Give the highball to Mr Smith

You turn and walk over to Mr. Smith, the drink in your hand shaking a little.

He gestures for you to walk around the desk, and you obey. You find yourself standing naked in front of him. He's wearing an expensive suit, with shoes polished a deep black. And you're this naked, pink, barefoot thing, trying not to spill this drink as you shakily extend your hand to him.

He grabs your wrist firmly, steadying it, and takes the drink from you with his free hand.

“You're really wound up, aren't you?” he says, amusement in his voice. “Relax. Let it come naturally. Let your muscles relax.”

He keeps his firm grip on your wrist as you breathe in slowly, then exhale, your eyes unable to turn away from his. You deliberately let your body soften, your muscles loosen. He's right, actually. You do feel better.

“Good. Now, remember, Sophie. Whenever you start getting panicky or jumpy, remember that you accepted this position for a reason. I understand you gave up a very lucrative freelance job to come here - an **** pay cut, to say the least, for a job that has no upward mobility. You accepted this because you know you're submissive, have wanted something like this more than anything else you can think of, and you know you would regret it for the rest of your life if you didn't at least make an attempt to live the life you think you're made for. Am I wrong in judging you, Sophie?”

You shake your head. “No, Sir,” you say.

He nods. “Being submissive, really being at another's mercy, is hard, Sophie. I'm not going to kid you and say that this is all fun and games. I'm going to make you do things that are demeaning, or menial, or disgusting, or even just boring. You'll do them for me because I happen to be very good at making submissive women do what I want. I'll give you enough of your fantasy to keep you firmly under my thumb.”

He cups one of your breasts in his hand, lifting it, feeling its weight. You start to shake again, and Mr. Smith puts his hand against your chest, between your breasts, saying,

“Ssh. Nothing to be afraid of, Sophie. If you're feeling ****, remember: you want to feel this. And also remind yourself that you've given me the right to do with you whatever I wish. I'm exercising my prerogative right now, so just relax and obey. Okay?”

You nod hesitantly, biting your lip, and his hands squeeze your tits gently. He runs a palm down over your belly to your crotch. He runs his fingers liesurely over your shaved crotch. He runs his fingers over your shorn pubic mound, admiring.

“You shave this this morning?”

You nod. “Yes, Sir.” Out of the corner of your eye you catch John's virtual image smirking. You hear his voice in your head: I told you I'd make you shave every day. You remember him doing just that, not an hour ago, remember shaving the slight, blonde stubble that had grown since the previous night, remember John inspecting your handiwork before helping you dress in the clothes he'd picked out for you.

Please shut up, you think back to him. I'm a little busy right now. Can you go away for a bit?

What? And miss the show?

“Do you shave every day?” Mr. Smith asks.

Every day of my female life, anyway, you think. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he says. “Now kneel, Sophie,” Mr. Smith commands.