Virtual Slavery Ch. 02

2

Brad

I was a fat little boy who inevitably became a big fat man. I would like to think that I possess other qualities, but I assure you that if you saw me your first thought would be 'fat.'

My parents were of normal size and shape. As was my older brother. And as, for that matter, is my son.

Because the only purpose of life that can withstand scientific inquiry seems to be to pass one's DNA to the next generation, I have passed on mine though a contractual agreement for artificial insemination with a woman who has never laid eyes on me. She seems to be a nice person and a good mother. She has married since our transaction and now teaches elementary school in Madison, Wisconsin. Each January she sends an annual report, including photographs, to one of my attorneys. David, my son, appears to be a happy normal child, who has been told his father tragically died just after his birth. I can only hope that whatever chance combination of recessive genes created me do not reappear in future generations. As a child I could feel my own parents glancing at me and wondering how this cuckoo had come to befoul their nest.

My father was a physician, an internist, and I was subject to every conceivable test and study to find a cause and cure for my obesity. Every gland and organ in my fat little body was probed and scrutinized. Many of these tests were painful, and all were humiliating. Not to mention futile. No abnormality, no correctable malfunction was ever discovered. I just was a fat kid.

To define terms, I am at age 31, 5'8", and I weigh about 350 pounds. Not enough to make the cover of the National Enquirer, but enough.

Nothing makes much difference. If I starve myself, I get down to 300; and during those intervals when I refrain from any effort at moderation, I probably approach 400. Neither of which extreme makes any qualitative change.

In DAS CAPITAL Karl Marx says that you can be the ugliest man in the world, but if you have sufficient wealth, the most beautiful women will serve you. Marx was condemning capitalism, but the very same words could be used to praise it.

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If I can relate Marx and Jean-Paul Satre-a not unreasonable association-the Frenchman wrote in his autobiography, THE WORDS, that as a child he knew he was ugly and his only hope of ever getting women would be through his intelligence and words.

As a child I reached a similar conclusion. No woman was ever going to love me for myself. No one was ever even going to have sex with me for myself. And no one ever has. If I wanted women-and I did, desperately as a child, more deliberately now-I had better become rich.

That wealth is power is a cliché. My simple definition of power is that it is the ability to make someone say yes who wants to say no. If I were to approach a beautiful stranger and ask her to suck my cock or to let me beat her until tears pour from her eyes and screams from her lips, she would react with outrage and disgust. If I offer her a thousand dollars or five thousand, she will go out and buy the whip and chains herself. And a good many have.

Freud is increasingly out of fashion as science has found chemical and genetic causes for statistically aberrant behavior. Possible reasons why I enjoy dominating women sexually, as well as besting men in business, are only too obvious. But even if they are true, I have always thought that knowing the reasons for your behavior is much overrated, except in certain limited cases that used to be called hysteria. Particularly if you have no desire to change. And I would not change places with Tom Cruise.

I mentioned other qualities. I am not ugly. My features are regular and not in themselves unattractive. I have been told, perhaps honestly, that I have nice eyes and a good sense of humor. And no one has ever doubted that I am intelligent.

I grew up in Shaker Heights, which is a suburb of Cleveland and one of the wealthiest enclaves in America. After graduating from the University of Michigan with a degree in finance, I went to Wharton for an MBA, and from there to a merchant bank in New York.

Although my coworkers would not want me to marry their sisters, they were quite willing to make use of my mind. And now that I think of it, a good many of them would now be thrilled if I married their sisters.

A man I knew at Wharton had a college roommate who was in genetic research. He had made a discovery that seemed to promise treatment for a type of diabetes. We pooled our resources, which at the time were not great. My entire capital was only $8,000, and while I could certainly have borrowed from my parents, just as certainly I did not.

We formed a corporation, worked eighteen and twenty hour days for almost a year, brought in more investors, manipulated the media, and went public. A week after the IPO, I started selling my stock, which had already doubled in value and was still rising. In another month I was out with $25,000,000. I never regretted that my partners made even more when the company was bought by a Swiss based multinational, although the diabetes research eventually proved a dead end. I had my start.

I set up my own firm as a venture capitalist.

For a while I managed other people's money as well as my own.

Although I am exceptionally-if immodestly-good at what I do; with biotech, computers and the Internet, it hasn't taken a genius to accumulate great wealth during the 90's. When my personal net worth exceeded $100,000,000, I stopped investing for others. Like my exact weight, I don't know what I am worth. The figure would vary considerably at any given moment. I am not yet one of the four hundred richest Americans, but I am close. The amount doesn't matter. For Marx I have too much; for myself I have enough. Even my father is impressed, and perhaps a little afraid of me. And beautiful women do serve.

The first image arrived in midafternoon at my Los Angeles home high up on the Palos Verdes Peninsula about ten miles south of the airport and the offices I maintain at Century City.

I happened to be there at the time and noticed the incoming Email.

The woman had a good body, but it was the very ambiguity of the image that was arousing. Her cunt was open. She had obviously just been fucked. But her face was largely hidden by one arm and her hair, and you could not tell what she was feeling or thinking: pleasure? satisfaction? fear of what might happen next? Her hips were still voluntarily up. I imagined standing behind her and watching for a reaction as she heard the sounds of my removing my belt, seeing her flinch as I let the leather trail lightly across her. She would collapse at the first hard blow, writhe about, try to escape, thrash forward to wherever her arms were secured.

I typed this into an Email and sent it as acknowledgement.

During the next few weeks a good many other images arrived, and I came to know the woman's body and the man's mind rather well.

The pictures had all been taken in the same two expensively and stylishly furnished rooms: a living room and a bedroom. In one of the living room pictures the woman's body is pressed against sliding glass doors leading to a balcony, a glimpse of a river below, but nothing to distinguish the city, though something says north rather than south, and for some reason I thought New England rather than Midwest. It was only idle speculation.

Except for a single seven shot sequence that arrived in one Email, the images were random. I assumed that the man who identified himself as her husband was going through photographs he had on hand and sending whatever happened to strike his fancy.

She is kneeling, ass on heels, blindfolded, naked but for sand colored high heels, hands handcuffed behind her back, seen from the side, one breast in profile, nipple erect.

She is sitting on a leather sofa, naked, seen from directly ahead, her arms are behind her, her knees are tied wide apart. You can see inside her cunt, which is extremely red.

She is sitting on the same sofa, blindfolded, a leather collar around her neck, chain leash draped over one shoulder. She is wearing a white dress, which has been opened and pulled down to bare her breasts, and pulled up almost to her waist, exposing her legs, which are crossed. Her hands are folded sedately in her lap

She is naked face down on a bed, legs straight, her ankles are tied together and her wrists are tied together in the small of her back.

Same bed, she is naked on her back, knees up and apart, her fingers spreading her pussy lips.

A reflection in a mirror, she squats down naked but for black high heels, her hands cuffed behind her in front of a naked well-muscled man. Her head is at his waist and presumably his cock is in her mouth.

Naked but for black high heels she stands facing the camera, her arms behind her, feet spread far apart, head thrown back, her quite lovely throat taut and vulnerable.

And a good many more; thirty-eight in all over two months.

In all the photos the woman's face is averted from the camera or has been cropped before transmission. Her very anonymity is arousing as well as her husband's exposing her to strangers without her knowledge.

The one sequential series of images was taken, as I surmised and was confirmed by the husband, after a party. it was in fact her company's Christmas Party.

They have returned home.

In the first photo she is sitting on the leather sofa, wearing a long black dress, sleeveless, modest neckline, her hands are tied behind her back, the skirt has been pulled to just above her knee, revealing dark nylons, black high heels.

In the second she is facing the camera, still wearing shoes, but now naked up to the waist where her dress is bunched, knees apart.

In the third, her dress is still at her waist and her legs bare, but now her knees are together and her ankles tied, and the top of her dress has been pushed down beneath her breasts. She is leaning slightly forward offering them. Her arms are still behind her back.

Then she is on the oriental carpet directly in front of the sofa, seen from above and behind, obviously moved by her husband, ankles tied, wrists tied, dress above waist, ass white in contrast with the dark material and rug.

Same position, viewed from the side, the fingers of one hand reach helplessly into the air.

In the final two she has been moved to the bedroom. In both she is completely naked, except for shoes and one other item, an unusual Japanese or Chinese jade and gold necklace. In reviewing the earlier images, I find that the necklace was visible in some of them, but is not as prominent as it becomes when she is wearing only it and shoes.

In one photo, she is on her side against the burgundy bedspread, ankles still tied together, knees bent.

In the last she is on her back, knees up, tied ankles in the air, cunt exposed.

Such information as I gleaned came in drips and dabs. After all this was not a major preoccupation, but a minor amusement, an interesting oddity. I sent the husband a few photos of women from various of my past sessions just to keep the contact.

In sum I gathered that the woman had agreed to be the man's slave, but had changed her mind, and she had a career that consumed almost all of her time and energy.

I knew that I was not the only one with whom the images were being shared, and I assumed that I was not the only one to whom the husband-who was known to me by the initial 'W' as I was to him as 'B'-extended the invitation to suggest specific poses the woman could be placed in.

As I found when I Emailed that I would like to see her with a cock up her ass, there were a good many limitations: she wouldn't accept pain; anal sex was unlikely; no sex with other people. Still there was a twinge of pleasure at giving orders and knowing that a woman was following them perhaps thousands of miles away without even knowing it, so I made a few suggestions: her spread eagled on the bed, legs stretched wide to the point of discomfort; if not a cock in her ass, perhaps a vibrator? And in time received images of her as requested. He liked having her follow commands from anonymous masters.

After a couple of months, it tapered off and was pretty much forgotten in the midst of more immediate concerns and pleasures.

I was certainly not thinking of her when one morning the new copy of FORBES arrived with a cover shot of five women, standing on the roof of a midtown Manhattan skyscraper. "Breaking through the Glass Ceiling" it said. The shot had been taken from above, either from a higher adjacent building or a helicopter. The women had their arms up, hands outstretched, literally, as well as figuratively, reaching for the sky. Fine, I thought. All of them were about my age, thirty give or take a few years. All were well groomed. Dressed similarly, tailored suits, blouses, sensible heels. Feminine but serious. Two or three were decent looking. And one was wearing an unusual necklace,

I turned to the story. Each woman was profiled and pictured individually. The necklace was quite clear in the closeup of Lynn Plath, 35, the first woman ever to become a full partner at Boston's prestigious Broadthroup and Brown.

Adrenaline jolted through my body. Power is exciting. I hadn't even been looking for it, and here it was. The plan formed almost instantaneously. It was like studying a chessboard and suddenly seeing the inevitable checkmate ten moves ahead.