Penance Corporation of America III: Forced To Serve

Forced To Serve-2

But as Miss Antoinette so astutely noted, and I had not addressed, there was a need, a deep innate wanting, which belied my superficial reservations about being made to sit in the imposing woman’s office and act as de facto butler. She was a woman of authority and governance and one not with whom to trifle. That I quickly learned... and rumors of her pending advancement served to ensure my homage.

‘She’s a lock for the corner office,’ more than one of the career professionals prognosticated. And thus I cowered each morning, assuring indeed that the coffee was hot and the fruit fresh.

In the third week came an invitation, verbalized as more of a command.

“Willie, bring a change of clothing to the office tomorrow. We’ll work out together. I want to see your legs. You’ve certainly had the opportunity to observe mine. Remember... you agreed to exercise.”

And then came another step in my submission. ‘A change of clothes’ was further detailed as attire for the gym, a Brooklyn establishment owned by an acquaintance of Miss Antoinette.

“We’ll leave after work. I prefer morning workouts but with the first visit it’s easier to show you how to get there. Thereafter you can find your own way.”

Miss Antoinette proved to be correct. The quaint building occupied by the gymnasium housed a women’s clothing store on the first floor, which was the owner’s main preoccupation. On the second floor was the gym with an entrance and stairway in the rear of the building. To access, one had to negotiate a narrow alleyway, which even in the daylight of a late summer evening gave rise to concern for safety.

“Don’t be afraid, Willie. I’ll protect you,” Miss Antoinette offered in jest as she boldly stepped between two old brick buildings.

I had indeed paused and learned a little more about the handsome finely shaped woman. Her aggressive nature expanded beyond the prosecution of the law. She was bold and tenacious in all things.

“Come. My workout includes practicing judo. I will protect you. If there’s an assailant lurking about, I’ll just begin my workout a little early.”

I traversed the alleyway without mishap then it was up a flight of stairs and through a door that opened into the rear of a surprising well equipped room of exercise machinery and weights. At the front was a wide open area with mats apparently intended for stretching and calisthenics. A large picture window, installed when the space was converted to a gym, overlooked the busy Brooklyn street below. Passersby on the opposite sidewalk were clearly visible as were we to them.

Two rough looking characters were flipping weights like pan cakes. There was a young woman energetically pounding her feet on a treadmill.

“Change in there,” Miss Antoinette commanded more than suggested.

She nodded towards the men’s room then stepped through a door marked ‘women’. I changed... tee shirt, long shorts, running shoes. Never having been athletic in school, I suppose my level of discomfort was apparent. Yet anyone would appear to be anxious when in the presence of the amazingly calm and cool Antoinette De La Corte.

When I exited Miss Antoinette stepped from the women’s locker area moments later. Her comments about her puppy came to mind, for I indeed had the urge to hump her leg... or at least cop a feel of chiseled feminine muscling.

She wore extremely brief shorts flaunting thighs that were more impressive than her calves. Her mid section was bare. Rows of abdominal muscles could be counted with ease. Her arms were sculpted, rounded where one expected to see evidence of power on the male beast... impressively rare on the female. Above she donned a tight sports bra, which obviously served to strap down mammary glands that become cumbersome during physical activity.

Once again I gaped. Once again she noticed.

“There will be a trip to the vets for you yet, Willie,” she announced with sardonic wit.

My body felt shamefully pusillanimous standing near her and for the first time I was sorry for the many years of neglect while completing college and facing the travails of law school.

“I think on your first visit here you’ll need some light weights and then the treadmill. I’ll spot for you, put you on the treadmill and then you can help with my judo.”

Her tone was direct and firm. Antoinette never made suggestions when communicating with an underling. And with her shoo in appointment to U.S. Attorney and me as an intern, I was as far down as an underling could find himself on the Eastern District pecking order.

I think back now and wonder how contrived the introduction to the gymnasium was. For everything I did, every weight lifted, every machine tried, was under her direct auspices. I did not notice that she was working lightly and I was being put through the mill, so to speak. Since she was buffed in a physical sense, everything she did seemed effortless. And with me completely out of shape everything brought rapid tiring... which after an hour brought complete exhaustion.

Darkness loomed through the large window overlooking the street when Miss Antoinette finally announced she was limber enough to practice her judo. We proceeded to the mats and the first thing I noted was that with the bright overhead lighting and the elevation of the second floor it almost appeared that we were on a stage... the audience being the pedestrian traffic below on the busy sidewalk only some hundred feet away.

“Now just relax, Willie. The padding will break any fall and I will try not to hurt you.”

With that warning began the most humiliating experience of my life... up to that time. In my exhaustion I felt like a lifeless puppet as Antoinette De La Corte, the incredibly powerful Antoinette De La Corte, began a series of martial arts holds and maneuvers, each ending with me entrapped beneath her. The ignominy was augmented of course by the many passersby on the sidewalk. For after each time she let me up, I looked out the window to see that a small crowd of observers had formed, tittering at seeing a well-conditioned woman toss about a man like a rag doll.

Finally after six or seven impressively swift take downs, she paused, sitting on me where, sans covering, couples unite in procreation.

“Think you need a rest, Willie.”

Well, though indeed tired, the response of this 23 year old male was priapic. And the wicked Miss Antoinette wriggled about in apparent knowledge of my bulging reaction. She reached up and grasped each forearm to pin me to the mat, her action detracting from the lustful gyration of her pubes resting atop mine.

She felt my burgeoning hard on and leaned down to whisper.

“Let yourself get nice and big for me, Willie. Be a good boy and I’ll let you stand nicely tented for our audience. You may enjoy showing off for me.”

I was grateful to be wearing a jock strap for her incessant wriggling brought about a continuing engorgement towards complete stiffness. When she presumed I was fully erect, her right hand released my left arm and slid to feel the front of my gym shorts. My eyes bulged and I dared not move knowing that my shorts were tented as she intended. Besides, with my limited interaction with women, extremely limited with females of Miss Antoinette’s ilk, I became catatonic, not knowing how to react or what to do. Yet her brief feel felt good... strangely controlling but good.

“You’re in a bad situation here, Willie. Your p***s is about to bulge out of your jock. Want me to get up so you can move about?”

“No. Please. No more, Miss Antoinette.”

“You protest but I think you enjoy yourself. Men like you have a certain thing about women like me. Over the many years I have learned to see it in their eyes. Sad, puppy dog eyes always seeming to be wanting something.”

She wriggled her hips most suggestively.

“Perhaps this is what you want? To be overpowered and brought into submission. Better than just looking at my legs, isn’t it, Willie?”

I had no answer and I was ashamed that I had no answer... or any snappy move... or clever counter hold. Other of course then to accept her offer to let me up and display to those remaining in the gym and those who would certainly be gathering across the street that a young priapic male was quite oddly enjoying his exercise. That would not do.

So I placed myself into the hands of Miss Antoinette. Acceding to her judgment and her course of action. Not the first time and not the last that this woman of governance took control of a situation on my behalf.

She graciously slide down so her hips and powerful thighs no longer rested directly over my pubes, ending the constant dry humping she was affording. Then she leaned to whisper again.

“I think you like working out with me, Willie. As stated I prefer the mornings. Bright and early. So I’m going to give you my key to the gym and you’ll be here waiting for me at 6:00 a.m. We’ll be alone and there won’t be the embarrassment you feel now... though I think deep down you like it.”

Her left hand released my right arm and brushed my cheek as one would offer encouragement to a child.

“I’m going to slide further back and you can sit up nice and slow and let yourself soften. Then we’ll shower and leave. But I think you have something to think about. Ponder how quickly and easily you become stimulated when a woman is in control.”

***

My reverie ends as I pull into my driveway and step out of the car in great anticipation. As the anonymous caller suggested, there is a thick package waiting inside the screen door. ‘W. Dennison’ printed in block letters with no indication of a return address or even a method of delivery. The origin is untraceable.

I glance about and determine no one is watching then enter my modest bachelor home. I cannot help tearing open the sizable padded envelope. Inside is another eight and one half by eleven glossy of me undergoing a caning in the basement dungeon. This one shows the common tears that streamed freely sometime after the fourth or fifth stroke of the searing cane of Miss Antoinette De La Corte.

Soft but firmly spoken words are recalled.

‘Are you going to cry for me like a little boy, Willie?’ the taunting question ever so heightening the intensity of the humiliation I had to endure.

Along with the clear photo of my bound nakedness is a sheet with instructions, printed from an all too common word processor.

Saturday July 15. 2:00 p.m.

Check into the Moon Lite Motel in Far Rockaway.

Room 255 will be waiting for you.

Strip naked.

Have the enclosed cable ties around each wrist and ankle.

Wear the enclosed blindfold.

Lock but do not chain the door.

Wait lying supine and spread eagled on the bed.

Remain silent.

The four simple strips of vinyl fall to the floor. The clever design permits the slim but strong lengths to be looped and tightened and never to loosen... only to be cut away for removal. The referenced blindfold is actually a full hood with an opening only for the mouth and nose.

Only a person with much to lose would consider adhering to the treacherous instructions. It is apparent that with the room number being preset, I will receive a visit from someone with a duplicate key. Someone not to be seen and someone who will most facilely bind me utilizing the cleverly simple wrist and ankle restraints.

Few would place themselves at such peril. But I do have much to lose... as the youngest district court chief judge ever... and one seeking to avoid having the briefest of tenure. I have no choice but to plan my Saturday accordingly.

***

The recent events, positive with my prestigious appointment, negative in receiving lurid reminders of youthful indiscretion, forestall slumber. In lying awake, picturing the forthcoming visit to a motel with such dubious appellation, I allow my mind to wander in attempting to welcome somnolence. And with the flurry of activity all of which encompasses the early encounters with Ms. Antoinette De La Corte, it is understandable that recollections of my internship continue.