always should have an exit strategy.”
“An exit strategy shows a lack of confidence in your product and service. I don’t lack confidence.” He makes that comment sound like an innuendo.
“How can you have faith in your business when you cannot even make your mortgage?” I sip from my University of Kentucky coffee mug.
“Are you an alumni?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer distractedly.
“I am also.”
I suddenly realize his tactic. “Don’t change the subject.”
“We both know that the bulk of my sales come from Mule Days, which is in September. This is August. If you give me to the end of September, I will not only be current on my mortgage, I will be ahead on my payments.”
“Just look at these spreadsheets,” I begin.
He stands, grabs them from my hand, and slams them onto my desk. My heart pounds. “We both know that there is more to it than just spreadsheets. Sometimes it is what is between the sheets that really matters.”
There it is. Without a doubt. I pick up on his innuendo. His eyes never leave mine. It is a little unsettling. He is challenging me. I bet he smells good.
I feel as if I am losing this power struggle, and I blame it on my flaming hot libido.
“A little cocky, aren’t we?” I just lost all professionalism. What is wrong with me?
He stands up to me, face-to-face. “Well, now, Katherine. I can be cocky, because I am that good. I work hard, I am intelligent, and I have a good product. We both know this is my first year, but we both also know that I inherited a mess.”
“It is Ms. Burns,” I pointedly correct. “Give me one reason, other than your arrogance, for me to show such a lack in good judgment.”
He comes around my desk and faces me. He steps closer. I feel his breath on my neck as he whispers in my ear, “Katherine, go lock that door, raise your skirt, and put your hands on your desk.”
I step closer, meeting his challenge. He does smell good. It is a light, fresh scent. “You think that you are such a good lay that I will be willing to wait until the end of September for your payment?”
“Lock that door and hike up your dress. You will see.” His look dares me.
He has me figured out. He knows I love a good challenge. He knows I need a good lay.
“You think an orgasm will be worth $2,100?” Little does he know that it has been nearly a year since I have had any male companionship.
“Who said that you will just have one? You may want to send your secretary home, too,” he suggests as he rolls up his sleeves. “This may get a little loud.”
My panties are wet. I have no self-control left. I need this. I need to fuck this man for all it is worth—$2,100, to be exact. Truth be known, he is right. His cash flow will increase around the time of the Mule Days festival, so this isn’t such a bad idea—or is it?
I walk out into the reception area. “Diane, you can have the rest of the day off. We don’t have much going on today. I think we both need time off.”
I am sure that Diane knows why I am sending her home while I have Mr. Townsend in my office. I am sure she probably thinks sex will do me good, too.
She gathers her personal belongings and leaves. I go back into my office and close my door. I lock it, go to my desk, take off my glasses, hike up my skirt, and put my hands on my desk like I was told.
“Glasses back on,” Mr. Townsend barks out gruffly.
I put them on as I am told. I look back. Mr. Townsend drops to his knees. I feel his breath on my thighs. My clit tingles in anticipation. He pulls down my panties. I wish I had worn something sexier than my practical briefs.
He rubs his rough hands over my ass, massaging and kneading. I feel butterfly kisses where his hands were. “Perfect ass,” he appreciates. “Tight and round. Every man’s dream.”