, Machiavelli Style

“Guess I should give your parents a call,” you say, smirking. Ashley stops, hand on the door latch, and looks at you.

“They would like to know if you’re coming home early, particularly after the ‘study’ session you and Faith had. The picture may be a little fuzzy, but could you explain the two of you putting unskinned bananas in your mouths? Your parents may be pretty conservative, but they do know what oral sex is.”

She blinks at you, her emerald eyes searching me in the dim interior of my Ford Pinto, frowned a moment, and said, “Fuck.”

“Such language,” you smile slyly. “For such a pretty church girl. I would have thought better of you. Your parents must.”

“What do you want?” Ashley scowls at you, eyes flashing angrily.

“Tell you what,” you say. “I’ll give you a choice. Tell your parents about your evening – I’ll forward you the pic so you can share that as well – or you can do what I tell you. Whatever I tell you without any lip, without any argument. ‘Kay?”

The brunette glances out the window, looking down the street, her home on the far corner of the block, pursing her lips.

“Well, choir girl?”

“Damn it,” she chews at her lip, lowering her gaze to her lap. “Just – God – damn – it.”

You raise an eyebrow. Ashley hadn’t been known to curse, but then – you barely knew her in high school two years ago before dropping out.

“What – what do you mean by ‘whatever?’” the brunette says in a small voice.

“That should be kind of obvious,” you say dryly. “If you take door number two, you are putting me in charge of your life, to do as I say, whenever and however I want, for as long as I want. So – if you’re smart about this – you should think long and hard before even taking that option. The safe bet is to be honest with your parents. About everything.”

“I – can’t,” she shakes her head, pressing her eyes closed tight, small tears glistening across her lashes. You reach for the shifter, preparing to turn the corner and drop her off in front of her house. “I can’t tell them. So – so I’ll do it. I’ll be your –” The brunette trembles. “– ****.”

Your jaw falls in surprise.

“What the hell?” you ask. “How the fuck could it be worse to admit your peccadillos to your parents than to obey my every whim? Hell, agreeing to do that, I could pimp you out! Do you want to be a whore?”

“N-no,” Ashley sobs, grasping her arms to her belly and rocking back and forth slightly in her seat. “I d-don’t want to be a whore. But – I c-can’t tell my parents. I just c-can’t.”

“It was just a banana,” you roll your eyes eyes. What the hell is it with this girl? What is she so afraid of?

“It’s – not just a banana,” she sniffs. You look at her, both eyebrows lifted high.

“What did you do? Kiss Faith?” you ask, hiding a smirk. Doubtful, you think, recalling how uptight and self-righteous the blonde cheerleader was back when we were in high school together.

“I – I can’t say,” the brunette says, turning her face back to the window.

“Are you going to tell your parents about this evening?” you press.

“No,” she shakes her head, shoulder slumping.

“Then you should be telling me,” you say. “Good little slaves are honest with their masters. They don’t hide anything. Otherwise you should be talking to your parents, Ashley, not me.”

“Oh, God,” the young woman moans softly, “Please forgive me.”

“He – or She,” you begin, reaching out and placing your hand on the brunette’s slim shoulder, “is pretty forgiving. Or so I like to think. And God knows already. So spill it to me – or your parents.”

“Do – do I have to tell you now?” she asks, still looking out the window into the rainy night, her breath fogging up the window.

“Trying to negotiate now?” you ask.

“I – no,” the pretty brunette shakes her head, “No. I – I’ll still do what you want. I just – I can’t talk about – it – right now. Please.”

“I guess I can be considerate,” you say, stroking her shoulder through her thin jacket. “No need to rush into things, is there?”

“I – guess not,” Ashley admits, starting to relax beneath my fingers.

“Are you sure about this?” you ask. “Becoming my **** and all?”

“I – I am,” the cheerleader replies.

“I ask,” you say gently, “Because I am recording our conversation. It’s not a legal contract, but – let’s call it insurance – for both of us. I won’t tell anyone – Fuck, who’d believe me, having the one of the hottest girls in town beholden to me? And you wouldn’t tell ‘cause you wouldn’t want people finding out. But just in case I’m tossed in a jail cell for this, I want it known that I gave you a choice and suggested – pushed you – to take the better one.”

“Should we go to your place?” Ashley asks, changing the subject. “I – could stay the night. Faith would back me up to – to help keep me quiet. My parents aren’t expecting me home until sometime tomorrow.”