Delhi Call Center Girl
On one side of that monstrosity stood the matching bookshelf with all of the appropriate American history volumes and autobiographies crammed onto the shelves. Above that was the obligatory framed American flag. On the opposite wall were various degrees, achievements and certificates perfectly hung in wooden frames that matched the rest of the furniture. And of course on the wall directly behind the man were about a dozen framed pictures of Homeland Security's Deputy Under-Secretary for Analysis Henry Atwood shaking hands with the President, the Homeland Director, foreign dignitaries, world leaders and any other VIP that was worthy of a photo op. "Have a seat, Jules," Atwood instructed as he hunted and pecked on a keyboard that sat off to the side. She sat down as instructed in one of the much more comfortable leather chairs facing Under-Secretary Atwood's desk. She took a deep, steadying breath and fought the urge to throw up in his trashcan. She mentally made a note that tequila. She stumbled and fell to the ground, the cape covering her.I ... I'm still so ... weak, so powerless.She sobbed again.After a minute, she forced her breathing to quiet and be still. She pushed up with her arms and sat back on her haunches. She looked around. Her dress wasn't there. Nor were her other clothes, or the slut. The note lay next to her. She still didn't want to read it, but some compulsion in her wouldn't let her leave it alone. She reached over and picked it up. Standing up, she turned the paper over to read it."I could've cuffed your other hand."She felt cold fear spike through her gut, but it melted in the hot lava rushing up from her pussy. It remembered what it felt like last night to lose control, be compliant, submit. To be soft.Ooooh ... A slave. Owned, cuffed, vulnerable... I'd be lying on the table when they found me. One of the cleaning slaves would eventually walk in and see me lying there. She'd think I was just a slave. I wouldn't be allowed in the private.
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