A Master for a Desperate Slave
By Lizbeth Dusseau
ISBN 13: 978-1-934349-20-5
ISBN 10: 1-934349-20-8
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2004 Lizbeth Dusseau
All rights reserved
Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.Chapter One
The fog creeps in across the landscape outside my window, swallowing the day. It steals away the cheer of the morning sun and leaves in its place the flat gray of a chilly summer San Francisco afternoon. Maybe there’s a message in this encroaching tide of gloom, telling me I don’t have the time for staring out of windows, for pondering the meaning of life, or toying with my creative thoughts. I have this business to run, this business that is falling to pieces. Some days I see it like a child’s blocks kicked, and in slow-motion scattering in a dozen disjointed directions. Other days, I dig in and tackle the issues of inventory, purchasing and customer fulfillment, all of which require organization, which I’m lousy at. Ever since Benjamin left that is what I do with ever-increasing inefficiency.
But this is my business, I tell myself again and again.
A pile of invoices have yet to be recorded and three customers are screaming at me for goods I thought I shipped a week ago—then again, maybe I didn’t. And Jerry down at the warehouse tells me that shipments from Singapore and Tokyo didn’t arrive. I sent Sally downstairs to find out what happened and now the phone rings, jarring me back to reality.
I hesitate to answer, wishing I could crawl under the desk and hide AWOL from my world.
“This is Dana; may I help you?”
“Your phone has been ringing off the hook,” the caller says. I recognize the voice, and on hearing the sound of the man’s deep baritone, a warm sexual heat spreads across my belly, moving outward from within.
“It’s been busy, sir,” I tell him.
“But not too busy to answer the phone.”
“No, sir.” It’s not part of the game to resist this man, even as the wild horses of resentment are galloping through my sane mind. I can’t leave now and this is what he wants—I must assume.
“You’re wearing your ropes?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer as I feel the rope bondage that confines my body pull ever-tighter around my middle, my breasts and my groin.
“And the tall heels, the zip skirt and the thin blouse?” he inquires.
“No, sir.” I stare down at the paint-stained overalls and my combat boots knowing how much he’d hate what I’m wearing. In my defense, I was running late today and these just jumped from my closet. Even my receptionist sighed with contempt seeing me so attired. “But I have them with me,” I hastily add.
“Then you’ll dress and meet me…”
“But, sir, please, I really can’t, not now. I have mountains of work, customers breathing down my neck and a major crisis in the …”
He interrupts. “You remember that warehouse the other side of Market Street?”
“In the Mission?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ll expect you in twenty minutes.”
Impossible! I scream without sound, swallowing my words until they hit my stomach and turn it immediately sour.
The phone clicks off.
“No, I can’t go!” I say aloud to no one because no one’
