Her Master's Slut

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Robin was in a foul mood. She flipped on the intercom. “Laurie, bring me Danish,” she yelled, toggled off, leaned back in her green upholstered leather chair, clasp her fingers behind her head, and propped her feet on the desktop. Was Laurie, Frank’s latest notch? She wondered. Frank went for girls with red hair, no brains and shapely asses who liked teddy bears. The last little pointed tit and loopy ass redhead to give Frank an erection was that part-time b***h Terry whom she fired. Now Laurie Nibbling strutted around the office like she owned the place. How she had gotten hired was a mystery. Was Kathryn responsible?

Three raps on the door and twenty-one-year-old baby faced receptionist Laurie Nibbling entered. She knew the protocol; one never entered without knocking. “I’ve brought two, Mrs. Miranda, one apple and one peach,” she infused, “I thought you might enjoy a caramel coffee as well.”

“Stupid b***h,” Robin muttered under her breath still wishing Thick Rod would answer her pleas. It had been two months since that fateful night. Jason had gone off to college and Frank had asked for a trial separation. Miserable, Robin didn’t look up from the keyboard. “Thank you, Miss. Nibbling. You may set the tray on the serving table and ask my husband to come in would you?”

“Yes, Ma’am…” Nibbling curtsied, the sway of her tight short skirt encased ass making a turn and heading out of the office.

Robin wanted to vomit.

Once more she tried to communicate with Thick Rod32. During what seemed like the end of days, she had begged, offered, and supplicated. She had solicited the online help of other sluts in his stable and now in frustration; she opened his personal profile page. I’VE MURDERED THE DOG, she typed in the space allocated.

The door rattled with raps and Frank entered looking like a scarecrow in fashionable brown. “What’s up?”

“Take a seat.” She hated that ugly winter suit. She moseyed over to the wall table and fingered the peach. “What’s this I hear about selling the company to Keck?”

Frank waved well-manicured nails in her direction, “Just conversation.”

“We’re not selling my daddy’s company.”

“We’ve got to do something, Robin. I’ve not built a one store liquor business into a multi-store beverage supply company to watch it flounder.”

“We,” interrupted Robin.

“Me, most,” Frank countered. “Since the state legislature passed the smoking ban, people who smoke aren’t going out as much, and bars are buying less alcohol. Profit is down.”

“Keck is doing all right.”

“Keck is a conglomerate.”

“My sisters and I are not selling, and neither is my son.” Robin took a bite of peach, and chased it with caramel.

“We’ll see about that.”

“You’re not jeopardizing Jason’s inheritance.”

“You are the one jeopardizing OUR son’s inheritance.” Frank sifted the bullet points of ownership in his mind. When Wally Anderson died, his daughters, Kathryn and Robin, each inherited 33% of his estate and his wife, Delores, inherited 34%. When Dolores passed, Wally’s daughters inherited nothing, while Elizabeth, Eugene’s child, inherited 15% and Frank, Robin’s husband, inherited 15%. Robin also controlled Jason’s 4% until his twenty-first birthday, giving her control of Anderson Beverage Company. Frank’s face flushed with anger? “I own some of this company too.”

“Not enough, we are not selling. Figure out another method.”

The door slammed and Frank’s brown hair waved surrender. “f**k you,” he called over his shoulder in a voice that ricocheted around the receptionist desk like the bellow of a raging bull.

Laurie’s red hair swirled like a tornado.

“When have you ever?” Robin charged at his hasty retreat.

Frank wasn’t a bad-looking guy, in fact; he was still pretty darn good looking. Still, she wondered what had ever enticed her to marry him, and what other women saw in him, sperm to make babies? “Perhaps,” she sighed traveling for the apple and then returning to her desk.

She slumped in her chair and put her head in her hands. Her life was in shambles. God, I need the strength of my master she was thinking when she heard a chime. In capitals, New Roman Script, Good Morning Slut54, stared her in the face from the computer’s instant message tray.

Master, she typed, Thank You.

Nothing, no chime, no bleep, nothing…. The seconds passed like racing turtles.

Robin’s heart chugged down the track faster than a locomotive. She couldn’t let this end. Her fingers clacked. Are you there, master? She had been miserable since that terrible night. Even a cautious woman knows when to throw the dice. Please, master, I’m all alone. Don’t leave me. I’m so sorry.

The tray stayed vacant.

Please, I’ll do anything. I try so hard to submit.

Roman Times lived. I’ll not stand for further disobedience, Slut54.

Robin’s fingers flew like the wind. I promise; I’ll do whatever you want.

The reply came at once. Why are you alone, Slut54?

My son is at university and my husband want’s a divorce. He has moved out.

Your company takes up most of your time. I’ll need more than you can give.

Anderson Beverage would have to do with less of her, she thought. Kathryn would have to get more involved. I’ll cut back.

How?

I’ll give more responsibilities to others. My older sister can manage.

No more chances. No more dogs to put away. Next time you f**k up, we’re done.

Thank you, Master. I’ll be good.

945645 is your new code. Send me your cell number. I have a friend who needs serviced.

This time Robin delayed. She didn’t know where Thick Rod lived, who he was, or where he worked. She knew nothing about him except he fanned her flames like no other person in the world. Giving out her phone number was risky; In real time Master?

Yes, slut, in real time. Will this be a problem?

Robin and Thick Rod32 had been playing master/slave on the net for some time. He had taught her the rules. She promised obedience. He had set challenges. She performed, very much accustomed to virtual s*x by now. Suck this guy off, slut. f**k Mr. Roland. Take Long John 8 up your ass. But this wasn’t online s*x, was it? This was real s*x. No, Master, no problem. I’ll send the number.

Have a good day, slut.

You too, Master. She dared not disobey again. She scrolled to Thick Rod’s web page and typed 945645.