Raising Lucy

by Becca Jameson

  My voice is barely a whisper as I once again squeeze my thighs together tighter. “Yes, Sir.” The visual of him disciplining me in any way overwhelms me. I picture him spanking me or putting me in a time out. I know that can’t be what he meant, but I can’t stop the mental picture.

  His gaze lowers to my lap, mortifying me. He can’t possibly know that his words have aroused me. I would die if he assumed such a thing.

  Did his other assistants receive this same lecture before they started working for him? Surely they did. I’m not somehow special. And yet, as he continues to stare at the way my hands are gripping each other in my lap with my bare knees pinched tight and my heels bobbing up and down, I fear he might just call me out on my plight.

  His word choice runs through my head over and over. Respect. Discipline. What does he mean when he says discipline? Would he dock my pay or have me clean toilets?

  My body jerks as I picture his huge, strong hand on my bottom, spanking me. Ridiculous of course and totally inappropriate thoughts. I really need to curtail my roving imagination or I’ll get myself in trouble.

  His gaze slowly lifts. “Work on raising your voice, Lucy. If you mutter constantly so that I need to ask you to repeat yourself, I will quickly grow weary.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You may go now. I’ll expect you Wednesday morning. Seven sharp. Do. Not. Be. Late.” His attention instantly lowers to his desk, and before I manage to stand, he appears to be already engrossed in a file on his desk. I’ve been summarily dismissed.

  It occurs to me that perhaps he treats all his new hires in such a dismissive manner in order to weed them out and test their strength. If he thinks I will break from his sharpness, he is wrong. I’m not like other assistants he’s had. I’m desperate. I need this job, and the promise it holds far outweighs the challenges.

  I stand as tall as possible and pad quietly from his office. There is no way I can keep my shoes from clicking on the hardwood, however, so I make a mental note to invest in rubber-souled shoes immediately.

  Chapter 7

  Master Roman

  * * *

  Holy fuck. What just happened?

  I continue to stare at the papers in my hand as the sweetest little girl I’ve ever encountered nervously pads from my office. I can see nothing. I have no idea what paper I’m holding. But she doesn’t know that.

  Did I push her too far? Did I scare her too badly?

  I don’t think so. I think I hit the ball out of the park. I did my best to read her every reaction and respond accordingly. She may not know it yet, but she is so perfectly submissive in every way. The exact kind of girl I have spent my life looking for.

  She is young. I don’t care. She is also a blank slate that no one has tarnished to the best of my knowledge. If she has any skeletons I did not find, they can’t be very big. I will extinguish them until they do not exist.

  The way she fidgets and blushes and wrings her hands made my cock swell to the point of aching. Her breathing and shocked expressions and muttering and biting her lip all made my pulse increase by the minute. And when she squeezed her legs together, I nearly came in my pants.

  It took incredible restraint not to demand she strip off her clothes and kneel in front of me. I almost believe she would have done it too.

  But that’s not how I want our relationship to start. I want to earn her submission. I’m not patient enough to wait months or years, so I will push her every day, but I have enough willpower to encourage her not so subtly to recognize the sort of girl she was born to be.

  Specifically, my girl.

  Her life so far has seemed messy and confusing. I haven’t dug deep enough to know what her childhood was like, so I can’t say for sure if she leans toward the role of a submissive little due to a childhood trauma or if she comes by it naturally. I will take care of her either way.

  I have dabbled in age play over the years with many women, none of whom were interested in anything permanent. I have also known for most of my adult life that I won’t be satisfied until I find a little who needs comfort, protection, boundaries, direction, and discipline. Not for two hours a night once a week but full time.

  I run my hand over my face and take a deep breath, mentally reviewing every moment of the past hour. Lucy far exceeded my expectations. She wasn’t simply timid. She was also strong-willed. Determined. She not only needs this job, she wants it. She knows I’ve fired three women in less than a year. She intends to prove she can fill their shoes, probably more for herself than anyone else.

  I have no idea if Lucy can do the job I need filled. I don’t even care. It’s not why I hired her. I hired her to get her under my roof and my thumb. I hired her so I could keep close tabs on her while I watch her blossom into the perfect version of herself.

  Hell, I hired her because the thought of her being anywhere else for even an hour at a time had started to make me nauseous. I will keep her long hours and work her hard for the first few weeks, and then I will move her into my home. Surely, when she sees the benefits, she will not balk. Her commute is not going to be pleasant, and she doesn’t have a car. Her apartment is abysmal on top of that. When I propose free room and board so that she no longer has to commute, she will have been with me enough days to jump at the opportunity.

  I need the time to get to know her better anyway. It will take me several days to read her and decide which direction to guide her. I have no idea what age range she might end up falling into as a little or even a middle, but I do know she wants to please me already. She is determined to make me proud of her. She won’t intentionally do anything to disobey me. And she won’t enjoy it when I punish her.

  I spent far too much time inquiring of her work from her previous employer, pretending I was simply someone with whom she had applied. They had nothing but praise for her performance, which pleased me. I learned she is punctual and loyal. She takes responsibility when she makes a mistake. She tries hard to ensure everyone around her is pleased.

  I smile as I remember she is also messy. Her work is excellent. Her organization skills are lacking. The inside of her apartment is a disaster. She keeps her clothes strewn across the floor, dishes in the sink, and books placed everywhere. I cannot wait to discipline her for her lack of organizational skills.

  I know she reads a lot, which I approve of. I know what sort of literature she prefers, which has been informative. Many of the books in her apartment are library books, and the vast majority of those are either erotic romance novels or information about the fetish world.

  I have to adjust my cock as I picture her learning about my world through books. I can’t be sure how much she knows, but from her reactions to me, I have to assume she is still very green.

  I have used restraint by not putting cameras in her apartment, which means I have no idea if she masturbates. However, I do know she doesn’t own a vibrator. Nor does she keep condoms or birth control in her apartment.

  There are so many milestones I cannot wait to watch her achieve.

  But I will force myself to remain patient with her, as patient as a Dom like me is capable of.

  Tomorrow she will see my personal physician, Dr. Pruitt, at a clinic she has no idea only sees lifestyle patients from eight to ten in the morning one day a week. Thank God that day happens to be a Tuesday. If I’d had to wait several days to get her in, I might have lost my mind.

  I’m not just sending Lucy there to intimidate her, unnerve her, or freak her out. I’m sending her there to make sure she is healthy, and I will insist she return for frequent visits for the same reason.

  I’ve already warned Dr. Pruitt and his nurse, AnnMarie, that Lucy is not only new to the lifestyle but also isn’t aware of her submissive tendencies yet. The doctor will go easy on her this first visit. Subsequent trips will prove more trying.

  I wish I could be with her in the office or at least a fly on the wall as she is examined. I close my eyes again and picture her shaking with nerves as Dr. Pruitt exami
nes her. I have no idea if she’s ever even been to a gynecologist, but considering her financial status and the fact that she doesn’t seem to have a boyfriend, there is every possibility she has not.

  She’s so innocent.

  A blank slate.

  Mine.

  Chapter 8

  Lucy

  * * *

  I spend Monday afternoon cleaning my apartment. Elated. Unable to stop smiling. My primary intention is to keep my mind occupied so I don’t freak out over my good fortune. My secondary intention is to find my inner tidiness.

  The truth is Tidy is not my middle name, and this concerns me. Master Roman’s home is pristine. His office doesn’t have a scrap of extraneous paper in sight. There isn’t a dust bunny to be had.

  I’m not a disaster when it comes to work. I maintained a decent workspace at Martin and Sons. However, I know it’s not in my nature. The reason I kept papers filed and messages organized was because I needed to do so to keep my job.

  My bedroom in my apartment is forever cluttered. Even though I don’t own many clothes, two thirds of them are usually on the floor except when it’s laundry day. I don’t have a dishwasher, and my sink is filled with dishes until I run out and am forced to wash them. I don’t own a vacuum. I somehow manage to wipe down my bathroom counter every few months when the hair starts to annoy me.

  And yet I’ve taken a job with the king of domination. What am I thinking?

  You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. I’ve repeated that mantra over and over all day. How hard can it possibly be? All I need to do is show up at seven every morning, run around obeying Master Roman’s orders, keep my voice at a reasonable level, and stay off everyone else’s radar.

  I giggle as I think of the word obey. Master Roman certainly made it clear that I was to obey him like a child. Perhaps I should have been more intimidated than I was and turned down the offer.

  But I don’t have that luxury. I need the money. I don’t have savings or relatives to bail me out. If I hadn’t stumbled upon this opportunity and taken this job, there’s a good chance I would be evicted and homeless in weeks.

  I also have an unexpected new problem. I didn’t sleep a single moment last night. Every time I started to doze off, visions of kneeling at Master Roman’s feet yanked me awake. Why couldn’t I just have a normal dream like a regular person and wake up smiling and refreshed?

  Nope. Not me. Instead, I bolted awake over and over because my body was heated with arousal. I repeatedly kicked the covers away and found myself sweating as I rubbed my thighs together. About a dozen times I considered masturbating to the images assaulting me, but I forced myself not to act on the impulse.

  I feared I would be much worse off if I succumbed to the temptation and then had to face my new boss on Wednesday with fresh visions of kneeling naked between his legs with my head on his thighs. When my mind wandered to sucking him off in the process, I had moaned in the dark.

  So, I’m cleaning. Deep cleaning. I even went to the store to purchase cleaning supplies. I also splurged and got myself a small vacuum. I figured with my new salary I would be able to afford it by the time the credit card bill came.

  Most of the time, I try not to think about my credit card debt. It’s not outrageous, but it is enough to make me nervous, considering I have lived paycheck to paycheck for two years. Before that, my life was even less consistent. I was waiting tables.

  I know I could make ends meet easier if I had a roommate, but the truth is I don’t like spending that much time with other people. I never have. As a child, I was mousy and quiet so that no one would find out my father was verbally abusive, and then when I went to live with my equally mean grandmother, I never bothered to make friends.

  I was an outcast from the day I arrived in Chicago. My grandmother made sure I knew every day how inconvenient it was for her to finish raising me. She made it perfectly clear that as soon as I turned eighteen and graduated, I was on my own.

  I learned quickly that the best way to keep Grandmother Strickland off my back was to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, make good grades, and stay out of trouble. I tended to slip in and out of her house without making a sound. She fed me and provided me with a roof. That was it. I often thought I should be grateful. If she’d turned me away, God knows what might have happened to me in the system.

  My world was filled with books. I went to the library at least three times a week. I often read two books a day. I never watched television because my grandmother only had one TV, it was always on her channel, and she was always watching it. I never spent one more minute than absolutely necessary in the same room as her.

  I turned eighteen four years ago and graduated two weeks later. The next day, my grandmother made it clear that her job was done. She gave me enough money to last a few weeks on my own and basically showed me the door. It wasn’t unexpected. I packed my few belongings, bought a one-way bus ticket to Seattle—I’d always wanted to go there—and never looked back. In all this time, I have never even tried to contact her. I have no idea if she’s still living or not. In fact, until this morning when Master Roman inquired about her, I hadn’t thought about her in months.

  I count my blessings that I have never been homeless. I’ve been close on a few occasions, but I’ve scraped by. The fact that I kept the same “secure” job for two years made it possible for me to get a credit card in the first place, and though I have tried to never abuse it, there have been months when it came in handy to get me by the last few days until I got paid.

  I’ve never had a car. I take public transportation. I live a simple existence. Maybe for the first time in my life I can finally get ahead. Maybe I can pay off my bills and buy a few nicer outfits. Maybe my luck has turned.

  Speaking of clothes, I glance at the package sitting on my small, wobbly kitchen table, realizing I have not looked inside to see what uniform Nancy has sent home with me.

  Part of me has been reluctant to take a peek. Part of me has been holding off to maintain the mystery.

  Suddenly, I can’t wait any longer. I drop the rag I’ve been using to clean my kitchen counter and wipe my hands on my oldest pair of jeans—the pair with holes at the knees that weren’t there intentionally when I bought them.

  It’s absurd that I’m holding my breath and my hands are shaking as I open the oddly wrapped package. Instead of using a grocery sack or a paper bag of some sort, Nancy had carefully folded the contents into a piece of brown paper, tying it with string. It looks like a parcel someone would have brought home from a department store in the eighteen hundreds.

  I carefully untie the string and let the paper fall away. My breath catches to find a bra and pair of panties. How weird is that? When Master Roman said I would be provided with a uniform, I pictured a skirt and blouse, not undergarments.

  I slowly pick up the plain white bra and look at the tag. I stare at it for a moment, wondering how the hell Nancy or Master Roman or anyone else would know my size. The panties are also plain white. Neither piece has any lace or silk to them. Both are cotton. Even weirder, the panties are full briefs. They are in my size, but I’ve never seen a pair of underwear with that much material.

  Although I am not made of money and buy most of my clothes from thrift stores, I have always purchased my undergarments new from a supermart. I have never owned anything quite this modest. I’m going to feel like a ninety-year-old woman in them.

  Trying not to think about the implications of including panties and a bra for me, I set them aside and reach for the next item. Surprisingly, it’s a decent-looking navy dress. It has short sleeves and a modest neckline. The skirt is pleated, and when I fan it out, I realize it flairs out all the way around but will hang loose close to my thighs. It looks a bit short, but maybe it’s my imagination.

  Another shocker is the shoes that were hidden under the dress. Who provides their employees shoes? The same man who also provides underwear.

  I pick them up, chuckling inside as
I notice they have rubber soles which will keep me from making any noise on the hardwood floors throughout Master Roman’s home. They are flat and brown leather with narrow shoestrings. I assume they are intended to go with other outfits in the future.

  Naturally, they are also in my size. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, unsure if I ever want to know why the hell anyone could have purchased all these items to specifically fit me. And, more importantly, how did they do so before I even interviewed for the job?

  I’m going to try not to think about all the implications of that question for as long as possible and instead I head to my bedroom to hang up the dress. The last thing I want to do is arrive wrinkled for my first day on the job.

  After hooking the dress to the back of my bathroom door, I stare at myself in the mirror. Should I get my hair cut and styled? Have my nails done? Invest in some better makeup?

  Master Roman did not mention any of those things. I’m not even sure if he paid close enough attention to me to notice. If someone were to ask him right now what color my hair was, he would probably shrug and say, “whose hair?”

  I giggle. I’m also exaggerating. He might have been serious and intense, but he did stare at me long enough to take in whatever seemed to interest him. It might be prudent to wait a few weeks before I invest any more future, hard-earned money in hair and makeup. There is still the chance I will get fired on the first day and then I’ll be stuck with no job and more credit card debt.

  I pull my hairband out to free my messy, indistinct, dark curls, wincing as one gets caught. I have never been able to manage my hair. It’s unruly. If someone were to grab a curl and stretch it out, it would probably reach my butt. I used to cut it myself on occasion, but it always ended up crooked, so I don’t do that anymore.