Chapter 2
My two mature dominants referred to it as “down time.” Once a month or so, they would go out of town and recharge their batteries. Mr. Schmid’s favorite spot was an exclusive resort in Cancun, where we decamped to avoid the biting cold of a New York City snowstorm.
“So where do you like to go, Sir?” I asked Mr. Greenwald.
“French Alps. Love skiing. How about you, Lisa Ann?”
“Never done it, Sir.”
“I’d like to teach you,” he replied. “And I’d love to see you in stretch poplin, that hot ass of yours heading downhill.”
I had no idea what poplin was, but I didn’t want to admit it. At that moment, I was in a barely-there white string bikini that Mr. Greenwald had given me as a gift for the trip. Mr. Greenwald and I were in a private courtyard off of our suite at the resort. Mr. Schmid was not there at the moment. He had a bad habit, Mr. Greenwald said with a smile, of working part-time on these trips. He was playing golf with a prospect who potentially could shower the law firm with seven-figure fees. “More filthy lucre for the two of you, Sir?” I asked.
“Mixing business with pleasure, which means we’re alone for the afternoon,” Mr. Greenwald said, a glint in his eyes which had become familiar to me.
He began by untying my bikini top and taking it off.
“Sir, what if…” I began to ask about our privacy.
He interrupted me. “Do you see any windows, Princess?”
I looked up. The courtyard was bounded by four walls of natural stone – no windows.
“Sir, what about some horny teenager flying a drone over this space?” I asked.
Mr. Greenwald chuckled. Two tugs on the string and my bikini bottom was off. He asked for my bracelet, necklace, anklet, two rings and navel ring – all gold and expensive gifts from him and Mr. Schmid.
“No tan lines, Lisa Ann; not even on your wrist or belly button. We reserved this space for an all-over tan for you. Are you ready to be pampered, honey?”
It was my turn to laugh. I handed him the jewelry. “I do need luxe, Sir.”
“We won’t be out here long. I don’t want you to burn.” He removed a large bottle of suntan lotion from his bag and began to apply it liberally to my breasts and stomach. We both knew where this was leading. Although our natural state was a menage a trois with me as a submissive to the two older men, Mr. Schmid’s absence was an opportunity. Mr. Greenwald and I increasingly craved intimacy. It did not surprise me that he wanted to pamper me. I didn’t doubt that Mr. Schmid shared this desire.
Mr. Greenwald and I were lying on a chaise longue for two. After making sure the suntan lotion covered my entire body, Mr. Greenwald kissed me. I reached down and removed his swim trunks.
“All-over tan for you too, Sir” I whispered in his ear. I loved his warm smile and his growing erection. His body already was a light brown from previous trips to warmer climates. I wondered whether other women shared those moments, but quickly put that thought away.
We made out. I had just turned 22 years old and the kissing reminded me of high school days, steaming up cars out by the reservoir and graduating from hand-jobs to blowjobs. But this was different, very different. This man with me was 69 years old and everything he did spoke to his experience. He wasn’t a desperate, inexperienced boy. Decades of experience meant he knew instinctively how to turn a woman on.
He kissed my large breasts and suckled on my hard nipples. Desire always made my tits feel heavy and I basked in Mr. Greenwald’s attention. I slowly ran my fingers through his short gray hair, expertly cut the previous night by a barber at the resort. I loved the feel. He was a handsome man and he was well aware of how his looks affected women. He didn’t discuss this in front of Mr. Schmid. It was in moments like this, when we were alone, that he shared his thoughts.
“My attraction to you is deepening, Lisa Ann and I want you to know how fortunate I feel,” he said.
“Do you ever wonder why I’m attracted to you, Sir, or is it obvious?”
He had resumed sucking my right breast. Now, he licked around the nipple, pausing to answer my question.
“I’d like to hear you explain it,” he offered with a smile.
I glanced down at his hard cock, the head showing the first signs of pre-cum.
“I thought you were handsome when I first saw you, Sir.”
He asked if this was when he moved onto our floor at the law firm from the satellite office on the West Side.
“No, Sir. I actually came across a picture of you on Instagram. You were with Mr. Schmid at a golf course in Scotland.”
“Oh yes, one of our favorite haunts.”
“And then, when I was around you, I became attracted to your body; even in a suit, it was obvious you had a great one, Sir.”
Mr. Greenwald smiled. He asked if I considered making a move on him.
“No, I was reluctant to do so, Sir.”
“Because you were a submissive?”
“I began to realize I was, Sir. I did touch myself when I thought about you,” I added.
“Tell me more.”
“When I went to bed, I would think about you – and that would turn me on, Sir. I’d slip off my bra and panties.”
“Do you usually sleep in your underwear?” he asked.
“I do, Sir.”
“Do you masturbate often, Lisa Ann?”
“I did before I became the submissive of you and Mr. Schmid, Sir.”
“But not now?” he asked.
“No, there’s no need to, Sir – you and Mr. Schmid are all I need.”
Mr. Greenwald smiled and paused for a moment. He stood up and said he’d be back in a few minutes. He returned with a small video camera.
“I want to watch you touch yourself, Lisa Ann.”
“And videotape it, Sir?”
Like the glint in his eyes that often presaged sex, I was familiar with Mr. Greenwald’s look of determination – the flash of an alpha who knew how to bend a woman to his will.
“Yes, baby-girl, and the only person with a copy will be Mr. Schmid.”
“Do you have a toy for me, Sir?”
He asked what I had in mind.
“Something glass, but you choose, Sir.”
He set the video camera down and returned to our suite. It didn’t take long for him to choose the glass dildo he had bought for me for this trip. As he returned, I thanked him. He made sure the camera was working properly, checking the battery level.
Mr. Schmid on multiple occasions had watched me perform fellatio on Mr. Greenwald. Voyeurism was a strong fetish for him, Mr. Schmid had confided in me. It wasn’t an acknowledgment that Mr. Greenwald was the alpha male; far from it. Mr. Schmid had said he wanted to watch me suck cock to learn more about me, “how you tick, where your skill level is,” he explained. Now, Mr. Greenwald was an observer for the first time. Yes, it was apples and oranges. He wasn’t watching me with Mr. Schmid, but he was relegated to being an observer – albeit his choice.
But I held cards and I decided to play them.
I took the dildo into my mouth and slowly sucked it. Because it was a small video camera, I could see part of Mr. Greenwald’s face. I noticed the red light that showed he was taping. The suntan lotion and my perspiration had lubricated me, but I wanted the glass to be wet. The dildo had ridges that intensified the pleasure. After using the lubricant Mr. Greenwald had given me, I slipped it into my ass as my right hand moved to my pussy. I arched my left leg for support on the chaise longue, with my right leg spread on the cushion. My pussy was so wet. I used two, then three fingers to slowly move in circles toward my clitoris as my left hand slid the dildo up and down, my ass clenching around the glass shaft.
I knew I could come solely from the dildo. When Mr. Schmid took my anal virginity, I had felt that pleasure and wanted more of it. Although I didn’t stop touching my pussy, I did begin to sigh as I gradually increased the speed of the dildo’s thrusts in my back door.
“Oh fuck, Sir.”
He was a model cameraman, not moving an inch. Even when my sighs turned to deep moans, and I climaxed over my ass-fucking, Mr. Greenwald didn’t budge.
“More, more, more, Sir,” I sang into the camera as I slipped the glass dildo out of my ass and placed it next to me on the couch.
Mr. Greenwald kissed my forehead. “You’re very special, Lisa Ann.”
Our eyes met and we didn’t say a word. Mr. Greenwald and I did this often. I felt a stillness and reached down to feel his erection.
“Sir, when did you realize I was a submissive?” I asked, finally breaking the silence. I reluctantly released my grip on his cock.
“When I spanked you on my desk.”
“Really, Sir? Not when you re-buttoned my blouse after grasping my wrist?”
“No, you looked more shocked than anything else. When I spanked you and then licked your pussy for the first time, I knew you had given me the key to your heart.”
“That’s very sweet, Sir.” I kissed him playfully. “I did give you my key.”
“I feel very protective of you, Lisa Ann.”
I asked him why.
“I’ve known your father for quite some time. He’s told me a lot about you; about your childhood and personality. When your mother died, I was there to support him.”
I thanked him for being so thoughtful.
I shifted on the chaise longue so that I was sideways with him. We kissed more; long passionate kisses that took me to the edge. His hands caressed my ass, the suntan lotion mixing with my perspiration. I moved down his body, exultant that I was inches from his big cock. As I took his dick into my mouth and began to suck his cockhead, Mr. Greenwald reached down and gently raised my head.
“We’ve been out here long enough Lisa Ann; remember, I don’t want you to burn. I want you to return to New York City tanned and brown all over.”
Mr. Greenwald told me to stand. He then picked me up. His strength impressed me and I kissed him. Our suite connected to the courtyard. As we entered it, we headed for the large bathroom and took a long shower; my dominant washing my body and shampooing my hair. After drying me off, he dressed me in a black spandex bodycon dress and black pumps with a high heel.
“We’re having dinner with Mr. Schmid. He’s waiting for us.”
I applied my mascara, in a way that Mr. Schmid liked – a winged eyeliner in Electra blue with a matching lipstick hue. Anything for my other dominant, I told myself.
“You look like you had a pleasant afternoon,” Mr. Schmid said to me as Mr. Greenwald and I arrived at the table in the resort’s main restaurant. His gaze paused over my short hem.
“I did, Sir. Very relaxing and got some sun – but not too much thanks to my other Sir,” I added, referring to Mr. Greenwald.
I asked how his business meeting went.
“Better than my golf game, that’s for sure,” he said. “That dress is eye-catching, as well as your mascara, Lisa Ann.”
“I have you to thank for that, Sir.”
As the five-day vacation approached, Mr. Schmid had come to my apartment and packed for me. He said he couldn’t stay long, which was disappointing. Opening the suitcase after he left, I found a limited wardrobe: lingerie, bikinis, bodycon dresses and high heel pumps and boots. There also was a gold box with jewelry and mascara. I texted him.
<Thank you, Sir. You have great taste, as always>
I waited for his response, but it didn’t come immediately.
As with Mr. Greenwald, I had a close relationship with Mr. Schmid. But it was different from the one I shared with Mr. Greenwald. I had begun to see a thread of romance in my private moments with Mr. Greenwald, but Mr. Schmid was a consistent reminder of the role of discipline and obedience. We actually had listened to a podcast in which a female sub – in the presence of her “alleged” male dom – had said discipline was off the table in their relationship.
“Isn’t that interesting, Lisa Ann? She’s topping from the bottom.”
I asked him what that meant.
“There has to be the threat of discipline to ensure a sub obeys rules. Do you agree, Lisa Ann?”
“I do, Sir.”
Now, as we ate a sumptuous dinner at the resort, I felt a wave of anxiety crash over me. I needed to tell my dominants something difficult and had no idea how they would react. We returned to our suite; pouring glasses of wine for them, I said I needed to tell them something – and that I should have done so earlier.
“Sirs, last week, an FBI agent came to the firm and he wanted to talk to me.”
Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid were impassive. Mr. Greenwald asked what happened.
“Mrs. Ross, the HR leader, introduced me to the agent, Sirs,” I said, placing his card on the coffee table. “He asked if we could go into the conference room so we could speak privately. He said I had the right to have an attorney present. I said we could talk and then I’d decide.”
“That was smart,” Mr. Schmid said.
“He asked me if I was present when the two of you met the judges in Sacramento. He had the picture of us. I told him I needed to have an attorney present and I ended the meeting, Sirs.”
Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid didn’t react in any way. It was obvious they were processing the information. Mr. Schmid asked why I hadn’t told them earlier. “I was scared, Sirs,” I replied.
“You shouldn’t be afraid to tell us anything, Lisa Ann,” Mr. Greenwald replied. “The first step is that we will get you a lawyer – the best one we can find.”
The picture had shown Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid 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 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.
Mr. Schmid asked if I still had the picture. I said I did.
“Did you take that picture, Sirs?”
“No, we did not,” Mr. Schmid replied. “We’re not in the habit of documenting us committing a crime. We discussed this previously, Lisa Ann. We were bribing two federal judges to fix bankruptcy cases in our favor – and you were the bribe.”
I was well aware. The four men had bound me and took turns fucking me in the basement of the club. Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid also had told me to perform fellatio on the judges -- both of whom were in their mid-60s and married -- multiple times that evening. Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid told the judges what cases they wanted fixed.
Mr. Greenwald grimaced. ‘We’ll need that picture. I hope you have it in a safe place.”
I assured them that I did.
“But whomever sent it to you also has a copy,” Mr. Greenwald said.
“It’s interesting the FBI approached you before dropping in on us,” Mr. Schmid said to me.
Mr. Greenwald waved his hand, a gesture informing Mr. Schmid that the conversation needed to end.
“We trust you, Lisa Ann,” Mr. Greenwald said, his expression determined. “Just a reminder; say nothing to anyone. I doubt that the FBI would share this with Ms. Ross or anyone else at the firm. Mr. Schmid and I will handle this. You have no reason to worry. But we do need to return to New York a few days earlier than planned. You’ll be hearing from the attorney soon.”
The three of us spent the next three days relaxing. We used the private courtyard to get some sun, with both Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid monitoring the progress of my tan. They also showed me off at the pool in a series of pink bikinis, which Mr. Schmid referred to as “Barbie swimsuits.” I responded by getting some blonde highlights in my dark red hair at the beauty parlor inside the resort. That night, my dominants introduced me to rope bondage, which fascinated me with its slow burn.
That Saturday night, we caught a flight back to NYC. I didn’t sense they were angry at me for failing to promptly inform them about the visit from the FBI. I did feel guilty about it and the topic didn’t come up again, but I was genuinely afraid. If I was the only person other than the four who had witnessed the bribery, would the feds pressure me to testify? There also was something else I had not told Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid. I had used cocaine with one of the federal judges, snorting a line off his big white cock.
The anxiety of my dominants was palpable on the flight home. We chatted, but they were more reserved than usual. I already missed the heat and stunning blue skies of Cancun.
A few hours after our flight landed, I received a call at home from an attorney. I’ll call him Mr. Redstone (not his real name). He said he would drop by my apartment later that evening. When he arrived, I learned the reason for the visit. He said he didn’t want to talk on the phone. He asked me to put on some music and we stood in the kitchen. He turned on the water in the sink and explained we would communicate by encrypted text. Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid would do the same.
Mr. Redstone looked about 30 years old. Tall, slightly overweight and balding, he had pasty white skin; not my type of guy. LOL. He said the FBI wanted to interview me, but he was using every tactic he knew to delay that. The interview would happen, he said, but it likely wouldn’t be for several months. The feds would have to show their cards, to reveal some of what they knew to get a subpoena, Mr. Redstone said.
“We’ll meet soon – in a remote place so we can discuss the case,” he said as he left.
I returned to work on Monday. Mr. Schmid asked me to drop by his office around lunch time.
“I heard your attorney met with you,” he said to me, turning away from his computer which he used only to read drafts of legal briefs. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
“I am, Sir. Mr. Redstone strikes me as very aggressive.”
“That’s why we chose him.”
I asked him if it was OK for us to talk about this in the office.
“Of course it is, Lisa Ann. There’s no reason for us to be afraid of our shadows. This isn’t going anywhere for several reasons. Mr. Greenwald and I aren’t going to talk. The federal judges aren’t going to talk. And you’re not going to talk. So that’s the end of it. There’s a picture. We’re guilty of playing poker and you’re guilty of showing off your ass and drinking red wine.”
I smiled. Mr. Schmid’s logic appeared sound to me.
“Lisa Ann, I’m interested in speaking with your father. Could you give me his cell number?”
I asked why he wanted to talk to him.
“I’ve heard so much about him from Mr. Greenwald. We’ve discussed an opportunity for you at the firm and I’d like to discuss it with your father,” he said.
“Sir, you wouldn’t tell him about us, would you?”
Mr. Schmid laughed. “Walk me through why I’d do that.”
I didn’t have an answer. I’m not sure why I had asked the question. But there was something about his manner that seemed slightly menacing.
“You wouldn’t, Sir. I apologize.”
“Apology accepted.”
I told him I’d arrange a call for him with my father. I asked when he was available. He said later that evening.
“I have one more request. I have an acquaintance who is interested in meeting you. I know we just returned from Mexico, but would you be available for some travel?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So my acquaintance owns a business in Philadelphia. He is having a bit of a financial crisis and could use a smart, hard-working young woman to assist him,” he said.
I asked him how long that would be. He said he didn’t know. I had other questions, but decided not to pursue them.
“My acquaintance’s name is Mr. Rothschild. He has arranged for you to travel to Philadelphia by train and also has agreed to let you stay in his mansion. He’s a widower.”
Mr. Schmid was adept at concealing his emotions. But I could sense all of this was very entertaining to him. Mr. Schmid said he and Mr. Greenwald had shared with Mr. Rothschild that I had a penchant for wearing latex clothing. I didn’t react, but I naturally wondered why they had told Mr. Rothschild about that. I didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
“Mr. Rothschild would like you to travel to Philadelphia in latex. If this is acceptable to you, he has given me the latitude to choose your outfit. He’s aware, of course, that I frequently dress you, most recently in Mexico,” he said.
“I’ve never done that before, Sir.”
“Done what, Lisa Ann?”
“Dressed in latex in public, Sir.”
“Do you have an issue with that?”
I was attuned to the signs of his anger, a certain flushing of his face. But I didn’t see that and there wasn’t the edge in Mr. Schmid’s voice when he was irritated. Nonetheless, I began to stammer.
“Sir, it’s just, I… will this, you know, bring unwanted attention to me, especially with the FBI snooping around?”
Mr. Schmid shook his head to say no. “As you might wonder, Mr. Schmid and I have discussed this. We think it’s best that you come out into the open. This is not related to the request from Mr. Rothschild. Mr. Greenwald and I have been discussing this for some time. You can’t stay in the shadows. But Mr. Rothschild’s request was timely. Is this a problem for you, Lisa Ann?”
“No, it is not, Sir.”
He asked if I had any questions.
“Sir, how should I address Mr. Rothschild?”
“As Mr. Rothschild. Are you wondering if he will be your dominant?”
“I am, Sir.”
“Mr. Greenwald and I have given him that option. It’s unclear whether he will exercise it. I think he sees this as somewhat of a taster,” Mr. Schmid said. “Your train leaves at 9 a.m. tomorrow. I have packed your suitcase and will show you what you will wear on the train. I’ll drop by at 7 and then drive you to the train station.”
I didn’t understand what Mr. Greenwald meant by giving Mr. Rothschild an “option.” I would find out, but not immediately.
That evening, my father called me.
“I think you butt dialed me recently,” he said.
I held my breath. He had referred to the call I had made from Mr. Schmid’s condo. I had done so after Mr. Schmid had asked me what my father would have thought if he knew “an old man was fucking his daughter in latex into oblivion.”
As my father had said, “is that you, Lisa Ann,” I had deep-throated Mr. Schmid’s cock until he sent his cum-shot all over my face.
“Did you hear anything, Dad?”
“No, not a thing. I hung up after a few seconds.”
I exhaled.
“Mr. Greenwald’s law partner, Mr. Schmid, just called me. He said you had given him my number.”
“I did. He’s my boss, along with Mr. Greenwald.”
I felt my anxiety return.
My father asked me if I liked Mr. Schmid.
“I do. He’s very professional. A bit bossy, though.” (I do have a sense of humor.)
“That’s great. He said he and Mr. Greenwald had an opportunity for you and said it was OK for me to share that with you. They’d like to pay for your education so you could become a paralegal. That way, you can find out if you want to go to law school,” he said.
“That’s interesting. I hadn’t thought about that,” I replied.
My father asked if I would be interested.
I said I would be. As my father talked, I tried to process Mr. Schmid’s approach. What had begun as BDSM growing out of the workplace had escalated rapidly. There had been a monetary offer from Mr. Schmid – the offer of the suburban house that I could flip “for at least a few million within a few years.” (That transaction had not occurred yet, and Mr. Greenwald had told me the proceeds from any sale would be placed in a trust fund for me that I could tap several years later.) But Mr. Schmid telling my father about paying for my paralegal training was different. These two men were becoming intertwined with my family and my future. I wondered if my father had any suspicions. He once had warned me about “sugar daddies,” the leverage that wealthy men had over “pretty girls.” Naturally, he would be appalled to know that this leverage wielded by Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid was at the heart of my sexual desires. That, of course, was my secret to keep.
When the call ended, I texted Mr. Greenwald.
<Can you come over, Sir?>
<Solo?> he replied.
<Yes. Sir. I need to be fucked>
It took him ten minutes to get there. I told him about the phone call from my father and Mr. Schmid’s machinations. Mr. Greenwald fucked me three times, the last time in the morning as the big orange sun gradually warmed our bodies. I couldn’t believe his staying power. I dreamed about being his bride, being led on a silver leash to the altar.
He was gone four hours later as I handed Mr. Schmid the cup of coffee after adding cream.
“Get undressed,” he told me.
When I was nude, he began to apply the talc to my body.
“You browned well in Mexico, Lisa Ann.”
“I did, Sir. I hope you like it.”
“Oh, I do. Especially since it’s an all-over tan. I heard Mr. Greenwald insisted.”
“He did, Sir.” I began to wonder where this discussion was going, but Mr. Schmid didn’t add anything.
When he was finished with the talc, Mr. Schmid removed the outfit from the garment bag that he had chosen for me.
“I was very intentional about what I picked, Lisa Ann.”
“You always are, Sir.”
He began with my favorite panty -- pink silk with a white lace trim and a matching bra. I soon became aroused. I stepped into the panty and his hands slowly guided them up my long legs; his light touch placing them perfectly. His hands were exceedingly proper as he placed the bra straps on my shoulders and hooked the back. I wanted him to cup my breasts, to feel their fullness and knead my hard points. I also didn’t want to interrupt him casting his usual spell over me. I hungered for him in ways I never had shared in detail. If Mr. Greenwald showed hints of becoming my Daddy Dom, then Mr. Schmid was emerging as my controlling Male with a capital M – a heady stew of dominance, confidence, assertiveness and absolute enjoyment of being in control.
He proceeded with my black latex leggings, the black latex skirt with a hem a few inches above my knees, the wide black belt, the white silk blouse with a black bowtie collar, the short black latex gloves and the round black earrings. The black leather trench coat was long, ending a few inches below my knees. The final touch was the black patent leather pumps, with a five-inch stiletto heel.
Mr. Schmid stood back to admire his handiwork.
“God, you look great, Lisa Ann. You’re so beautiful.”
“Thank you, Sir. And thank you for this outfit.”
“Take a look in the mirror.”
We walked to my bedroom. I was pleased by what I saw in the mirror. The outfit was classy and the trench coat gave me sufficient cover if I didn’t want to display my outfit. Mr. Schmid had instructed me to wear my dark red hair up in a bun. He kissed the back of my neck, then withdrew.
“Oh, Sir. Do you want more? I’d love to suck your cock.”
“No, Lisa Ann. You’ll be late to your train.” We walked to the door, where he showed me my suitcase that I could roll. He carried my garment bag to the car and drove me to Penn Station. He knew I desperately wanted him. I caught myself crossing and re-crossing my legs, my hot pussy sensitive to the friction. I also knew Mr. Schmid wanted me to be obedient, to remain within myself. What he wanted trumped any desire I possessed.
A nice kiss on the lips as a farewell, and then I descended the escalator to the platform. It was all a blur; where I was heading and why, what would await me when I arrived in Philadelphia, and what – if anything – Mr. Greenwald’s absence at my departure meant. I hadn’t even had the opportunity to discuss my assignment as Mr. Rothschild’s “Gal Friday” with Mr. Greenwald, the equal to Mr. Schmid.
The passenger car that I chose was largely empty. After all, it was a Saturday morning. It appeared that the sole businessman I would see would be the one waiting for me in the concourse in Philadelphia. I picked up the novel I had brought, “The Yellow Room”. The time seemed to fly.
There were several dozen people waiting in the concourse for arriving passengers. As the escalator had ascended, I had unbuttoned the trench coat to reveal my outfit, knowing that would please Mr. Rothschild. I didn’t know what he looked like, but Mr. Schmid had tipped him off on what I would be wearing and that my hair would be up in a bun. He smiled as he approached me, and offered to take my garment bag.
“I’m Bertram Rothschild.” He shook my right hand and took my bag.
“Lisa Ann Campbell, pleased to meet you.”
Unlike Mr. Greenwald, Mr. Rothschild looked his age, which I later learned was 69. He was six feet tall (in my stiletto heels, I was as tall as him). His short hair was white and he was rail-thin. I estimated his weight at 160 pounds. He struck me as a handsome old man, but perhaps lacking the charisma of my two mature dominants. It was a first impression and ultimately, a wrong one.
He had a driver waiting for us who placed my luggage in the trunk. Mr. Rothschild asked me about the train trip and I replied that it was uneventful. I didn’t want to tell him about the novel I was reading (delicious Victoria erotica with wonderful spanking scenes), so I told a little white lie about enjoying the scenery. He said we’d head for his residence (he never called it a mansion) so I could “settle in.”
Mr. Rothschild’s mansion was set in a wooded area along Philadelphia’s Main Line. Arriving at the front door, the driver was met by three servants – one who drove the four-door black Mercedes to the garage behind the massive house; another to take my suitcase and garment bag from the trunk and another to open the door for me and Mr. Rothschild. The latter servant – whom I call Bert (not his real name) – ushered me up the grand staircase to my bedroom on the second floor. A dozen or so servants worked at the mansion and I anticipated that I would be a source of curiosity to them.
The following morning, I felt their stares as I descended the staircase and found Mr. Rothschild at the dining room table.
“I trust you slept well,” he said, and I nodded yes. He asked if I wanted to join him for breakfast and I thanked him.
Like my two mature dominants, Mr. Rothschild was not one for small talk.
“You’re probably wondering why you are here,” he said.
“Mr. Schmid said you were having a bit of a financial crisis and could use someone to assist you,” I said.
“That is true. He told me I could trust you.”
“You can. How can I assist you?”
Mr. Rothschild said we could discuss that later. I was not surprised that he had his own timetable.
“May I ask how you met Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid?”
“You may. My father knew Mr. Greenwald and got me the job as an administrative assistant at the law firm, initially working for Mr. Schmid and later for both of them.”
“I’ve known Mr. Schmid for several years. I don’t think there’s a better, or tougher, lawyer out there. He’s got me out of a series of jams over the years. I don’t know Mr. Greenwald, but Mr. Schmid speaks highly of them. What did you think when Mr. Schmid said I wanted to meet you?”
I paused. “I wanted to know why.”
Mr. Rothschild re-filled my cup of coffee.
“Lisa Ann, I’m going to be very transparent with you. I was intrigued when Mr. Schmid told me you were his submissive and that he shared his dominance with Mr. Greenwald. I’m interested in how this happened.”
“I’m intrigued by your moxie,” I replied.
“I know it’s personal. It’s your choice, obviously.” I watched as Mr. Rothschild moved his hands into a steeple position. I could almost hear the gears churning in his head.
“I didn’t know I was a sub until I met them.”
Mr. Rothschild asked about my first impressions of them.
“Very smart. In control. Self-confident. Masculine.”
“Tell me about the masculinity part,” said Mr. Rothschild. “We live in a time of concerns about ‘toxic masculinity,’ young men angry about their lot in life, right-wing bros, women rightfully concerned about reproductive rights. I know Mr. Schmid and Mr. Greenwald aren’t young men, but are they somehow male outliers?”
“That I don’t know, and I don’t know anything about their politics. I just know that they know what they want and how to get it – and that strikes me as very masculine. But that’s my opinion,” I said.
Mr. Rothschild said he had heard I was having some “legal issues.”
I couldn’t conceal my surprise.
“Don’t worry, Lisa Ann. It’s confidential. I’m not sharing this with anyone.”
I asked him what he knew.
“Everything, ending with the FBI wanting to interview you.”
“Why would Mr. Greenwald and Mr. Schmid tell you that?”
“I can’t go into that right now. It’s not the right time.”
Mr. Rothschild changed the subject.
“Can I share my reaction when you walked off that train yesterday?”
“Of course.”
“I literally couldn’t breathe. Did you notice?”
“No, I did not.”
“I have a latex fetish and you were feeding it in a way I have only dreamed of.”
It was my turn to smile.
“How did you begin to wear latex?” he asked.
“Mr. Schmid and Mr. Greenwald required me to do so. I started by wearing it at work on Saturday when no one else was around but us. And it went from there. Yesterday was the first day I had worn latex in public. Mr. Schmid told me you wanted that.”
“You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Lisa Ann?”
“If bad means being good, yes,” I replied with a smile.
Six months later
It was one of those summer days you live for. Mr. Rothschild and I went to a farmer’s market downtown. I wore a pair of mauve latex leggings, a white collared silk blouse unbuttoned enough to display my cleavage and high heels that the servants (Mr. Rothschild told me later) called my “come fuck-me pumps. Little did they know that Mr. Rothschild never had made love to me. My long, dark red hair was piled high in a bun. We did get stares, of course, as we strolled through the market, holding hands. I wore short black latex gloves and a wide black leather belt that Mr. Rothschild called my “Elvis belt.” He was dressed in his usual weekend outfit all in blue – a button-down shirt, sweater and shorts.
I had spent the past six months unravelling the finances of one of Mr. Rothschild’s companies that exported industrial rubber goods (how ironic!) to South America. When I wasn’t there, I was taking my paralegal classes and studying. Mr. Rothschild’s interest in me was purely voyeuristic. He loved to watch me get dressed in latex and undressed. I always wore latex to social occasions with him and returning to the mansion, he would watch me as I masturbated in bed. It did not surprise me when Mr. Rothschild confided that he wanted to be cucked. He chose a young man who worked for him. Mr. Rothschild would sit in a chair a few feet away as I sucked this guy’s cock (I loved it too.)
Mr. Rothschild and I became close friends, but I never became his submissive, although I certainly was willing. He said that being a dominant didn’t come naturally to him and he didn’t want to force it. I told him that I appreciated his thoughtfulness. He asked me not to tell Mr. Schmid and Mr. Greenwald and I readily agreed, saying our friendship was strictly private.
It happened so quickly. As we approached the end of the farmer’s market, I noticed that Mr. Rothschild was unusually pale and a second later, he collapsed onto the pavement. I knelt over him and some people stopped, one of them calling 911. It did not take long for the ambulance to arrive. One of the paramedics asked if I was his daughter and I said I was a friend. I rode in the ambulance to the hospital, but he never regained consciousness.
I don’t recall much of the rest of that day. I returned to the mansion, where the servants were in the first stage of grief. The suddenness of his fatal heart attack shocked us.
“Sixty-nine is a young age to pass,” I said to Bert, who had worked for several years as Mr. Rothschild’s servant.
I had called Mr. Schmid and Mr. Greenwald to tell them the news. Over the past six months, I had limited contact with them. Part of the reason was they assumed Mr. Rothschild had become my dominant. The other, which I didn’t learn about later, was that the FBI continued to pursue its investigation and wanted badly to speak with me. The agent didn’t know where I was.
“We’ll be there in a few hours to take you home,” Mr. Schmid said to me on the phone.
As I expected, my dominants cared for me in the weeks after Mr. Rothschild’s death. I didn’t realize I was falling in love with him until he was gone. I confided about this with my dominants and also shared with them that I never became his submissive. I learned that his estate sold the mansion and the servants went their separate ways. I returned to work and also transferred to a New York City university to continue my paralegal courses.
“Do you think you’re ready?” Mr. Greenwald asked me one day.
The three of us were in my apartment.
Mr. Greenwald had walked up behind me as I sat on a stool along the kitchen.
“Yes, Sir.”
He kissed the side of my neck.
“It’s been so long, Sir.”
He used his left hand to unbutton the top of my black silk blouse. I felt his breath and lips on my neck as he proceeded slowly. I couldn’t see him. Mr. Schmid stood. Like Mr. Greenwald, he was still in a suit and tie.
“We heard you were a bad girl in Philly,” Mr. Schmid said, lighting a cigar.
“What do you mean, Sir?”
I felt Mr. Greenwald’s hands on my shoulders, his lips returning to my neck.
“We heard that you cucked Mr. Rothschild,” Mr. Schmid said, taking a big puff.
“Sir, he told me to.”
“You said you weren’t his submissive, Lisa Ann,” Mr. Schmid said.
“But I wanted to please him, Sir.”
“And the young man you sucked off repeatedly,” Mr. Schmid interjected.
I didn’t respond.
“Was his young cock bigger than ours and harder? Is that why you did it, bitch?” Mr. Schmid asked.
“No, Sir.”
Mr. Schmid’s eyes lowered as Mr. Greenwald continued to unbutton my blouse. Mr. Schmid learned forward and grabbed the bottom of the blouse, the remaining buttons flying as he ripped the garment off of me. He then placed saran wrap around my upper body and waist.
“You won’t be needing these where we’re taking you,” he said, pulling my black latex leggings off and tossing them on the floor. Mr. Greenwald grabbed my wrists around my back and quickly cuffed me, not saying a word. He slid a ball gag into my mouth and placed a black leather hood over my head -- fortunate for them that my hair was in a bun. They carried me – nude except for my pink silk panty -- down the stairs to the parking lot, where they threw me in the trunk and slammed it shut. The car roared away, their conversation unintelligible to me. Mr. Schmid had referred a few times to the “warehouse,” but hadn’t explained what it was. I would soon find out.