An Evening with Kitten

Marc looked down at the young, lingerie-clad, willing woman in his bed and said nothing for several seconds. She waited for his instructions patiently. Then he shook his head and walked back over to the window. The giant statue of former President Chad Maxwell towered over the White House, looking approvingly down at his successors. Marc sighed.

“What is your name?” he asked, without turning around.

The girl on the bed quietly replied, “You may call me whatever you wish, sir, of course.”

He sighed and turned back to her. “I understand. But what did your parents call you?”

He watched her open her mouth and then close it again. For the first time since he’d walked in, the girl seemed a little thrown. “I… I don’t remember very much about my parents, sir. I don’t know what they called me. Like all good American girls, I was sent to school when I was 10.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Marc said automatically.

“Oh, sir, you don’t need to be sorry!” The girl moved toward him on the bed, clearly distressed at the idea that a man felt bad for her. “It’s what made me the good little submissive slut I am today. At school they called me Kitten. I don’t know if that’s what my parents called me, but it’s who I am, sir.”

Marc sat down in an uncomfortable chair in the corner of the room. He had of course seen the intelligence about how Americans took young girls from their families. But to meet the product of this system was entirely another matter. And to find that she was so, well, cool with it was something of a shock. The Americans really were brainwashed. Or… maybe this girl was just spouting the party line because she was worried about the consequences if she didn’t. If he could only convince her he was on her side, maybe she would tell him how she really felt about her situation.

“I understand that they’ve sent you here to serve me, Kitten,” he said, “but I really don’t need anything. So you can just relax and we’ll get through this together, OK?”

She shifted on the bed slightly, subtly arching her back, Marc suddenly realized, to give him the best possible view of her breasts. “Sir, I don’t want to question you, but… you might not know what I can do for you,” she purred.

“I understand why you’re here,” he said. He moved over to sit on the bed next to her. “But the thing is, I’m married.”

The girl relaxed into a more normal human position next to him, blinking her eyes in confusion. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t understand what you mean.”

Marc thought for a moment. “I know things are different here, but surely Americans still get married?”

“Oh yes, sir.” Kitten leaned toward him and lowered her voice back into the sexiest register she could manage. It was a very sexy register. “I’ve fucked lots of married men. It’s no big deal.” She lightly placed her hand on his shoulder and began to lightly trace her fingernails down the nape of his neck.

Marc gently removed her hand from his shoulder and did his best to lean away from the nubile, scantily-clad young woman doing her best to seduce him. “Where I come from, when someone marries someone else, they aren’t supposed to sleep with other people, at least unless they both agree to it.”

Kitten seemed to think about this for a moment. She seemed not sure how to say what she wanted to say.

“You can talk to me,” he said. “I’m not…” He sighed. “I know how ridiculous I sound saying this, but I’m not like the other guys you know. I don’t think of women as inferior or limited. I think of them as partners. My wife is a university professor. I know for a fact she’s smarter than me in a lot of ways. And I know you have a lot of questions. I’m a diplomat. Nothing you say is going to offend me or make me lose my cool. You can ask me anything.

“

She looked down at the bed, then quietly asked, “Sir… is your wife a bitch?”

Marc stared at her for a second, then chuckled. “I mean… every once in a while, sure. Don’t tell her I said that.”

He watched Kitten nervously pick at her fingernails in her lap. “It’s just… she doesn’t let you fuck other women? Only a bitch would do that. Men claim us, we don’t claim men.”

“Well, I guess it really hasn’t come up,” he replied. “I’ve never asked her. She’s enough for me. And we’re both really busy, you know?”

Kitten bit her lip, seeming to consider what he had said.. Whatever she had been taught, she wasn’t dumb, Marc thought. Then she took a deep breath, then got down from the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him with her head bowed. “Sir, you truly do not wish to use me, then?”

“Look, you are very beautiful,” he said, “but I can’t. If it’ll make you feel better, maybe you could serve me in some other way?”

She looked up at him, seemingly enthused by this possibility. “Before you came, I made everything clean for you, sir. I scrubbed the bathroom, I vacuumed the carpet, I even folded the towels into little swans. What else can I do?”

Marc looked around dumbly at the spic-and-span penthouse suite. “You did all this?”

“Service is my purpose.” Kitten smiled broadly.

With a sigh, he said, “I need to review my notes for tomorrow. Maybe you could make me a Manhattan while I do?”

“Of course, sir!” Kitten immediately rose and scurried over to a full bar cart in the kitchen area of the suite. He watched her perfectly curved ass in her lacy red panties for a moment as she did. It couldn’t hurt to look a little, at least.

He barely had time to sit down at the desk and put on his eglasses when she placed the glass next to him. He took a sip as she waited expectantly.

“Wow, that seriously might be the best Manhattan I’ve ever had,” he told her.

Kitten blushed and did a cute little curtsy motion, making her breasts bounce and quiver only about a foot from his face. “Thank you sir!”

“I… really should get back to work. Go ahead and relax, OK?”

This time, she just nodded and moved to a small mat next to the TV, making sure to stay in his range of vision. Despite his telling her to relax, she resumed what looked very much like a “presenting” position, her arms at her sides in just such a way as to push her breasts together for his viewing pleasure. He tried to ignore her and go back to his documents.

There were still important items remaining to be negotiated. Having long exhausted many of its own natural resources, the U.S. was offering exorbitant amounts of money for Canada’s. This remained heavily controversial North of the border, of course, and the government back in Ottawa was particularly balking at America’s request for a portion of its lithium reserves. The specifics of the different scenarios engaged Marc enough that he almost forgot about how strange the situation was.

It wasn’t until several minutes later that he paused, took a sip of his drink (it really was good, were they teaching girls bartending in those schools?), and saw that Kitten was still in the exact same position, but she seemed to be breathing harder than she had been. He blinked to pause the paperwork his eglasses had been projecting in front of his eyes. “Are you… OK like that?” he ventured.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, “I’m used to it.” He saw her hesitate, and nodded in encouragement. “Sir, may I make a request?”

“Of course.”

“Would it be OK if I touched myself at least, sir?” she asked quietly. “Even if you don’t need me, I’d like to at least get some edging in.”

Marc looked at her for a long beat. He realized now that what was going on with American women was more complicated than he had believed. The girl reminded him of an addict starting to jones for her ****. But what was her addiction? Pleasure? Also, were all the young women like this here, or had he been given one of the “successes” of the American system? He didn’t have the answers, and even if he had them he didn’t know what would actually be the right thing to do. He had no intention of taking advantage of this poor brainwashed girl, but if he just ignored her he could tell it would not go well. He’d heard that the saying that there was no ethical consumption under capitalism. It seemed to him that the American system had made it so there was no ethical way for a man to treat a woman.

“What would you usually do?” he asked finally.

“Most guys who stay here at least want me to give them a blowjob while they work, and if I do a good job…” she trailed off. “I just want to be a good girl. You really shouldn’t worry about me, sir.”

“Contrary to popular belief, not every guy can want a blow job all the time. What do you do if they don’t?”

“Then I edge to keep myself ready for them and I wait to help with anything they need,” she said. “They… usually need something, sir.”

He ran a hand over his face. “Look, if you would normally masturbate, go ahead and do that, but I don’t necessarily need to be a part of it, OK?”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Kitten agreed, nodding vigorously. “I’ll be super quiet, I swear.”

Marc brought his papers back up into view as he saw her slip her hand inside her panties in his peripheral vision. He tried to concentrate, and she did her best to stay quiet, but soon she started making the most adorable little moans. He found himself keeping the documents up while he just watched her out of the corner of his eye. She bit her lip, clearly finding the thing she had been craving. Her tits (that was how he caught himself thinking of them) wobbled in her red bra while her fingers moved expertly in her underwear.

What he should have realized when she talked about edging was that Kitten wasn’t going to jill off and be done with it. Every time her breathing began to quicken and her pale cheeks really began to blush, her hand and arm slowed, and she brought herself back down. She stayed like this, kneeling on the floor near him, making tiny moans and keeping herself just short of orgasm, for well over an hour.