Chapter 1
A year after graduating from high school, I began to work as an administrative assistant at a large law firm in New York City. The job title was a euphemism for a secretary. I was 19 years old and unqualified for the job. I could barely type and with my long fingernails painted red, I didn’t see how I could learn. But my father had a friend at the firm who called in a favor and got me the job. I’ll call that lawyer Mr. Greenwald (not his real name). I recall my father telling me how much he appreciated Mr. Greenwald’s assistance.
“If not for him, you wouldn’t have this opportunity, Lisa Ann,” my father lectured me – words that carried a great deal of irony as time passed.
The firm had nearly 50 administrative assistants and most of them were female like me. The job, as described during orientation, was highly structured. There was a list with dozens of duties that could be carried out for your boss, a lawyer. That, however, wasn’t the reality. The job consisted of whatever task a lawyer needed at that moment, from making coffee to typing a 180-page legal brief without any typos. The unpredictability, I must admit, made the workday go fast. After a year rotating through various offices to learn the ropes, I was assigned to a lawyer I’ll call Mr. Schmid (not his real name.)
Mr. Schmid was 58 years old and among the elite bankruptcy attorneys in the Tri-State. I read his biography closely before reporting to his office the first day. Mr. Schmid had three administrative assistants. We worked in separate, small, windowless rooms. Mine was adjacent to Mr. Schmid’s large corner office, a proximity which surprised my colleagues, I heard later. I had little contact with the other two administrative assistants, both of whom were women in their 40s.
Despite my proximity to Mr. Schmid’s office, I rarely saw or interacted with him initially. He largely communicated through instant messages – short, innocuous assignments that could be categorized as clerical. My primary job was to monitor the status of various bankruptcy filings. After a few months passed, Mr. Schmid began to occasionally drop by my office. He was a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair and a trim, toned body. He wore expensive tailored suits, a Rolex and a wedding band. He had a deep tan that I later learned he worked on at the most expensive resort in Cancun.
If my introduction appears to have an air of inevitability – the young girl developing a crush for an older gentleman who sweeps the young maiden off her feet -- you would be mistaken. I had no interest in Mr. Schmid and vice versa, it appeared to me. Over the first two years I worked for Mr. Schmid, I gradually got to know him a bit – but nearly all of what I gleaned was surface material; cases he had worked on and attorneys he had vanquished in the courtroom. The only personal information I picked up was his love for golf, a sport which bored me. For the most part, he was a black box. I knew nothing of his wife other than she had a shock of white hair that reminded me of Cruella de Vil. He never asked me any questions about my background.
One day, I stumbled across a social media post while searching for something else. The picture was posted on the Instagram account of an exclusive private golf club in Scotland. Mr. Schmid was among a group of about 15 men. He wore a black polo shirt and khakis. Next to him was Mr. Greenwald, my father’s friend. This surprised me because I never had encountered Mr. Greenwald in the time I had worked for Mr. Schmid. Part of my job was to write Mr. Schmid’s work email and texts because he rarely used a computer. A quick search of them showed no references to Mr. Greenwald. I learned that he worked in the law firm’s satellite office on the West Side. Neither man used Facebook, X or other social media.
When Mr. Schmid dropped by my tiny office the next time, I asked him if he knew Mr. Greenwald. He looked surprised and his response struck me as slightly defensive.
“I do. Why do you ask?”
“He’s a friend of my father. He got me this job,” I replied.
Mr. Schmid didn’t answer my question. He didn’t have to. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t immediately.
“I owe him a favor then, because you’re a hard worker and very efficient, Lisa Ann. I don’t know if you have heard this through the grapevine, but Mr. Greenwald will be moving from the satellite office onto our floor in a month or so.”
I nodded. It was the first time Mr. Schmid had called me by my first name. It may sound odd, but I was pleased he did so. I didn’t crave compliments, but it was nice to hear a prestigious attorney say he appreciated my work.
I was happy when the firm assigned me to be Mr. Greenwald’s administrative assistant. My salary was doubled and the additional work was manageable. His office was at the end of the hallway and it was there intentionally, I was told later, because men liked to watch me walk in high heels, pantyhose and dresses with hems well above my knees. “Joan” was the code word on Slack when a lawyer informed his colleagues I was heading down the long hallway; Joan being the name of the character played by Christina Hendricks on “Mad Men.”
Mr. Greenwald was more social than Mr. Schmid. He often summoned me to his office and would begin by asking how my father was doing. Mr. Greenwald reminisced about how they met in college.
“He must be proud of you,” he told me.
“I hope so.”
Mr. Greenwald smiled. “I’m sure he is, with a daughter who is so smart and pretty.”
I thanked him. I didn’t see Mr. Greenwald the next day or week. I asked Mrs. Ross, the human resources director, where he was and she said he was handling an arbitration case in Europe. Shortly after he returned a month later, Mr. Greenwald asked me to stop by his office.
“Welcome back,” I said. “I heard you won the case. Congratulations.”
He thanked me and we chatted for half an hour or so. Toward the end, he stood up and walked over to where I sat.
“I hope it’s OK for me to say this. You’re having a bit of a wardrobe malfunction, Lisa Ann,” he said, pointing to my white silk blouse, one button in the middle unbuttoned, offering a glimpse of my white sheer bra.
“Oh shit, that’s embarrassing. I’m so sorry.”
As I moved to button it, Mr. Greenwald reached forward and grasped my wrist. I was surprised. My fingers were about two inches from the button that had gotten loose. His hand was large, but his touch was light around my wrist. He glanced at my gold cuff bracelet and my long pointed nails, painted white on this day.
“Let me help,” he said in a near-whisper and I said yes. Our eyes remained locked as he re-buttoned my blouse. My nipples had hardened instantly as he took control. In the matter of 30 seconds or so I realized that he potentially was a dominant male. But I obviously couldn’t be sure – small sample size. What I knew was that over the next few weeks, I developed a powerful physical attraction to him. Like Mr. Schmid, he was handsome and possessed a nice body for an older man, but there was something else about him that eluded me. I confided in a female friend and she said he sounded like a “mature man who knows how to fuck and possess a woman.” I was intrigued that she came up with that so fast. I often masturbated thinking about Mr. Greenwald in the days and weeks after he had grasped my wrist. Looking up his personnel records – which violated the law firm’s protocol -- I discovered he was 69 years old. How ironic, I thought. He sure didn’t look like he was pushing 70.
We didn’t talk about that moment again. A few months later, Mr. Greenwald sent me an instant message saying he needed to speak with me in his office. I was surprised to find Mr. Schmid sitting on the couch beside Mr. Greenwald’s desk. The three of us talked about work and office politics for more than an hour, with me mostly in the role of a good listener. Mr. Greenwald particularly was in a chatty mood. He had won a major case that had landed him a fee of more than $1 million. It was the first time he or Mr. Schmid had talked about money, which they referred to as “filthy lucre.” Once I had received a glimpse of Mr. Schmid’s wallet when he opened it to give me a business card of a new client and I estimated there were 20 or so $100 bills.
Toward the end of our discussion, Mr. Greenwald told Mr. Schmid about my wardrobe malfunction, the unbuttoned blouse that “needed my assistance to keep this young lady decent,” as Mr. Greenwald described it.
“You’re probably unaware that she has worn a white see-through bra to work,” Mr. Greenwald said to Mr. Schmid.
Mr. Schmid didn’t say anything or show any visible reaction. I sat there mortified, appalled by Mr. Greenwald’s exaggerated and somewhat explicit version of the incident. When Mr. Schmid left, I angrily asked Mr. Greenwald why he had told that story. “That was personal,” I said. He smiled and motioned for me to come over to his desk.
“Lisa Ann, it’s my decision to judge whether something is personal or not. There was no harm in Mr. Schmid knowing about that incident. He’s also your boss. You didn’t leave that button unbuttoned on purpose to show off your breasts. We know that. Mr. Schmid and I have looked for signs that you are pert, and haven’t seen it.”
He traced his index finger along my lower lip, slightly smudging my red lipstick.
“But what you just said to me was impudent, as was the scowl you displayed when I relayed that story to Mr. Schmid.”
He told me to get up on his desk. Confused, I hesitated and he picked me up at the waist and placed me on the desk so I was on my hands and knees. Lifting the hem of my skirt, he admired my pink silk panties, lowered it and spanked me. It happened so fast. Each stroke was harder than the last, until the 30 or so blows to my ass cheeks left them pink and stinging.
“Sit – if you can, Lisa Ann.” He lifted my legs and spread them wide. Removing my panties – wet from this unexpected encounter -- he stuffed them into the pocket of his suit pants and began to slowly lick my pussy until he brought me to a toe-curling orgasm.
The next day, I opened an inter-office envelope to find my pink panties and a heart-shaped candy with “Be Mine” inscribed on it.
Six months later
The text arrived five minutes after I arrived at work. I was not surprised.
<Miss Campbell, I need to speak with you urgently. Conference room 11B>
The message was from Mrs. Ross, the law firm’s human resources director. I took the stairs to the floor below. Mrs. Ross sat at the head of the table, wearing the white pantsuit that reminded me of Hillary Clinton. I took the seat to her right. Her nickname was the “Ice Lady.” I felt the chill as she asked me if I knew why I had been called for.
“No idea.”
Mrs. Ross had a large envelope in front of her. I was not surprised by that either. She removed a color picture – 11 inches by 17 inches -- and placed it in front of me. In the picture, I knelt on my right knee in front of Mr. Schmid. I wore a black sleeveless latex top, a gray latex skirt, latex stockings and black pumps with a stiletto heel. My long dark red hair was piled high in a bun. I held a cup of coffee and saucer in my right hand, my left knee appearing to brush Mr. Schmid’s right leg below the knee. Wearing a gray suit with a dark paisley tie, he sat in a chair, his eyes focused on the coffee cup I presented to him and his hands at his waist. He was wearing a lapel pin that appeared to be an American flag. I remember him reveling in how I knelt in front of him, a “model of obedience and duty at a time when both were so rare,” as he described it. Although not visible in the picture, his suit pants were tented from his erection, fueled by a tab of Viagra.
“Can you tell me about this picture?” Mrs. Ross asked.
I looked down at the image, acting like I never had seen it. “No, I cannot. I can’t speak to it.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Ross inquired.
“I don’t know who took the picture,” I replied.
“That wasn’t my question. Where was this picture taken?”
“In Mr. Schmid’s office.”
“What were you doing, Miss Campbell?”
“I was giving him a cup of coffee.” I tried hard not to grin. I was successful, for the most part.
“Why are you dressed that way?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. In those garments; what are they made of?”
“Latex.” I paused. “Is this about how I dress?”
“In part,” Mrs. Ross nodded.
“Personal style choice. I was serving coffee on a Saturday. I know latex is not subtle. I get that. But I like how it looks and I suspect men do too. It’s not a violation of the dress code. I also knew there wouldn’t be other staff members or clients in the office.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Mr. Schmid told me.”
Mrs. Ross asked why an administrative assistant would be pouring coffee.
“Just trying to be helpful.”
“You know that duty was removed from the job description of an administrative assistant five years ago. This is 2025, not 1965.”
Mrs. Ross asked if Mr. Schmid had asked me – or required me -- to wear latex clothing.
“Absolutely not. That would be wildly inappropriate.”
I had spent three hours preparing for these questions. They weren’t difficult to answer, but Mr. Schmid said he wanted to make sure I was ready. He had hired another attorney to coach me on how to answer the questions. Raising my voice as I said “absolutely not,” I had done that a dozen or so times during practice.
“There’s another attorney in this picture. His face is not visible. Who is that?”
“I don’t recall. He was a gentleman. I can’t remember his name right now. As you can see, I took coffee to him too,” I said. The image showed part of his left leg and his left hand holding a coffee cup and saucer.
Mrs. Ross turned her head to the left, in an apparent expression of disgust.
“Did this other man -- who you can’t recall – ask you or require you to wear latex clothing?”
“Absolutely not.” I nailed my outrage for a second time. “Why are you so interested in latex clothing? I don’t get it.”
“Do you think fetish wear is appropriate work attire?”
“I didn’t consider it to be work. It was a Saturday. No one else was working. There was no one else there.”
“That’s a distinction without a difference,” Mrs. Ross said.
She removed a second picture from the large envelope. I hadn’t seen this one. I looked at it and wondered if Mrs. Ross had picked up on my surprise.
In the second picture, I sat on a desk. I wore a burgundy silk blouse, the top three buttons undone and my cleavage visible; black latex leggings and black leather pumps with ankle buckles. My hair was combed out and I wore a black latex choker that resembled a BDSM collar. My mascara was elaborate – a charcoal eyeshadow, eyebrow pencil and a lipstick that was a dark shade of pink. Mr. Greenwald wore a dark blue suit with a red power tie. He stood less than 12 inches in front of me, his hands at his sides and our eyes locked. Because I was sitting in a small chair on his desk, I looked down at him slightly.
“Was this picture taken on the same day as the first one?”
“I don’t recall.”
“This is in Mr. Greenwald’s office and for the record, that is Mr. Greenwald,” Mrs. Ross said.
I suspected she was doing an audio recording.
“Yes, it is. Again, on a Saturday.”
Mrs. Ross asked why I was sitting on a chair on top of his desk. I laughed because even if I wanted to, I could not answer it. He had told me to do so.
Mrs. Ross said it sounded like Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid worked frequently on the weekends.
“You can confirm that with their swipe cards,” I told her.
“What were you talking about with Mr. Greenwald when this picture was taken?”
“I don’t remember.”
Mrs. Ross tried to ask the same question three or four different ways, but each time I said my memory had failed me.
Of course, that was a lie. That picture was taken the day Mr. Greenwald told me he would be my dominant. He had instructed me the night before to wear the outfit that would arrive the next morning at my doorstep, placing particular emphasis on the black latex choker and latex leggings of the same color. When I arrived at work that Saturday, he told me I had passed his first test. The second came shortly after the picture was taken, when I knelt in front of him at his desk and performed fellatio on him. Mr. Schmid watched that blowjob. Mr. Greenwald then told me that Mr. Schmid also would be my dominant.
Mrs. Ross interrupted my thoughts.
“I am conducting an internal investigation into these pictures. They were supplied to the management here anonymously; this envelope arrived one day in the mail. We have informed Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid that they have been placed on unpaid leave while this inquiry is conducted.”
The meeting was over, Mrs. Ross said.
“In terms of your fixation with how I dress on a weekend day, please keep in mind I’m almost 22 years old and you’re from a different generation,” I said.
“Irrelevant,” she replied and slammed the door as she exited.
My dominants and I had arranged to meet at a hotel in Brooklyn after work that day. I had noticed a guy park outside my apartment building and he appeared to be following me home. On this night, he didn’t recognize me. I’m not a mistress of disguise, but it’s amazing what a blonde wig, baggy sweatpants and a rental car can accomplish. I drove away with a duffel bag. I needed to arrive early to change into an outfit similar to the one in the second picture – a black silk blouse unbuttoned to show my cleavage (but tied at the waist to reveal my midriff) black latex leggings and high-heel pumps.
Mr. Greenwald arrived first at the hotel and explained that he and Mr. Schmid had decided to travel separately. When Mr. Schmid arrived, I poured them two glasses of bourbon and we sat in the living room suite with a stunning view of Manhattan’s skyline. I could feel their eyes on the latex that revealed every curve of my tight ass as I stood for a moment at the window, admiring the bright lights of the big city.
“So how did it go?” Mr. Schmid asked.
“It went well, Sirs. Mrs. Ross doesn’t know anything. She’s fishing,” I replied.
“That’s what we told you. Much ado about nothing,” Mr. Greenwald said.
“There was one twist, Sirs. She showed me the picture of me serving coffee and then a second picture I hadn’t seen – sitting on a desk in your office,” I said to Mr. Greenwald. “You’re standing in front of me. I’m certain it was taken the day you informed me that you and Mr. Schmid would be my dominants.”
“A memorable day, especially when you showed me and Mr. Schmid you were born to suck cock,” Mr. Greenwald said.
Mr. Greenwald glanced briefly at Mr. Schmid, who didn’t respond.
“We should have told you about that photo,” Mr. Greenwald added. “We didn’t know that someone else had it. We only knew about the one in which you are serving coffee.”
I asked how the picture was taken.
“It’s a very expensive WiFi camera in the wall – like the other one,” Mr. Greenwald said.
“Sirs, you were taking pictures of me without telling me?”
Mr. Schmid said yes. “We didn’t want you to have stage fright, baby girl,” he replied with a chuckle. He touched my hair and twirled a strand like a naughty boy. “Has anyone ever told you how photogenic you are?”
“Sirs, how did these pictures land in the hands of someone else?”
“We don’t know that. We’ve hired a private investigator to find out,” Mr. Greenwald said. “They were in a folder in Mr. Schmid’s computer titled ‘Play Time’ As you know, Lisa Ann, Mr. Schmid is not exactly computer literate. We’re pretty certain he was hacked.”
Mr. Schmid ignored the comment, lit a cigarette and picked up a yellow legal pad.
“Lisa Ann, can you list the questions Mrs. Ross asked?”
I recited them and how I answered.
“Sirs, she also said she is conducting an internal investigation into the pictures and the two of you are on unpaid leave while this inquiry is conducted.”
“We know that. We could use some vacation time,” Mr. Greenwald said with a laugh. “Lisa Ann, it’s important that we remind you of what is going on here. This is an internal investigation into possible sexual harassment. That’s a very serious matter. Secondly, as longstanding partners in the firm, we are barred from having sexual relations with fellow employees. We also are, as you know, married. But if every lawyer who has had an extramarital fuck with a woman at work got into trouble, there wouldn’t be any lawyers left. Still, it could be used against us.”
His comment was harsh. Was I just another extramarital fuck for these men? It made me wonder whether Mr. Greenwald truly valued a young submissive like me.
“I’m well aware of the seriousness of this, Sirs.”
“Lisa Ann, how did you feel when Mrs. Ross asked these questions and you saw the pictures?” Mr. Greenwald asked.
I hesitated.
“Tell the truth, Lisa Ann.”
“I felt turned on, Sirs.”
He asked why. “It’s important to know, Lisa Ann.”
“Mrs. Ross knows I’m involved with the two of you, Sirs. She can’t prove it, but she knows and if she can get some evidence she won’t hesitate to destroy us.”
Mr. Greenwald smiled.
“And that made your pussy wet?”
“Yes, Sir. Like you had instructed me, I hadn’t worn panties to work.”
“You’re such a good girl. And you deserve a treat. Would you like some milk?”
“Yes, Sirs.”
Mr. Greenwald had brought the bowl. I watched Mr. Schmid fill it with milk and set it in the kitchenette. I crawled slowly across the living room floor, so that Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid could admire my ass in the black latex leggings. It was their favorite fetish. When I finally arrived at the bowl, I tasted the milk and it was so good. Still on all fours, I felt one of them pull my leggings down. As Mr. Schmid used a riding crop to whip my ass, Mr. Greenwald fucked me from behind. “I worship every moment I share with you, Sirs,” I told them as Mr. Greenwald wiped up his cum-shots off my ass and back.
“Mr. Schmid is going to take you to a condo he owns,” Mr. Greenwald said. “We’d like you to stay there until this inquiry is over. We think you are being followed. You also should be careful what you say on your cell. In fact, you should avoid using it, period.”
The underground parking garage was nearly empty as I got into Mr. Schmid’s black four-door Mercedes with tinted windows.
“You know that Mr. Greenwald and I are going to take care of you,” he said as we headed for the expressway.
“I do, Sir. You already have done so much for me.”
“Do you have any concerns, Lisa Ann?”
“Yes, that the firm will find out; that you and Mr. Greenwald will be fired, Sir.”
“Don’t worry about that, Lisa Ann. Those things are not going to happen,” he said, his right hand caressing the side of my face. I was wearing diamond earrings he had bought me.
Mr. Schmid’s condo was an hour’s drive away. He was in a reflective mood and had a lot of questions for me on the way. He was a bit paranoid about Mr. Greenwald. They had an agreement to alternate in giving me gifts and Mr. Schmid wondered if Mr. Greenwald was cheating by buying me latex outfits.
“When I said that Mr. Greenwald and I would take care of you, are you aware that also means financial assistance?”
“No, I was not aware of that, Sir.”
Mr. Schmid explained that he and Mr. Greenwald had created a series of limited liability companies to buy me a house in the suburbs.
“Shell companies, Sir?” I asked with a sly smile.
“You could call them that. Can’t be traced to us; that’s what’s important. You’ll be able to flip this house for at least a million within a few years,” he added.
“That’s very generous of my Sirs.”
“You deserve it, Lisa Ann.”
The condo tower had a private elevator. We took it to the 60th floor without saying a word. Once inside, Mr. Schmid kissed me, opening my mouth with his tongue.
“Show me your driver’s license,” he said and I removed it from my purse. This was a ritual with him.
“Nearly 22 years old. Your youth gives us an energy we haven’t possessed for years. Do you understand that, baby doll?”
“I do, Sir.”
There was an unwritten rule that sex would include both of my dominants, but rules apparently were made to be broken. In the living room, Mr. Schmid turned my body with his right hand. He used metal handcuffs to restrain my wrists behind my back. He was strong and had no difficulty picking me up by the waist and taking me down the hall to a large bedroom. He threw me onto the bed after ripping all of the buttons off my blouse and removing it. I wasn’t wearing a bra.
“In a rough mood, Sir?”
He slapped me twice, calling me “impertinent.” I had been in this bedroom before. Mr. Schmid had a projector that displayed words and images on one of the walls. This one had the definition of “impertinent” in black letters: “adjective – intrusive or presumptuous, as persons on their actions; insolently rude; uncivil.”
“Do you understand that, bitch?”
“I do, Sir.”
He shrugged off his suit jacket and removed his tie. He wrapped the tie around my neck, as if it were a leash. As I turned my head slightly, I could see him removing his belt and unzipping his pants so he was nude from the waist down. His cock was like a spear; the hair of his chest and stomach was a dark gray flecked with white, his thick pubic hair the same. He turned me for a second time so I was lying on my stomach. I felt his erection sliding up and down between my ass cheeks, like a snake looking for prey. He was breathing heavily and I momentarily was concerned that he was having a heart attack, but then he let out a guttural sound that I recognized – a throaty sound that preceded him talking dirty to me.
I felt his hands around my neck – a first.
“Fuck, baby.” He began to grind his cock against the latex. “What would your father think if he walked into this room; an old man fucking his daughter in latex into oblivion?”
I didn’t respond. Like the hands around my neck, it was a first that he was talking about my father, who he knew would be mortified at seeing me feed Mr. Schmid’s fetish. He pulled the tie so my head snapped back and gathered my hair with his left hand.
“Answer me, bitch.”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“He’d think you were a slut.”
His hands tightened around my neck and as I began to choke, he sent several ropes of semen all over the latex of my leggings. When he was spent, Mr. Schmid collapsed on top of me and we rested there as he kissed my neck.
Mr. Schmid later undressed me, drew a warm bath and washed my body. Drying me off, he placed a waist chain around my neck, gold with a large diamond on the front. We embraced in bed before I fell into a long, blissful sleep. Waking up near dawn, I found a plastic laundry bag and placed the latex leggings stained with Mr. Schmid’s cum – and his DNA – inside the bag.
I don’t know why I did that. He had slapped me twice. That didn’t surprise me. He had done that before and the shock of it had worn off. In its place now was anticipation, a recognition that he could – and would – put me in my place if I was impertinent. That’s why I became so aroused when he began to choke me. The pain was my reward. I waited for it and hoped the night would not end without him marking me.
When he woke up, I climbed into bed and dialed my father’s number. As he said, “is that you, Lisa Ann?’” I took Mr. Schmid’s morning wood into my mouth and began to deep-throat him. The call ended 30 seconds later. Mr. Schmid shot his thick cum all over my face.
“I can’t believe you fucking did that, called your father,” he said later.
I had never seen so much semen. Then again, my 22nd birthday was two weeks away.
As Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid predicted, the internal inquiry ended a few weeks later without any finding of wrongdoing. Absent of any evidence of sexual harassment, Mrs. Ross could not reach any other conclusion. In fact, she was ordered to apologize to both men in person. Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid were removed from unpaid leave and returned to work.
That didn’t end the matter, of course. The absence of the two partners had generated rumors. Those grew louder as Mrs. Ross amended the firm’s dress code to “prohibit any fetish wear and listed latex or rubber.” Employees were amused initially – I even made sure to join the merriment -- when they received notice of the change to the employee handbook, but they also naturally wondered what had triggered this. But there were no leaks from Mrs. Ross or anyone else, given that their top priority was protecting the firm’s reputation.
Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid decided the best course for us was to lay low, however. I didn’t like the decision, but I knew it was a smart one. As I had before, I had suspicions that someone was following me. Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid had noticed two guys in a blue Crown Vic outside their residences. They wondered if a rival law firm employing retired detectives was behind it. They couldn’t risk dismissing it as paranoia.
A month later, a large envelope arrived at my residence. I felt my heartbeat quicken as I saw its size, similar to the one Mrs. Ross had during our meeting. I opened it to find a picture of Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid. They sat at a table playing cards with two other older men, one with a pack of cigarettes at his side. The room was smokey and the table was littered with wine glasses. I sat at a separate table next to them. My dark red hair hung in large curls halfway down my back. I held a glass of red wine in my right hand. I wore a black leather corset, a matching thong and black pumps with an ankle strap and a stiletto heel. My back was turned to the four men and from the angle of the photo, most of my ass was visible. A waitress stood in the background with a tray holding four glasses of wine.
I dialed Mr. Greenwald. Voice mail. The same for Mr. Schmid.
Fuck. This is a problem.
I tried not to panic. The picture had been taken two months ago at a private club in Sacramento, California. The other two men were federal judges. All four men had tied me up and taken turns fucking me in an ornate private room in the basement of the club. Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid also had ordered me to perform fellatio on the judges -- both of whom were in their mid-60s and married -- multiple times that evening. They were popping Viagra like candy and the result was my introduction to bukkake. Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid told the judges what cases they wanted fixed. No one knew that other than me. The waitress was a Vietnamese woman who glared at me as if I were a whore. I told her to fuck off. The room was silent when she was there. My obvious concern was unlike the other pictures, sex was more than intimated. Why else would I be in a thong while clothed guys played poker?
A text arrived from Mr. Greenwald. <Let’s not talk on the phone>
<Something has come up, Sir> I replied.
The three of us had developed a code. The location of our meeting depended on the emoji chosen. Yes, it was cheesy, but it was effective. Three hours later, I arrived in disguise at a small motel in rural New Jersey. Mr. Schmid and Mr. Greenwald were waiting for me.
I took the picture out of the envelope.
“Oh my God,” Mr. Schmid said. I hadn’t seen him sound knocked off center like that.
Mr. Greenwald asked me when the envelope had arrived.
I said today. “You hired a private investigator to find out who is getting access to these photos. Did he learn anything, Sirs?” I inquired.
“Not yet. He’d like to speak with you soon.”
I asked why. Mr. Schmid said the private investigator was looking into whether someone was going to blackmail him and Mr. Greenwald.
“Are you worried about that, Sirs?” I asked.
“Not really,” Mr. Schmid said. “But to be clear, you can’t tell a soul about this picture, baby doll. You know what happened here. We were bribing a federal judge and you could be an accessory.”
“What the fuck does that mean, Sir?”
Mr. Schmid slapped me, harder than the times in the past. I felt my nipples harden as I heard his harsh words.
“You’re being impertinent, Lisa Ann. Do not address your doms like that or use swear words with us – ever,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Sirs.” Mr. Greenwald glared at me and I looked down at the floor.
“It means you could be in the soup with us – then again you already are,” Mr. Schmid said.
I told him he sounded like a gangster.
“Does that turn you on?” Mr. Schmid asked, removing a handgun from the back of his jeans.
I didn’t respond. Mr. Greenwald smiled.
“Lisa Ann appears a bit high-strung today,” Mr. Greenwald said and told Mr. Schmid to put the gun away.
“You need to calm all down,” Mr. Schmid told me. I felt his hands on my hips. He stood behind me as Mr. Greenwald sat on the bed directly in front of me. Mr. Schmid caressed the latex of my gray leggings, a second skin atop my long legs and sexy ass. He lowered them slightly. “She’s not even wearing a thong,” Mr. Schmid told Mr. Greenwald.
“Yeah, I told her not to,” Mr. Greenwald said. “I’ve pretty much taken all of the bitch’s underwear from her.”
“Should we alert the sheriff there’s a slut from the city in town?” Mr. Schmid asked.
Their words excited me. I had their attention and wasn’t going to relinquish that. Was I a slut? Not more than the wives of the Wall Street titans counting their money. As for me, I was on the brink of making a million by selling a house these two men calling me a “bitch” had given me. They knew I would have fucked them for free.
Mr. Schmid kissed the back of my neck. I felt him place the black leather posture collar around my neck and lock it.
“Throwin’ away the key,” he said.
“I think we got this under control, yes?” Mr. Greenwald said.
Mr. Schmid attached the leash to the collar and handed it to Mr. Greenwald.
“Are you photographing this, Sirs?”
“Videotaping actually,” Mr. Greenwald replied. He pulled hard on the leash, forcing me onto my knees. “We’re going to make you a star.”
“So show us your talent,” Mr. Greenwald continued.
He had removed all of his clothes. I was amused, but didn’t say a word, fearing it would be interpreted as more brat behavior. He wore a gold necklace with a large dollar sign pendant; something you might see on a younger guy or a rapper. But that was not my primary focus. His erection was as hard as steel. I licked the tip of his cockhead, tasting his pre-cum. Mr. Schmid knelt behind me. He had a second leash.
“These multiple D-rings come in handy,” he told Mr. Greenwald, attaching the chain to the ring at the back of the collar.
“Do you trust us, Lisa Ann?” Mr. Greenwald asked.
“I do, Sir. And I love the fuck-sticks that both of you gentleman have.”
He reclined his head as I began to suck his cock. Mr. Schmid had lowered my gray leggings to reveal my ass and I could feel his tongue enter my back door.
“God, I love this ass,” he said before going deeper. This wasn’t the first time he had tongue-fucked me anally. He loved to eat my ass.
“You’re a hungry boy, aren’t you, Sir?” I said, momentarily taking Mr. Greenwald’s dick out of my mouth. The collar prevented me from looking back at Mr. Schmid.
“Starving,” Mr. Schmid said. “Like a dog who hasn’t eaten for a week.”
I took Mr. Greenwald’s cock back into my mouth, running my tongue along the underside. I preferred this position, kneeling in front of him as I pleasured him. I was locked onto his groin, occasionally looking up to see his reaction. From the start, he was breathing heavily. I noticed the perspiration begin to form on his chest.
He stood with his hands on his hips. I placed my left hand on his waist to help balance myself and he shifted to gently touch my hand. I alternated between sucking him and swirling my greedy tongue around his white shaft, then tonguing his mushroom-shaped cockhead. I didn’t want to give him a messy blowjob, but I couldn’t avoid some saliva. His girth combined with his length tested me. Grasping his penis with one hand, I angled so he could see his cock extend my cheeks.
When I felt Mr. Schmid pull his tongue out and begin to lubricate my ass with KY jelly, I realized I was going to be spit-roasted for the first time. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was, how fortunate to have these two experienced men pleasuring me so well. Mr. Schmid knew I was an anal virgin. He had talked several times about his intent to deflower me and he had eventually won my consent, albeit with some reluctance. He used his index finger to methodically lubricate my tight channel.
“I’m going to go in, virgin,” he said, his voice capturing his cocky demeanor. This was a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. He started with his cockhead and I felt a wave of pain up my back. “Fuck, you’re tight, Princess. I’ll go slow, so you can get your bearings.” Even so, I thought my spine was going to break in half. But as promised, he bided his time. The sensation from my tender opening became a heady mixture of pain and pleasure, as he moved inch by inch deeper into my ass. My nickname for Mr. Schmid was “jackhammer” because he fucked at one speed – fast. But now I was reconsidering. He also had a slow hand and I appreciated that.
As Mr. Schmid fucked my ass, I began to suck Mr. Greenwald faster. His musky, earth-like scent drove me wild. His left hand reached to the back of my head, signaling his need for my lips to devour him. “Oh precious, this is so good,” Mr. Greenwald said. Burning with lust, my lips tightened around his throbbing shaft and he came, filling my mouth with semen. I swallowed all of it.
Mr. Schmid reached forward to play with my nipples as he continued to pump and stretch my ass. “So tight and hot,” he said as Mr. Greenwald watched. Mr. Schmid’s skillful penetration of my anus was mostly pleasure now. I felt my back arch as he drove into me deeper and I cried out in anticipation of my orgasm. This was a new, forbidden sensation and I couldn’t get enough of it. “Keep fucking me, Sir,” I screamed as I came and he let out a deep moan. He pulled out and sprayed his cum all over my ass and lower back.
When I returned to work on Monday morning, someone knocked at the door of my office. I opened it to find Mrs. Ross.
“Miss Campbell, this is Agent Jackson from the FBI. He’d like to speak with you.”
He looked about 30 years old. He asked if we could go into the conference room so we could speak privately.
“You have the right to have an attorney present,” Agent Jackson told me.
“Let’s talk first, then I’ll decide,” I replied.