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Simone made herself keep her tits at work until she had drained him dry ... even though they got covered with his semen, as did her neck, chin and face. Not exactly pleasing for her, but that didn’t really matter. The Boss lay back panting and sweating, chest heaving. I could see he was well content and put the switch back on the table. Then I pulled Simone off by her hair. “Go and get cleaned up again,” I said. She stumbled out, sobbing. Her afternoon was not finished yet. She still had Cassim to come. The phone rang and the Boss indicated that I should answer it. “Hans here,” I said. “Is the Master available?” enquired a cool, authoritative voice. It was Madame Melissa ... once a slave-girl herself but now the very commanding Boss’s wife. I raised an eyebrow at the Boss who held his hand out for the receiver. “Quentin ... is it convenient?” I could hear Madam’s voice clearly. “Good timing, Mel,” he said, “Simone’s just finished tossing me off with her tits.” “My, my, the things you. It's soft, feminine, it caresses you like a soft hand."They are too sad. Too real." Like in ... bondage?"I couldn't help but laugh. She was puzzled."No. Like in life. Memories. The present, the future. Even fictional stories. They are killing me. I'm spending nights up, writing things so sad that I sometimes cry, and then I look out and it's morning, the sun is rising, and I have to go to work. I work like a zombie. I fall asleep in my office, and only notice because the phone rings, someone enters, the computer makes a noise every now and them because I set it to. But I'm writing. All this time, when I'm talking to people, when I'm at one of those endless boring meetings that seem to be all I do, when I'm riding the elevator up and down, when I commute to work and back home, I'm writing, storing everything on my head to type it down later. I'm either asleep or writing. The only peace I have is when I'm with you, when the sex makes me forget the world, when I see you on top of me.
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