Miss Elizabeth's Captive

Jamie just smiles at the reaction and gently diddles the soft under of the frenulum. It could be the last thing felt there. Tomorrow is the day.

Her hands work to release my right wrist. She is adept, doing the same every morning to permit stretching. She is very kind.

The giant harridan enters, smiling like a hungry cannibal at a feast of human flesh. Her eyes immediately go to Little Sam and she laughs.

“Almost his last stand,” she murmurs under her breath. “Good to see you,” she unctuously proclaims out loud.

Dressed more casually, Ms. Hobson displays shape. Not a feminine or alluring shape but a purposeful shape. Baggy and excess clothing in the office always made her appear frumpish. For the first time I notice that well fitting slacks and a tight sweater reveal that, whereas she has size, it is not excess fat that misleads a viewer’s impression. She is very tall with broad shoulders and thus loose clothing suggests plumpness. There is none.

“Some papers dealing with the distribution of your meager savings plan and what little compensation you elected to defer. I’ve made it all payable to Elizabeth, of course.”

My signature is required. Thus the need for her proximity. With the humiliation of being so ignominiously displayed, I remind myself that she has before seen me hanging naked. But for whatever reason facing a one time colleague well trussed and with Little Sam showing himself for Jamie, is mentally taxing.

“You’ve kept yourself nicely conditioned, Sam.”

Ms. Hobson holds the papers in her left hand, bolstered by a writing pad to accept the impression of the pen. While I sign her right hand brazenly moves to my chest, smoothes over that portion of pectoral muscling not covered by a supporting strap, then pinches my left nipple. At first it is a playful pinch, but she continues pressing until I wince and futilely wrench against my bonds.

“So sensitive,” she laughs.

Finished signing, she steps to my side and the right hand explores my buttocks.

“Have you ever been whipped, Sam, caned perhaps?”

Her demeanor has much changed. She’s pleasant, agreeable, though her beefy hand explores with irritating impunity.

I hypothesize that the change is predicated on my vulnerability, physical, financial, every aspect of my being is open to her whims. Ms. Hobson is in control. I am no longer a threat, someone who can in

any way impede her fiefdom. She has won a very short but significant battle in assuring the demise of my career and in assuming the reins of MacDonald Bear’s investment banking function.

I know the herd mentality of my peers and can hear the office talk, ‘if she can do that to Samuel L. Winthrop, III, she can do it to anyone’. I ponder the contents of the interoffice memo circulated to explain my abrupt departure. I am sure in some way it extols the managerial prowess of Ms. Grace Hobson and spreads both fear and respect for her renowned infighting capabilities.

And now she celebrates. I feel like a big game animal snared by the great white hunter Ms. Hobson, and she is visualizing what I would look like mounted above the mantel of her fireplace.

“There will shortly be a time when you will develop the urge to feel pain...cathartic pain. The reaction of the psyche to such is quite similar to that of pleasure. But pleasure in the manner to which you are accustomed will be denied to you. And you will find sharp, extensive agony to be a suitable substitute.

“And I will help you, but you will have to ask”

Hanging with my bent knees just inches from the floor, my face is at the level of Ms. Hobson’s enormous chest. Even with her baggy office attire, her massive mammary glands were prominent. Now in tight woolen sweater they seem to fill the room. She notices my stare, smiles and then wraps her arms around me, and pulls toward her, drawing my freely swinging nakedness into her huge form. She is amazingly strong and forces my face between the large twin hillocks outlined by the soft wool. Little Sam presses against her slacks. It feels good and I involuntarily thrust my hips to frottage against her leg.

Ms. Hobson laughs, knowing that she is causing turmoil in initiating such tantalizing interplay.

“I’ll be here tomorrow, Sam. I would not miss your meeting with Dr. Wilson’s scalpel for anything. It will be quite the comeuppance. And later, as you heal, we’ll play. You’re going to get to know me very well.”

Laughing with such wickedness, she releases her arms and I gently swing away. As the motion slows and I reach apogee of the arc, she steps back. On the return swing of my pendulous body, she extends her right leg and an erect Little Sam momentarily rubs against an impressively muscled calf. As I again swing away, she pushes firmly, laughing more as she increases the arc of my swing.

“Good night, Sam.”

My teetering continues for many minutes after she leaves. Finally Jamie enters.

“Sleep time,” her childish voice proclaims. Ears plugged and hooded, at last I stop swinging.

Chapter Thirty

With the examination room having been deemed too small, I find myself instead hanging from the cleverly disguised pulley in the living room. When not used, it draws up into a panel. Miss Elizabeth’s vanilla friends, if she has any, most probably questioning an industrial tool draped from the ceiling of an exquisitely decorated penthouse.

My alteration has attracted quite the crowd. I recognize many voices, having been the centerpiece for half dozen of Miss Elizabeth’s cocktail parties. But the faces are new to me, except for Ms. Hobson or course. This is a ‘coffee klatsch’ of domineering women and the early morning smell of java and warmed Danish is pleasant.

But I receive nothing and have not been fed or permitted to drink for well over twelve hours. Nurse Stenson began my day with her infamous enemas and a dose of ipecac, amusingly cleansing everything from my system. Then I was lead to the living room with a most symbolic leash hooked to my suspension harness.