Chapter Six
In the weeks following my encounter with the trucker, I thought I’d lost Preston Lockhart. I had nothing to substantiate my suspicions, except that he ignored me completely. I’m ‘on call’, I reminded myself a hundred times, there to please Preston, not myself. That sounded like a good line—straight off the internet sites where groveling slaves served their masters, suffering in silence, if necessary, allowing the eroticism of denial and rejection to keep the fire between their thighs burning hot. Those websites were my comfort, my hope, my assurance that Preston was simply exercising his rights as my master. That consolation worked its charm for several days while I waited for more email instructions, for the Audi to pull up beside me on the street, or for another meeting in P
