Her Master's Slut

Chapter One

Chapter One

At half past midnight with the house draped in darkness, Robin Miranda eased into a spare bedroom, cast the door lock, and crossed the gray Berber to the mahogany desk next to seldom used Murphy bed. Along the right wall, in front of a crushed velvet multi-flowered rose colored couch, a low coffee table sat, and angled at ninety degrees stood a matching recliner chair. Outside the white-curtained window clouds obscured the stars, and it had begun to rain.

Dropping her purple terrycloth robe on the floor, Robin stood naked. Then slumped onto the chair, awakened the computer, and typed the password. She glanced down at her painted red toenails and then at a picture of her eighteen-year-old son displayed on an end table. Jason had slept over at the Davis house and would start college in a few weeks while Rupert, the dying Heinz 57 variety dog, lay curled on his mat in the corner. Robin doubted he would survive winter.

After watching the Cubs lose the ballgame to the Cincinnati Reds on television, her husband, Frank, had gone to bed, would sleep through the night, and Robin had slipped to the appointed rendezvous. “My god, what if Jason or Frank finds out?” She murmured to the traditional off-white walls. Still, the online world of s*x was an irresistible lure for her. With seconds to spare, the instant messenger acknowledged her presence.

Robin would be forty next April 21st. A Gemini with disparity in personality, she had not aged as gracefully as Sandra Bullock, was overweight, and her breasts sagged. Her blonde hair was laced with strands of gray and her blue eyes clouded from living. Her days were hectic, her nights were lonely, she dreamed of strong controlling men with big luscious c***s, and longed for love.

Robin turned on the microphone, set the volume and focused the web camera toward her middle. With practiced fingers she scrolled to the chat room, typed in the code, massaged her p***y as ordered, spread its wetness toward her c******s, pulled the blindfold in place, and waited. The man who had taken charge of her life required obedience. “His s*x doll,” he called her.

She supposed the online affair started as an amusing interlude from boredom and the vicissitudes of a loveless marriage. Sable, her college roommate and best friend for twenty-five years would raise an eye at the risk. Robin imagined her accusation. “You’re a slut, just like you were in college, Robin Marie.” Gosh, she wished Sable hadn’t died from Cancer. Cancer, Robin feared above all else, their friendship being ended by Cancer.

Was she a slut in college? She was. She had become a slut the day her father died. To ease the pain, she drew joy from listening in on intimate telephone conversations between her mother and Eugene, her new husband, but also her dead father’s brother.

Eugene was a lustful man. With dirty eyes, he watched a girl’s every step, and more often than not put bruises on his wife’s backside.

After Robin got drunk and let a strange man grope her breasts at her eldest sister’s wedding party and later flirted with Kathryn’s new husband, Claude Jorgensen, in her mother’s eyes, she was never much more than a dirty slut.

She became a dirty cheating low life w***e and mother slut with the plumber. Jason was fifteen at the time, the intimacy between Frank and her had grown cold, and the plumber was torrid. He had that bad boy thing going on; brown pony tail, moody smile, hooded eyes, was a decade younger than she, and had bulging muscles. She recalled glancing at his crotch and imagining a c**k generous enough to unclog the largest drain pipe.

He hadn’t been shy either. Handing her the invoice for a replacement water heater, he printed his cell phone number in bold letters at the top, jerked her into his arms and consumed her lips. “Call me,” he growled turning away and leaving her weak-kneed, breathless, and the lining of her stomach eviscerated by bumble-bees.

She resisted temptation for days after that. In her mind, she cataloged all the reasons not to call, but then manufacturing a lame excuse, she telephoned. “I need to know your name for the check,” she announced.

“What you need, Mrs. Miranda is my c**k,” he sniggered, his laugh boisterous and condescending. Across the phone line her face colored with shame and she shook.

“Meet me at Casey’s—twelve o’clock tomorrow, you know Casey’s?”

“I work.”

“Names Shawn—noon…” He clicked off before she could say anything more, or even negotiate a different time.

Even with flames on her face, she wouldn’t have gone, but that night when she needed love, Frank was too tired, and when he agreed, he was inadequate. In that instant, noon the next day would not arrive soon enough. Robin trembled with anticipation.