New York City Submissive Female – Chapter 5

The web guy from San Jose was giving his final presentation today. Nobody in New York welcomed this. Too used were they to pretentious young nerds from Silicon Valley bragging about how this or that incomprehensible tech jargon would change the world. Seeing an overweight short brown man trudge up to the stand was not a sight to inspire hope.

Then he began to speak, with a passion, even an eloquence, that they had never seen in a tech presentation. He had a spring in his step, a light in his eyes, something that had given him an infectious confidence. He posed questions. He subtly flirted with the women. He cracked jokes. It was a tour de force, the kind you expect to hear from PR, not IT. It was like opening a bottle of juice and finding the finest wine instead.

Those who had meetings with him were astounded. What had happened to so transform the shy, quiet man they knew?

There were a few oddities in the speech, of course. At one point he said, “We’re going to hit that deadline. I’ll hit her with everything I’ve got. This is going to be awesome,” leaving his counterparts wondering what he was talking about.

***

“There is a Mrs. Susan Beresford to see you,” said the downstairs receptionist on the phone.

Phil was still at the office at six, luxuriating in his triumph that afternoon. “Can you send her up? I’ll meet her at the sixth-floor reception.”

He had not thought of the outfit that Sue was wearing, the same highly provocative green miniskirt, the intoxicating perfume and slutty-looking makeup. Eyebrows rose as she walked down the corridors. Women were either amused or resentful. Men were universally staring.

Sue didn’t look like a friend, or girlfriend. She looked like he had hired a prostitute and brazenly invited her to the office. At least she wasn’t wearing the leash. She made no attempt to touch Phil, but gave coy smiles to all who stared.

Phil sat her down in a chair beside his. “Your legs are crossed,” he said. “Uncross them.”

Sitting down, the sheer power of her legs mocked any male in eyeshot. The clear view of her thong would be enough to stain his reputation for weeks.

“Pretend you’re stupid,” he told her. “Like you’re a simple-minded bimbo who I won over with expensive gifts.”

Many men were stopping by and saying hi to him and his “friend”, even those that didn’t know him, referring to him as “the web guy from San Jose”. Sue flirted with them all, letting their eyes greedily take in her bulging chest and open skirt. They kissed her hand, even putting their arm around her shoulder. She gushed at how “smart” they were (they weren’t) and gave them perfect vacuous looks, incongruous coming from someone clearly of milf age.

She continued her cock-teasing of Phil’s colleagues as they made their way to the exit. It took them a surprisingly long time to leave.

Like many tech firms, Phil’s colleagues were much more Asian than the typical American population, even by New York standards. Sue hadn’t failed to notice.

“So many qualified Asians at your company. Mine is like that too. Almost all my developers are Asian.”

“We try,” said Phil.

“You Asians are smarter than us whites. You seem to have everything under control. We spend hours studying, drift off to the TV half the time, and get Bs and Cs. You just focus and whip out A after A.”

“That’s not true for all Asians. During the colonial era—”

“Every Asian I know. We whites are too stupid to read history books anyway. Why do you think I have such a fetish for you? Well, that and the exotic color.”

Phil could not believe that Sue held to such crude racial stereotypes. And he knew she was intelligent, more so than he. You don’t get to be a director at a Wall Street firm with a private office if you aren’t strong in brainpower.

“You can’t make generalizations on the basis of a few—”

“Stop thinking logically,” she interrupted. “Use your emotions. Give in to your baser impulses.”

How would that feel? He’d had plenty of arguments with people where they judged an entire ethnic group based on just one person’s behavior. They thought based on emotion, not logic. He’d always held that in contempt.

“It would feel very weird to be on the giving end of racial insults for a change.”

“I think you need that, master. I think you need a white slave. After all,” she added, “how many Asian girls would behave like a whore? Like me?”

Phil thought of the disgust his relatives often expressed towards the loose dress and loose morals of Western women. Already he found himself starting to think her way.

“So you’re a…you’re a….”

“A stupid white whore,” finished Sue proudly. Phil’s cock leaped for joy at the taboo insult. He felt a surge of freedom race through him. It was illogical, unfair, and arbitrary. It was evil. But damn, did it feel good!

Was this the freedom white men had once had, then lost? The freedom to say whatever they wanted to believe, no matter how racist and sexist? For the first time Phil felt some sympathy for them. To have this freedom and to lose it…no wonder they railed against the so-called tyranny of political correctness. Well, two can play that game.

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “I’ll…I’ll do it,” he said excitedly. “I’m going to say or do whatever pops into my head. No matter how awful. If you don’t like it, safeword.”

“I won’t need to safeword,” she scoffed. “Treat me like dirt. Don’t ask permission.”

“I want to sexually harass you. Pretend you haven’t agreed to anything, but don’t cry out or try to get any kind of help. Make only feeble attempts to fight back.”

He put his hand on her tit. She closed her eyes tightly, as if in pain. He toyed with her breasts, enjoying the feel, but also enjoying humiliating her in public.

“Open your eyes, bitch,” he said.

She looked at him, fear and trepidation in her eyes.

“Do you still want me to hurt you, slave?”

“Yes, master.”

He lifted his hand close to her face, then quickly slapped her, right there on the street.

She looked stunned for a moment but rallied quickly. “I deserved that, master,” she said proudly. She pointedly turned her head to the other side. She was literally turning the other cheek.

“You didn’t deserve that. But I did,” replied Phil, slapping her, harder this time, on the other cheek.

He saw her flinch, knew he was hurting her, but neither could he slap that sly grin off her face. Nor did he want to. Was this not yet another, deeper taboo? Couples spank each other, as traditional parents spank children, but slapping on the face is forbidden, an act done more to humiliate than to hurt.

A wild energy was flooding through Phil. He desired Sue in that moment more than any woman he’d ever known. But he just as desperately wanted to make her uncomfortable.

He resorted to something Sue had never agreed to do in person.

He spat in her face.

The white spot hit her in the eye, dripping down her cheek like a grim talisman. But the defilement only made her more beautiful. Sue’s expression was radiant.

“How do you like being spit on, bitch?”

“I love it, my lord.”

“Why?”

“I told you, master. I love being used and abused.”

“Let’s do it then.” He put his hand in the street, signaling a cab.

“You’re paying for this cab, cunt,” he said loudly as they got in.

“Yes, dear.”

The driver looked at them quizzically through the mirror, seeing the spit on Sue’s cheek. She looked coolly back, making a kissing motion in his direction. They headed for the sex shop.

***

“This looks like something,” said Sue, pointing at a paddle.

“Nope,” said Phil. “Spanking is for kids. This is what I want.” He pointed to a nylon whip. It was at least three feet long, a thick handle leading down to a fearsome-looking lash.

Sue looked scared. “This one?”

Phil was scanning through the instructions on the back of the package. “We don’t have to get it if you don’t want to,” he said.

“Do you want it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want it,” said Sue bravely. Phil grabbed her and planted a smackeroo on her lips right then and there. His hands started to maul her ass—

“Do you mind paying for your stuff first?” asked the salesman, annoyed.

***

1987 it was. Fall.

Maybe high school wouldn’t be so bad after all, Phil thought. He had been determined to make as many friends as possible, going out of his way to talk to as many as he could.

It hadn’t always gone well, more than once he just seemed to find himself on the outside of conversations, listening to others talk about TV shows he’d never watched, music he didn’t like, or sports he wasn’t interested in. But he persevered.

Today a teacher had assigned him to a small study group with Michelle and Tricia. That latter name excited him; she was a bright-faced blonde, a lovely angelic face that he often thought of late at night.

It didn’t take long for the girls to start yakking among themselves, talking about any subject under the sun except, of course, the assignment they were supposed to be working on.

He tried to figure out a way to contribute. “My mom wants me to go to bed at ten,” Tricia was complaining. “I mean, who the hell goes to bed at ten o’clock?”

“I do,” said Phil tentatively.

Tricia stared at him as if he’d said something deeply offensive. “Well, who cares about you? You’re ugly.”

***

Phil didn’t send Sue to his hotel, but the one across the street. The bar had only a light crowd. She sat by herself, looking nervous but extremely sexy.

Phil came in, boorish, loutish, and horny. He walked up to Sue like he owned her, leaned in, and kissed her hard on the lips.

She didn’t kiss him back. Her body stiffened, her eyes shut.

“That’s right, whore,” he jeered. “Lie back and think of England, they used to say.”

He grabbed at her breasts, squeezing them, pulling them. Her body did not belong to her, it belonged to him. His property. His cock rose in anticipation.

He put his hand up her skirt. What drove his passion hardest wasn’t the softness of her skin, the sexiness of her body, nor the scent of her perfume, delightful as all three were. It was the emotion on her face, the helplessness, as if she was a real slave. Phil owned her, so only his feelings mattered. The sense of liberation that gave him was extraordinary.

It was belied by how wet her cunt was, a wetness totally at odds with the expression of fear and pain on her face. He fingered her, far from gently, pulling on her clit, rubbing it, invading her with his fingers. And, sure enough, her face began to soften.

“You have to cum right here in the bar,” he ordered. “Quietly, bitch.” His fingers began rubbing her clit and g-spot, catching them in a pincer motion.

Squeeze. Rub. Squeeze. He couldn’t tell what was arousing her more, the motion of his fingers or the cruelties from his mouth. “I’m going to use you, bitch. I’m going to finger-fuck you here, then I’m going to take you home, I’m going to whip you, and then I’m going to rape you. Do you want that, you — you stupid white whore?”

“Yes, master. Yes,” she said hotly, her body shaking. Sue’s breath was coming in rapid puffs, her cheeks pink as paint. “I’m your slave. I love being your slave. I wish you could beat me and rape me all night long… oh…oh…” She knocked over the Diet Coke she’d been drinking, but managed to keep her head motion to a limited jerk.

Phil snapped the collar around her neck and attached the leash, then dragged her out to the street.

“Strip to your underwear.”

Sue’s eyes flitted around nervously, realizing she was about to expose herself like never before.

“What if I get arrested, master?”

“Underwear is not illegal, you stupid bitch.”

Very slowly, frightfully, she took off her clothes. She had on red lingerie, a flimsy red bra and a tiny square-shaped thong, its back strap as thin as a pencil.

A crowd of onlookers was gathering. Thankfully, there were no children among them, but plenty of men and teen boys with lecherous grins and evil eyes. Several had whipped out cameras or camcorders.

“This girl is my slave,” said Phil loudly.