BackDrop File & Story Archives

An anthology of short stories by Robin Roberts

by Robin Roberts

I HATE ORANGE JUICE! I always have, I think I always will. But six cans of frozen orange juice are in the freezer six pack just in case a lovely lady by the name of Sue knocks on my door and asks for a glass of vodka and orange juice. I think I will keep six fresh, unopened cans of orange juice in my freezer until the day I die. In my will there will be a clause that states that there will be a refrigerator installed right next to my grave.

I have been involved in the scene for many years. I have placed ads in all type of places, even the corner laundromat. Today has been the payment for all of those hours of hard (and hard-luck) work. For years I have run an advertisement that reads:

"I am a Master with female chattel. I understand that it is a fine golden thread that connects pleasure to pain. I know how to stretch that thread tight enough to play music with breaking it. (###) ###-####."

About two o'clock this afternoon, Sue called in answer to that ad. She had a day off from work and was calling from home, about forty miles from my place of residence. We talked on the phone for about thirty minutes. (People who know me know that a five minute call is endlessly long.) She asked me what I did for and to my slave, and what she did for and to me. Sue said she had never answered an ad before; that she was very nervous and that she did not know what to expect. She was terrified because she might be forced in to something she did not want to do.

I tried to reassure her by telling her that for our first meeting, we would meet at a very nice, quiet restaurant/cocktail lounge. We agreed on a place to meet at about seven this evening. We would have a cup of coffee, or maybe have a drink, and do nothing more than talk. I said I would buy her dinner, if she was hungry and so desired. If I was not what she was looking for, she could leave and she would not have to divulge her identity.

I have to admit, that in the back of my head, I was thinking that if she were not up to my standards, I could tell I needed to use the rest room and then duck out the back door. I shall also admit that I screen people that I talk to on the phone and I have never had to duck out of an arranged meeting.

About three o'clock she called again. "Would I tell her more?" etc., etc. I was beginning to think that I had another person who just wanted to talk on the phone. You know, all show, no go. I again explain what my advertisement meant and what I was interested in and, again. I told her that she would not be killed; she would not be kidnapped and held for ransom; I would respect her limits; etc., etc. She said she would meet me at the lounge. I asked what she was wearing. "A pink floral blouse, a plain pink miniskirt, panty hose and pumps." I was thinking to myself: either she overlooked a few items of clothing or ...

At four-fifteen, Sue called again. This time she said she didn't want to meet at the lounge. Would it be all right if she came directly to my home at about five-thirty and had a drink there. I answered in the affirmative. "What would you like drink?" "I really like vodka and orange juice." Well, I had vodka and ... well ... no orange juice. I told her: "Sure, come on over, I have vodka and orange juice". It wasn't a total lie: I live two doors from a 7-11 and they have OJ.

At four-thirty, she called again. I am beginning to think that Sue does not really exist. She is really someone working for one of my competitors and is just trying to keep my phone line tied up. In that way, my customers will call me, get a busy signal and, in desperation, call my competition. "Is it all right if I came by about five-thirty instead?". Again an affirmative answer. Upon hanging up, I take the phone off the hook (making it busy to anyone else who calls) and run a quick round trip foot race to the 7-11.

Five-thirty comes and goes. Five-forty and five-fifty come and go; as does six o'clock. I knew it. I just $%#@ knew it!! Another @#%*@# phone freak jamming up my line. Why do I do this to myself. I enter my kitchen to get a cup of tea and ... as I look out the kitchen window ... there is someone standing just outside my front door. A tall, good looking lady dressed in pink. She starts to knock, then stops: obvious indecision on her part. She looks in the window, and when she sees me, she faces the door and knocks twice. Ah ... a good sign.

I answer the door, and guide her into my living room. As a person who has made his living running a few modeling agencies, I speak with authority when I say she is quite attractive. She is very, very nervous. "Would you like something to drink?" "Do you have any Vodka and orange juice" "How fortunate, I just happen to have some of each." Oh, what tangled webs we weave! I suddenly remember a television commercial where a young man climbs down a fire escape in the rain to purchase a soft drink for a neighbor (a beautiful lady, of course) who has just rung his door bell requesting, perchance, some liquid refreshment.

She says she has never answered an ad in her life and she is afraid. I try to explain about safe words, safe sex, safe... She has been married and divorced. Both her ex-husband and current boyfriend are, in her words, "very, very boring". Totally Vanilla, with a capital "V". Slam-bam, thank you, mam. Not even oral sex, except her on them. She says that she does not want to be romanced; she wants to be forced to perform sexual acts: compelled to enjoy herself. She says she will try anything as long as she is not hurt, but definitely no gags. She may need to for something, like maybe help, right?

She says that she had often fantasized about being involved with a couple where the other girl "is told to do nasty things to me and I am forced to allow her to do it. At other times I dream that I am the slave, and I am taken to this place I don't recognize and I am forced to have sex with all of these people, both men and women." I am thinking to myself: "My girl friend won't be here for another three hours. Can I keep her occupied until then? If I get on the phone, who do I know that would be available on such short notice? Who do I ... ?? How do I ... ??"

I ask her if she would like to, maybe, dress up. After all, slaves should wear clothes that make them look like slaves. "Oh dear, whatever would I be forced to wear?" " Well, a see-through blouse, stockings, garter-belts and, of course, a collar." I can tell she is really nervous. "Perhaps a second drink?" "Oh, yes, please ...If it won't be to much trouble" (Oh, thank heaven for 7-11.) I lead her to the bedroom, where I have laid out the appropriate attire for the evening. After instructing her to what to wear, and how to wear it, I return to the living room. As I leave the bedroom and close the door behind me, I make a mental note to install a two way mirror in my the bedroom wall of my next home.

I am standing in the living room, trying to decide what to do with myself. Should I be standing, seated, or looking busy? A devilish thought: what would Ann Landers say is the proper protocol? What is taking Sue so long. Has she changed her mind, again? I know, I will be sitting here on the sofa, looking cool and natural. You know. Cool. I mean, after all. I deserve the best. A beautiful young lady knocks on my door and asks to be my love slave five or six times a week, right? RIGHT?!?

I tell her that we are going to begin by playing a fantasy game. I try to develop a mental picture that I think she may enjoy. She is a princess, the daughter of a royalty. (This is not difficult to develop the picture with standing in front of me.) Her country has been overrun by my army and navy; her family has been taken captive; their fate is in her hands. She need only to accede to five years of as my queen-slave to save their lives. (Again,easy for me. I mean after all, you need to start from some kind of story line, right?) I have her kneel at my feet, a slaves rightful place.Oh, be still my beating heart! Have I sent in the premium on my cardiac health insurance?

She is beginning to submerse herself in my fantasy. I mean, really starting to play her part. I find that I must tell her for a third time: "Don't you understand: it is Yes, Master or No, Master. Grunts and moans are not answers'". She looks at me with those beautiful brown eyes and says: "Master, I have been a bad slave and I should be severely punished". To help establish the "Me Master, you slave" role, I take her right nipple between thumb and forefinger and squeeze, ever so gently. (Would you disfigure fine alabaster marble?) She moans delightfully and moves slowly away from me. I squeeze just a little bit harder. She positions her left breast into my other hand. (How can a fellow turn down such a wonderful invitation?) She begins to move her body in a series of vertical ellipses so that her breasts are first pulled right, down, left and then up. Ah, I think with exhilaration. The Master was right again! Right there! I heard it! Now that was a definitely a moan of pleasure! It is so nice to have a little positive feedback once in a while. It is even more pleasurable to have a lot of positive feedback.

I then show her a small paddle. For the first time she is quite vocal about her desires: she does not want to play any "whip me, beat me" game. "Please Master, spank me with your hand. Please Master, not the paddle." I tell her to hold the paddle in her hands. "Please, Master, no paddles." I tell her that if she is holding it in her hands, she will know where it is and where it is not. Again those eyes turn my insides to jelly. No, not jelly: an exquisitely gift-wrapped, little jar made of high quality, cut crystal containing Smuckers Orange Marmalade!

What could I do? Oh, what ever should I do? A difficult decision for any Master. Whether to fall prey those eyes or deprive myself of their beauty, oh, what a quandary? Of Course! When you have jelly, you open a jar of peanut butter.

I quietly and gently caress her. I reassure her as I blindfold her. I gently lower her to the floor, moving her hands chained behind her head. I instruct her to kiss her Masters' hand. "No kissing! It's to romantic! Force me!" I stroke and massage her. I produce another handkerchief. (I visualize old movies in which the cowboys always had a handkerchief.) I roll it into a gag. (Did the Lone Ranger ... ??)I instruct her take an end in each of her hands and hold it across her mouth. (What about Dale Evans??) And then, well, she deserved a reward for, well, you know, being such an excellent slave.

Then it happened. Right after she orgasmed, she stated quite clearly that she had to get dressed. Now. She wished to be relieved of her chains. Now! She said she had to leave. NOW!! I tried to talk to her and find out if she was all right. She said that she was ok, but really wanted to leave. She stood at my front door and told me that she really enjoyed herself, and that fact really frightened her. She wanted to go home, think about what had transpired, and that she would probably call me again in a few days.

Like I said. I plan to maintain a supply orange juice in my freezer. Oh, and Sue, if by some chance you should happen to read this story and decide to return to my home; I promise I will learn to like orange juice, even the fresh squeezed kind with the funny little white seeds and pulp and ...

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