Message-ID: <28231asstr$978646203@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Louis Nessus" Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed X-Original-Message-ID: X-OriginalArrivalTime: 03 Jan 2001 02:12:02.0615 (UTC) FILETIME=[8FB05C70:01C0752A] Subject: {ASSM} Nessus RP: Wicked Game 1 (FD CB Mast Magic) Date: Thu, 4 Jan 2001 17:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, newsman This story is intended for the enjoyment of adults over the age of 18 or whatever the legal age is in your part of the universe. It contains fantasy scenes of graphic sexual activity. Please, if you are under the age of 18, or if you will be offended by such material, use your intelligence and read no further - delete the file. Otherwise ....enjoy! The Wicked Game Chronicles: Book 1. The Devil and Mr Brownlow. (Part 1.) by Nessus FemDom Mast Humil CB Magic I had a difficult beginning but now, at twenty-six years of age, I was starting to move up. Growing up in the tough streets of London, I had never envisaged that I would be, some day, living in New York. A guiding teacher in my early years had shown me that education was the only way out of the slums and I had devoted myself to books by day while working as a waiter in London's East End at night. It was hard and lonely but finally, I completed my Honours Degree in Economics and looked forward to a good future, determined to never be more again. With no time for relationships and only my books and old movies to keep me company, I had honed my accent to present myself as a most suitable candidate for a position in one of the cities old firms. Accents are the badge of your place in life in England and I had cultivated a upper class aristocratic rhythm to my speech. Eagerly, I discussed my future with many recruiters from the various companies after graduation but I was surprised to be the most pursued by an American giant headquartered in New York. New York, the heart of the new empire and a city that had fascinated me since I first saw Gene Kelly dance through its streets in the movies. I wondered briefly why they were after me but I told myself I had the academic qualifications and I think my polished accent, boyish good looks and shy manners impressed the female recruiter as well. After a great deal of psychological testing, I was accepted and here I am, ensconced in my little cubicle on the eleventh floor and working on marketing segmentation plans for a company that dominates the marketplace. I vowed never to return to London permanently, New York was to become my new home. I also vowed to reach the thirty-seventh floor executive suites one day as well. The company took good care of my move and allowed me stay in a small apartment owned by the company at a reduced rental. I had twelve months in that apartment, laughingly referred to as the College Dorm by staff, while I searched New York for that elusive perfect apartment. I promised myself I would be out of the Dorm well within a year. The President of the Marketing Unit was Lucy Duivel, a woman who had a meteoritic , and, it was whispered, the most ruthless woman on Wall Street. I had glimpsed her once in the lobby as I pushed towards the lifts, (sorry, elevators), as she strode regally to the executive elevator that would whisk her to the thirty-seventh level. Tall, elegant, aged early to mid thirties, she was the epitome of a New York power woman. The staff was nice to me in that broad expansive American way but left me alone. I am shy and find it difficult to mix with people so that suited me very well indeed as I had a magical city to explore. And what a city it is. Immediately, I fell in love with its toughness, its brashness and its many quirky corners. New York would be home. After a month of working solidly, I had a surprise visit from the mail clerk, Donna. "Hi, Mr Brownlow," she said as she wheeled her mail cart to the desk. Donna was a shy young girl who delivered snail mail to all desks and was the youngest employee in the Baden Building in which we all worked. With a coy smile, she dropped a gilt edged invitation to dinner with the Chairman on my desk. Shocked, I stared at it. Christopher Brownlow and partner it said and I wondered why I had been invited. More importantly, I also wondered where I would find a date. Nervously, I asked Troy, my workgroup leader, why I was invited to dinner with the Chairman. He laughed loudly when I had stuttered my way through the question. "Relax, Christopher, its not a little intimate dinner. There'll be about a hundred people there, buddy." Troy affected the weary air of an experienced older brother, one that I found irritating but had to accept, as he was my boss. He impressed upon me his vast experience with women but I suspected it was a facade and, underneath the false persona, he was, like myself, quite shy and inexperienced. I sighed with relief. "But, why?" "The Chairman and his executive team like to welcome all the new graduate recruits. You won't get to talk to Will Macintosh or any of his execs but you've got to go, man. If you want up the ladder, you can't be a no show." Sometimes I found it a little difficult to actually understand what my colleagues said but I managed to receive the gist of his message. "It's mandatory?" "Huh?" "I have to go?" "I just said that. You'll dazzle them with that royal charm of yours. Get your dinner suit out and enjoy yourself." He returned to his computer screen. I cleared my throat. "Do I have to take a date?" "This is New York. You show stag and you'll be talked about in every restroom in this god dam building. Especially, you, English Tom," he grinned. Apparently, one of the office wags had started the rumour that I was the young British cousin of Tom Cruise and several young ladies had fallen for it. I looked around the department's workstations. "I suppose I could ask one of the ladies here," I said. "What!" Troy spun around to face me, shocked. "Man, you can't do that. You have to look like you're out there, networking, that you know people." "But I've only been here a month." "So?" "I don't know anyone." "Oh, that's the problem. No worries. Here." He slid a small card across the desk and I picked it up. "Escorts?" "Sure. They're the best. Will cost you but you'll get a classy lady that can talk to anyone. Tell them I sent you." Slowly, I walked out of his office, clutching the card. Nervously, I placed the call and made the arrangements for the following Friday evening. I felt better when I understood that my date would be a young woman called Judy Daimon who had majored in Banking and Finance. This was going to work out fine. End Part 1. _________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+