The Raise

       I woke with a moan that Monday morning, a hand reaching out blindly from under my covers to slap at the snooze button on my blaring alarm clock. It subsided back into blessed silence and I sank gratefully back under my off-white comforter, nestling down into my sheets. I needed to get a cat, I decided. Some other warm body that would help take the edge off chilly October mornings. My toes ached when I flexed them, trying to bring a little life back into them- even under the covers, I was still cold. With a sigh that felt as if it expelled all the air from my body, I realized there was no point to staying in bed when the bed itself was cold, and that I had best climb into the shower, where I could at least warm up.

       It took a long moment of self-encouragement before I finally slid out from under the covers, satin nightgown hugged to me as I darted across the cold floor for the bathroom, snagging my bathrobe off the back of a chair as I went. Into the bathroom, quick, dancing onto the bathmat to avoid the freezing cold floor before I leaned to turn on the little space heater that would make the small room bearable by the time I got out of my shower. The nightgown was dropped to the floor, the water started and brought up to an acceptable temperature before I stepped over the edge of the tub and into the stream, teeth chattering by that time and my nipples feeling as if they were about to fossilize. The shower sputtered, the old plumbing rattling before settling back into its rhythm, and I stepped automatically out of the way of a gout of cold water, then back into the now-warm streams. My ability to predict the misbehavior of my plumbing was depressing. Someday, I promised myself, I'd make enough money to replace this stuff. White marble. A whirlpool tub. A shower with double heads and a sliding glass door instead of a worn-out curtain starting to show ineradicable mildew. Someday.

       I shampooed my dark hair, my one vanity- I'm unremarkable, really, just a slightly plump girl of average height, my breasts small but my ass fabulous- all right, one of two vanities. But the hair I love, coming down to mid-back in tousled waves, dark as deeply varnished wood against my absolutely pale skin. I'm a stickler for sunscreen, and my body shows it- I'm white as milk, as terrible a cliche as that is, and although I'm near-blinding in sunlight, I like the effect it has with dark hair. Hazel eyes. A few freckles on my cheeks. As I said, unremarkable.

       I took as long as I could justify in the shower, knowing I had only perhaps five minutes of hot water before the damn water heater would give up the game. The water was already getting cooler by the time I shut it off and stepped out, legs freshly shaved, smelling of orange blossoms. Good body wash is my one real luxury, that and fresh food. I may be broke, but I'm not a barbarian. The heater had turned the bathroom into a little oven by now, and I reveled in it while I blew my hair dry, then slipped on the robe and headed out for breakfast, in my little kitchen that desperately needed a new tile floor.

       One hour later, I was out of the house- it's tiny, and it's in disrepair, but it's mine, and that means the world. I'm always a little sad to leave it, but not entirely so when I'm on my way to work. Work is good- it brings in the money I so sorely need, secretarial work is not exactly rocket science, so it's not too hard, and...well. There's Craig. Craig is the boss at the small construction company I answer the phones for. He's tough- demanding and a stickler for the rules, hence why I was mincing down the sidewalk to the bus station in heels, pantyhose, and an actual dress instead of jeans and a pair of sneakers. Craig cares enormously about the dress code in the office- at least when it comes to me, the only woman there. I'm also the only non construction worker there, and the one the customers see first, so I suppose I understand the inequality. He pays well for the minimal work I do, though, and I can't complain. Besides...I get to spend all day watching him go in and out of the building. All 6'3" of him, well-muscled and masculine, but somehow elegant in an always well-fitted pair of khakis and a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I love his blonde hair and his pale eyes, such a light blue they're almost gray. Still, Craig is more fun to watch than to talk to, a still and quiet man with an air of internal authority. Even the toughest workers, guys with so many tattoos they make bikers look like Mr. Clean, defer to him naturally. I barely spoke to him in the normal course of the day, only telling him his phone messages and who stopped by.

It had taken all my courage, the day before, to send Craig an email asking for a pay raise. My reasons were good and just, my language impeccable- I've always prided myself on being able to word a letter nicely, and I was sure I hadn't been too demanding or too subservient. I was worried that desperation might have crept in, though. I'd sent the email at the end of the day, too chicken to wait all day on tenterhooks for a reply. Better to give him the night to think it over, I'd rationalized, ducking out the door. Now I was hoping I would have my answer, my leg jittering as I sat on the bus, heel clicking the floor until the driver raised her eyebrows at me and I stopped, embarassed. I only had ten minutes to worry, then the bus disgorged me in front of C.E. Simms Construction, Inc. Craig is, of course, the C.E. Simms in the name. I've never asked him what the E. stood for.

I stood outside the door a moment, lingering in the chilly air until I realized how silly I looked and pushed through the heavy metal door, putting my shoulder to it as usual. A meaty hand caught the door from the inside and held it easily, and I found myself almost stumbling into Pete, one of the less savory of the workers. Pete looked clean enough- a minimum of tattoos, not too much fat on his large, bear-like frame, a clean uniform, and a neat crew cut- but the mind that leered out from behind dark eyes was filthy. "Morning, darlin'," he drawled, flashing a toothy smile as I regained my balance.

I shot him a cold look, one that had stopped many a would-be suitor dead in bars and nightclubs, when I was still going out to such places. "My name isn't darlin', Pete," I replied, much to his apparent amusement. His grin stretched wider, but he stepped back with a mock salute and let me pass. I was acutely aware of his presence as I passed him, feeling his gaze boring into my back- or, more likely, somewhere slightly lower than that. My chair welcomed me, and I slid behind my impersonal desk with real relief, the gauntlet run for the morning. Or so I thought.

I'd expected an emailed response from Craig. What I got was a neatly written note, a grey Post-It stuck to my monitor. "See me." He hadn't even bothered to sign it. My heart leapt, and not in a pleasant way- it seemed to stick in my throat, banging painfully there. The two words were curt, and my mind began to race, wondering if I'd offended him. How I'd offended him, rather, since I plainly had. I shot a look over to his office, and saw that he was in- his blinds were down, but light came from under his door. Knowing he'd only get irritated if I kept him waiting, I stumbled to my feet, prompting a snigger from the guys hanging out by the water cooler while they waited for the last of their numbers to arrive. Pete was one of them, of course. I gave them a venemous look, then clicked for Craig's office on high-heeled shoes and tapped on the door.

"Come in." It wasn't barked, or even said very loudly, but it was an order. I hesitated only an instant, then turned the handle and slipped into the office, shutting the door carefully behind me before turning to face Craig's wide, impeccably polished desk. It was a thing of beauty, made of dark-stained oak by Craig himself. Pictures of his wife used to decorate it. Since their divorce a year ago, it was clean of everything but the usual slight detritus of a neat but hard-working man. Right now my boss was tapping a pen against his appointment book as he looked over at me, pale eyebrows slightly raised. There was a moment of silence as each of us waited for the other to speak. I was finally the one to break it.

"You wanted to see me? Sir?" I hated for my voice to sound so little-girlish, but Craig always seemed to bring that out in me. Craig didn't seem to mind. He nodded, as if he'd been reminded of something he'd forgotten; something trifling and unimportant.

"Ah. Samantha...yes. You requested a raise." His voice, quiet and urbane, gave no hint as to what his thoughts on the matter were. As he spoke I moved hesitantly across the room, finally standing in front of his desk, my hands folded behind my back.

I waited through another silence, then finally spoke, my voice barely above a whisper, "Yes, sir, I did. Have you, ah...given the matter some thought?"

"I have." Craig set his pen down, the tapping ceasing, and folded his hands. Pale eyes peered up at me. "You have a sister."

My stomach plummeted. How in the world had he known...? But I couldn't deny it. "Yes, sir." Craig had always insisted on being addressed so formally, by the workmen as well as myself. Someone had told me he was former military, and still expected the respect that rank was due. That fit with his neatness, and his straight posture. "Penelope. Penny."

He gave a tic of a smile when I called Penny by her nickname, blonde head inclining slightly. "Penny, yes. Severely brain damaged and in need of constant medical attention, isn't that right? From an accident when you were a child. Your parents were killed in the same crash, when you were ten and Penny was five, and you were raised by your grandparents, who subsequently died a few years apart. Your grandfather when you were fifteen, your grandmother when you were twenty, upon which event you were awarded custody of Penny. Six years ago. Penny, who lives in a quite costly institution." He made a disarming little gesture, manicured hands spreading as he offered me another brief, calculated smile. "Is that all correct?"

I had stood quite still through the recitation of facts, and by the time it was finished I was sure my jaw was dropping. I picked it up with an effort and stuttered out my reply. "Sir, I...yes, but..."

"Never mind how I know. Suffice it to say that I do." Craig picked the pen up, turning it between his hands, his eyes down on that for the moment. "I'll give you a raise. Quite a substantial one, in fact." My heart soared, my hands clenching tightly behind my back, but something in his tone of voice held me back from squealing in celebration. "On a condition."

I didn't answer verbally; I'm sure my eyes told him to go on when he glanced up to check my reaction. His voice was smooth as he continued, as sane and reasonable as if he were offering me a raise in exchange for new coffee duties. "I will pay your sister's medical bills- all of them- for the forseeable future, as well as your current salary. If-" and here he paused, head mildly tilted as he stared up at me. "You will agree to allow me use of your body. Unconditional use."

For several seconds, I was sure I hadn't heard him correctly. Use of my body? Unconditional use? It sounded like...

"Sexual slavery, Samantha. That's what I am asking for," he clarified, sounding and looking faintly amused. He studied me over the top of the pen, then rested it on the desk again and waited politely for my answer.

I felt lightheaded, as realization sank in, and took a step back to fold clumsily into the other chair in the office. Craig simply watched me, like a scientist with an interesting specimen, as I regained my breath. "Are you...joking, sir?"

"I assure you, I'm perfectly serious. Your sister's care, everything you could want, in exchange for complete control of your body. I've been coveting it for quite some time, Samantha." A touch of impatience crept into his voice at that, and he began to rise. "Unless, of course, you're uninterested."

"No!" The answer popped out, startling even me. He hesitated momentarily, then sank back to his seat, gesturing for me to continue. I stood, always a little clumsy in heels, and wondered what the hell I thought I was doing. Six years of poverty and anxiety were overwhelming me, a daily burden that had felt, at many moments, too much to bear. And here was an opportunity to let it all be washed away...gone for good. No more worry about how long I had until the electricity would be cut off; how late I could safely be on mortgage payments. No more worry that Penny's insurance would finally run out, leaving me with outright payments far worse than any deductibles I was already struggling to make. No more..."No. I mean...yes. Yes, sir. I'll...take it." The words fell like lead on my ears, muffled as if they had come from some other room. Some other mouth than mine.

Craig permitted himself a smile then, as I'd seen on his face before when a business deal went well. "Excellent. Bring your sister's insurance information to me tomorrow, so we can begin the transfers. Then come over to my desk and bend over it, head on your arms."

His prosaic tone caught me off guard. I was still in the state of surreal disconnection from the events, head swimming with thoughts of financial freedom, but personal servitude. What had I done? I had no idea what this man's tastes might be. What in the world had I set myself up for? I didn't respond to the command, not with a word or a step forward. I just stood there, staring dumbly at him.

Craig stood smartly, moving with alacrity around the desk and to my side. My wrist was seized, his other hand pushing at the small of my back to propel me forward to his desk. I moved with shocked clumsiness, and when I gave a small cry he gave my wrist an expert twist, just to the point of pain. I was shoved forward, hips banging against the edge of the desk before his strong hand pushed my back down, my one wrist still bent awkwardly behind me to provide leverage. His voice murmured near my ear then, hot breath stirring my hair.

"You will obey all commands I give you, instantly. When we are in public you will call me sir, or Mr. Simms. When we're in private, you will call me Master. Do you understand, bitch?" Even the vulgar word wasn't charged with emotion. Despite the flurry of violence, Craig's control remained intact, and some part of me instantly realized that "bitch" wasn't a curse, when he directed it at me. It was a new title.

"Yes..." I squeaked out in return, breath knocked out of me by the sudden shove into the desk, voice meek now in fear. "...Master." His hips rocked once into my ass with that, a satisfied grunt coming from behind me before my wrist was released. My hands gripped the opposite edge of the desk, still in shock as behind me, Craig matter-of-factly flipped my skirt over the small of my back. I opened my mouth to object, but no sound came out. Perhaps I was simply paralyzed by the bizarre shock of this turn of events.

Broad hands grasped both of my full cheeks, hard enough to hurt, then smoothed over the nylon-encased flesh with a proprietary air. He lightly slapped one, enough to make me jump slightly, but not enough to hurt, and must have watched while the flesh gave a little jiggle in response. Detachedly, I realized I was near to hyperventilating. Then a knee pressed between my thighs, forcing my legs to part, and I began to see dark spots in front of me. I stared blindly ahead, breasts mashed painfully down against the wood of the desk as Craig reached for something on the desk.

When I felt cold steel in the groove between my panty-clad crotch and my inner thigh, I yelped and squirmed despite myself. His hand came down with brutal swiftness between my shoulders, knocking me down and pushing the breath out of me before he muttered, "Shut up, you stupid cunt. I'll cut you, if you keep moving." I immediately fell silent, besides the pulls of air. As if to test my ability to stay quiet, he slapped my left ass cheek hard enough to make me gasp, then grasped the stinging spot firmly and ground down with his grip. I bit my lip but stayed silent, eyes screwing shut. A moment later he released me, apparently satisfied, and then I felt the blade again and recognized it. It was a pair of scissors, of all things.

Craig cut with delicate care and concentration, removing first the crotch of my pantyhose until I could feel them beginning to split up the back. I stood still in horrified silence, bent vulnerably over the desk, as my employer- master?- smoothed a hand over the panties below before neatly sliding the blade underneath my hose and snipping the bikini briefs up their sides. He tugged on the back of them, pulling them out and tossing the ruined panties unceremoniously into the trash.

I thought I knew what was coming then. I was wrong. Instead of plowing into me, Craig reached for me with his hands, groping into the hole he'd cut into my hose and palpating my labia with one hand. I could hear the amusement in his voice. "Shaved? Maybe you're not as innocent as I had thought. Still, it saves me some time." I took a breath to answer him, and he seized one of my nether lips and gave it a hard, reprimanding pinch. "I said shut up." I could feel tears starting to slide down my cheeks, but I followed orders, going silent again.

The inspection of my gentials continued, cold and clinical. Craig tugged my labia out of the slit in the pantyhose, arranging the hole just so that it showed him everything. His touch was rough and businesslike, arranging me as if my most private places had been a pot of silk flowers. Then his hand slowed, finger trailing along one soft, shaven fold before prodding inside. He parted me, bending behind me to examine what I had on display. My cheeks burned as the cool, air-conditioned air of the office blew against my inner folds, displayed as callously as if they were a horse's teeth at a livestock sale. His finger probed deeper then, sliding up and back down the length of my slit. I shivered once, violently, and then realized that I was no longer dry. Somewhere along the way, the dehumanizing treatment had started to arouse me, a thought that turned my stomach. Craig seemed satisfied, though, prodding into my entrance up to his first knuckle and then pulling out, wiping his finger against my hip before he released me. "Stand up."

I stood immediately, knees quivering as my skirt fell back around them, and turned to face Craig. The cold, forbidding expression he habitually wore did nothing to make my insides feel less like jelly, though the hot little knot of arousal was doing its best to banish my queasy stomach. "You'll do. Come to my office immediately after work."

I couldn't believe it. After that- he was going to simply tell me to get back to work, and leave the promise of the evening hanging over my head. I gaped at him a moment, until his hard stare reminded me. "Yes, Master." My eyes flickered down toward the ruined panties sitting openly in his trash, and he lifted his brows at me.

"You won't be needing those any longer. Never wear panties again. Tomorrow you'll have the day off to buy a garter belt and stockings to allow me access, as well as some other things we'll discuss tonight. Is that understood?"

"Yes...yes, Master." I swallowed, my throat dry, and he nodded, pointing at the door.

"Go."

I went, trotting on high heels, acutely aware of my flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and naked sex catching cool air under my skirt.