EXTRACT FOR
Working For The Smiths
(Argus)

I skimmed the pool and checked the chemicals. Then I took the long-handled bristle brush he'd shown me and worked it in and around all the patio furniture to wipe away any spider webs that had gotten started.

      And then Mr. Smith came and grabbed me, picked me up over his shoulder, and carried me, protesting, around the house where he threw me into the pool.

      "Four laps," he said.

      "But... but... but!"

      "Then I'll show you the weeds I found."

      I was staring up at him from the pool, clad in tank top, jeans and tennis shoes, a bit annoyed, but I resignedly took off my shoes, tossed them up on the side, and did the four laps before climbing out.

      "It's a good thing I didn't have my cell phone on me," I grumbled.

      "Am I hearing complaints from my employee?" he asked.

      "Well you could have warned me!"

      He picked me up and threw me into the pool again.

      "Four laps."

      "But Mr. Smith!"

	"Obedience! Discipline!"

      So I did four laps, and came out of the pool panting and dripping wet.

      Again, it didn't really occur to me that a girl in a tight tank top dripping wet would be something he might have been interested in viewing. I didn't feel sexual or exploited or anything as he led me back around the house to the flower bed I'd missed.

      I changed into my bikini after that while I let my clothes dry. Since the rest of the work was inside that made me feel oddly exposed again, and more than a little sexual as he explained to me the things in his office, how to work the fax machine, the photocopier, the scanner, and stuff, and some of the files he had that he wanted me to file.

      I mean, it was an office, even if it was his house, and I was in a bikini, my hair still damp.

      After that it was in the gym, and again he smacked my ass with the plastic rod a few times; first when I was trying to do a couple of chin-ups, then when I was touching my toes. It was playful, though it stung a little, and again, I was too innocent to think he meant anything by it other than a kind of physical encouragement for me to work harder.

      He had me work with a few weights then, which felt a bit more sexual, because he had me lay down on a weight bench. Then he had this bar over my head with really small weights he wanted me to lift up and down a few times. It wasn't overly hard, but for balance I wound up spreading my legs wide. He stood over my head, his groin very close to my face as I looked up, to be honest.

      After that we had lunch, where I again wound up in the pool doing laps for forgetting to call him sir.

      His wife, by the way, did a lot of travelling. She was in Europe that month, so we were all alone at the house. That didn't bother me or anything. Me and Em were often alone there. It was a big, rambling house with only the four of them living there, and they had busy lives.

      

      That first week I went home exhausted every afternoon, and woke up with aching muscles every morning. I always missed some weed or something, or I forgot to say sir, so that he tossed me into the pool, and after the third day I started changing into my bikini as soon as I got there.

      He also used that plastic rod on my butt a few times every day in the gym, so that I finally started to develop a very mild suspicion that he liked hitting my bikini clad butt. I dismissed it as silly, though.

      After just a week of hard work my body was actually starting to get into a little bit of decent shape. After two weeks it was showing marked improvement. I mean, I could do sit-ups and push-ups and chin-ups - though not many, admittedly. I could at least do them! That made me feel kind of proud of myself.

      I was still only wearing my bikini every day because his main punishment for any transgression was still to pick me up unannounced and toss me into the pool. Hey, as punishments went it was pretty cool, I mean, for a job, you know.

      I was getting used to calling him sir all the time, too, so that I usually didn't even have to think about it any more. And he'd do these "Simon says" things to teach me to obey instantly, like you'd do in the military. Only instead of right-turn, left-turn, etc. he'd just have me do other stuff.

      "Stand straight, at attention. Shoulders back, chest out, feet together!" he barked.

      We always did this stuff on the lawn, which was good, because I always wound up flat on my back.

      It was particularly hot today, though, and I was already sweating a bit. My hair was pulled back in a pony tail and I was wearing my black bikini. "Five touch toes," he said.

      I bent forward, touching my toes, then straightened, arms straight and high above me, then down again, then up, then down, then up as he walked slowly around me.

      "Now, legs apart, touch opposite toes. Five of em! Move it, move it, move it!"

      I shifted my legs apart and obeyed, touching my right toes with my left hand and vice versa.

      "On your belly, soldier! Give me ten push-ups!"

      I couldn't do ten yet but I tried, then collapsed, groaning.

      His foot pressed against my butt. "Weak!" he said. "You'll have to pick up the pace, soldier."

      He drew back. "All right. Stand up. Run to the fence and back. Run, run, run!"

      I ran, then collapsed, panting.

      "Pretty weak time."

      "My legs are sore," I groaned.

      "Phht. Fine then, do it again, back to the fence and then back here. Only crawl."

      "Crawl!?"

      "You hear me, baby. Crawl like a baby. There and back. Move it, move it, move it!"

      So I crawled. The grass was thick and soft and clean, and I felt kind of goofy crawling over to the fence, which was not a short way, by the way, then crawling back.

      He laughed and shook his head. "Maybe you should have worn your dog collar today."

      I gave him a look and he smirked. 

      "Maybe we'll make this your regular punishment," he said. "Whenever you act like a baby you'll crawl like one."

      Thereafter, I wound up crawling to and from the fence at least a few times every day, sometimes with him lending inspiration at first by smacking my butt with the plastic rod. And I was always so hot and panting and sweaty and had grass stains on my knees, so if he didn't throw me into the pool I'd throw myself in.

      The first time he slapped my butt with just his hand I was in his office leaning over a table, going through some papers. He wasn't in the room but arrived unnoticed, and slapped my butt - not harshly, and I yelped.

      "Got the grass cut yet?"

      "Yes, sir!" I said.

      "Gardens weeded?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "You fax that contract?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Good girl."

      Nothing more to it than that, and maybe because he'd developed that habit of smacking my butt with the rod on occasion I didn't really think anything at all of him giving me a little slap on the butt. But it was only the first, and it became a habit too. Slowly. So slowly I never really noticed. I mean, a very occasional light slap became a more regular light slap, you know, even as I learned to obey, to show discipline, to crawl and do laps and work hard and run and exercise as he ordered.

      For Mr. Smith wanted absolute obedience to his orders. He wanted me to obey without question. If he said go and crawl to the fence and it was pouring rain, then I did it. If it was cold out and he said do laps, or threw me into the pool to do laps, well too bad for the cold. I did his drinks exactly a she liked them, and did everything else exactly as he ordered. There was no room for doing anything but exactly as he wanted, exactly when he wanted it done.

      And that didn't seem really to be all that shocking. I mean, you had to do what your boss wanted, right? And besides, he was Mr. Smith. I would have done what he wanted anyway. I always had.

      The exercises he had me do on the lawn became more complicated, and I started to feel - exposed - there again. There were the normal ones, but also new ones, For example, he said I should learn to meditate. That involved basically kneeling, sitting on my heels, and then kind of holding my arms together, hands before me together as if in prayer. That was okay. But it became a part of the exercises. These were stretching exercises.

      So picture me kneeling, sitting on my heels, then raising my arms high above me, then back, back, back, arching my back - which, for balance, forced me to widen my knees, hands behind my head, breasts thrust out, looking almost up at the sky. I was not unaware of how taut my breasts were, how they thrust against the bikini top, but still, I thought they were just stretching exercises.

      Then there was lying back on my back, drawing my legs up and back together, pulling them against my chest tightly. Again, this was a standard sort of exercise, but doing it in a bikini while a man looks at you, well, it gave me strange, squirmy sensations.

      Doing it with my legs apart, gripping my ankles, pulling back as tight as possible made me squirm even more.

      Then there was lying on my back, and with my feet flat on the ground, raising my butt up off the grass, legs apart, and holding myself like that. Yes, I could feel the pull on my belly muscles and knew it wasn't an exercise he'd just thought up, but still, the exposure made me feel a bit squirmy.

      When he hugged me he often patted me on the butt now, too. It was just a friendly sort of thing, but I was starting to feel squirmy inside about that too, especially as, after a few weeks, his hand started to linger just a bit, just enough for me to realize it.

      It's just that it happened slowly, over the course of a month, slowly and gradually so that I never really noticed anything alarming. 

      

      Then came the day I whined about checking the flower beds. It was cold and raining. What difference did it make if I waited till tomorrow?

      "Do I hear a baby whining?" he said.

      "No, sir," I said, biting my lower lip.

      "Little girls that act up get spanked, you know. Emily could tell you that. Want a spanking?"

      "No, sir," I sighed.

      Again, his tone of voice was so - normal - that it was almost like I was a little girl again and my own father was asking that question. I didn't attribute anything sexual to it, really. You find that odd? You'd think a girl my age, in an office, wearing a bikini, being asked if she wanted a spanking would immediately figure things out, but no, it just seemed normal.

      

      It wasn't till the next week I actually got a spanking - sort of.  I had forgotten to restock the bar with a liqueur as ordered because I'd been listening to the radio and rushed to the phone to call in about a contest. When he found it empty the next day I was in the office and he firmly but not roughly grabbed me - as he tended to do - turned me, and bent me over the back of the chair.

      "Did I not tell you to restock the Drambuie in the bar, Miss?" he demanded.

      Oh shit, I thought. I forgot.

      He bent me over and Slap! Slap! Slap! On my butt.

      Not much of a spanking, really, and it only stung a little, though enough to make me yelp.

      "Now get to it."

      Again, it was the slow, gradual escalation that reassured me, that kept me from worrying, that made me accept things, the eased my suspicion. I had to admit I felt kind of squirmy afterward, though, but I put that down to me, not him.

      It wasn't till two more weeks had passed - and a number of little brief spankings like that, that I began to strongly suspect a sexual element in his punishment. I had somehow faxed two contracts to the wrong people, and he was more than a little annoyed, telling me how I'd made him look like a fool to his important clients.

      He sat down and grabbed my wrist, which, by then I was used to, and then yanked me down across his lap.

      Now this was something new! I gasped as his hand cracked down against my bottom.

      "If you're going to be an undisciplined child you'll be treated like one," he said.

      His hand cracked against my upraised bottom with only the thin nylon of my bikini bottom to protect my buttocks. And it stung. I yelped and squirmed but he drew my wrists back together and pinned them at the small of my back as his hand cracked down again, and again, and again, and again.

      "Are you going to be more careful next time?" he demanded.

      "Yes, sir!" I cried.

      Crack!

      "Are you going to show more discipline?"

      "Yes, sir!"

      Crack!

      "Are you going to show more responsibility?"

      "Yes, sir!"

      Crack!

      My bottom was starting to heat up and ache.

      "I should start taking money off your pay when you screw up," he said.

      "But it wasn't my fault!" I whined.

      "What's that? Do I hear a little girl whining?"

      "No, sir!" I whined.

      "If you're going to be a little girl then I'll treat you like a little girl."

      And he tugged my bikini bottoms down to bare my buttocks.

      I felt a sudden shock-wave roll through me even as his hand cracked down onto my bare bottom.

      "Are you sorry for embarrassing me?"

      "Y-Yes, s-sir!" I gasped, my mind spinning suddenly.

      Crack!

      "Are you going to pay more attention from now on?"

      "Y-yes, sir!"

      Crack! Crack! Crack!

      Okay, I might be a little dense, a little innocent, but I'm not a complete idiot. Even as I scurried out of the room, face and bottom red, I knew something was up. His voice and attitude were completely businesslike, well, chaste, you know, as if he were disciplining his own daughter. But I wasn't his daughter and I wasn't a little girl, and exposing my bottom to spank it was... sexual, in a way.

      

      I was thoroughly confused, though, first by whether or not he knew it, whether he really did it for that reason (yes, I was still kind of innocent) and also by my reaction to it. For after the initial heat and pain, after I left him, I felt a strange dark thrum of excitement at the thought of Mr. Smith, this god-like figure, seeing my bare butt. I was well aware that I had a great ass. I mean, people had told me so, and it sure looked good in the mirrors when I checked myself out.

      There was something darkly kinky about the idea of him spanking me on my bare butt, at the thought of him looking at it, appreciating it, maybe even wanting to touch it. It excited me in a way I didn't really understand. A part of me was indignant of it. Another part of me was embarrassed by it. But that night in my bed when I masturbated, I fantasied about being spanked, and it was someone who looked very much like him doing the spanking.

      Mrs. Smith came home from Europe, and wasn't surprised to see me working in the house and on the grounds. She behaved as she always did, except now, at Mr. Smith's orders, I had to call her "Ma'am", which wasn't even a word I'd ever used before, though they wanted us to use it at the hotel.

      I thought she might protest at me being in my bikini around the house, but she never said a word or seemed at all bothered. Mrs. Smith was beautiful, Italian, with big fake boobs, and almost ten years younger than her husband. I guess she was something of a trophy wife, and I'd never really gotten to know her very well because she never really showed a lot of interest in us or whatever we were doing. She'd always seemed kind of aloof.

      Now she was even worse, snobby, really, and she had all these things to do, like fetching her stuff, and making her drinks and snacks and stuff. They didn't spend a lot of time together, those two. Mr. Smith was either in his office or with me. Mrs. Smith spent most of the time on the phone in the great room, by the fireplace or at the pool.

      I'd thought her presence would daunt her husband, but it didn't. He treated me exactly the same, and after being tossed in the pool fully clothed I gave up on the idea of wearing anything but the bathing suit.

      Mr. Smith continued to spank and slap my ass, sometimes stingingly, for doing something wrong, sometimes in a gentle, friendly fashion. And he continued to pat it or squeeze it briefly whenever he hugged me in approval. I was kind of uncomfortable with it, but it seemed, I don't know, kind of harmless. Strange to think that, but it had come on gradually and I guess I was used to it and didn't feel threatened or anything.

      It wasn't until another week that Mr. Smith spanked me again. And this time he yanked my suit down right at the start. I blushed furiously, really embarrassed, but a dark thrill of heat started to roll through me almost from the start, as I squirmed around half naked across his lap. It was him touching me, holding me, looking at me. I squirmed around enough that he had to keep shifting his grip and adjusting me in his lap, and his free hand would do that by pulling in on my side or ribs in a way that often had his fingers just easing into the soft side of my breast.

      It stung. It burned my bottom as his hand cracked down on it again and again, and I yelped and cried out, my legs kicking so much that my bikini bottoms, which he'd tugged down around my knees, flew off. That let my legs widen as I struggled, and he shifted his grip to my thigh to pull me back into proper position. The first time he did it was no big deal, but the second time his hand was so high along my inner thigh that it was a fraction of an inch away from my pussy!

      That embarrassed me even more! And it also added fire to that dark heat billowing up from deep inside me. It also added fear, because if he touched me there he might see how wet I was, and he'd think I was some kind of a slut. Well, that was my thinking anyway. So I tried to keep my legs together even as my bottom burned like fire at his continued spanking.

      I was so relieved when his hand finally stopped spanking; I just lay there, gasping, panting, sniffling, and hardly even caring that his hand rested firmly on my throbbing butt.

      "Now I know you're sorry for making me do this, Nicky," he said sternly, his hand starting to stroke my bottom, "But discipline is what you're lacking, and I'm quite fond of you so I want you to learn."

      I sniffed and rubbed my moist eyes even as his fingers rubbed at my bare bottom. The dark heat was rising as the pain eased and I began to focus more attention on his hand stroking my bottom. I suppose you could consider it a sort of affectionate caress but I was half naked, more than half naked lying across his lap, so even I took it as more than that, especially given my thoughts and fantasies of late.

      "You're a good girl, Nicky," he said. "I've always liked you. I always thought you had a lot of possibilities. I don't want to see you end up as nothing but a wastrel doing nothing but drifting from job to job."

      His fingers were doing more than stroking now. They were squeezing my buttocks, kneading them, and I felt a rising tension in my chest that had my heart beating faster as my mind spun with indecision and uncertainty, with embarrassment and heat.

      I felt his hand grip my hair suddenly, sort of gathering it in behind my neck, and then he gently but firmly - well, lifted my head up and back. 

      "Now are you sorry for being so careless?" he asked.

      "Y-Yes, sir!" I gulped, my eyes blinking rapidly.

      "There are followers and there are leaders, Nicole. The world needs both. And the worst that can happen is when a follower tries to act like a leader. That just causes trouble. I've always admired you because you never try to act out of your nature. You're an excellent follower. I know that with a little discipline you'll become a truly valuable aide to me and my business. That could be something long term, and you could find that quite rewarding, much more so than the money I pay you now."

      His stroking fingers were sliding up and down my buttocks, and now slid lower still, and closer in so that, in my bent over position, the edges of his fingers were starting to brush against the edges of my tender mons. Each stroke sent a little shock-wave rippling through my belly so that I became breathless with anxiety and anticipation. I both did, and didn't want him to touch me, and had no idea what I'd do in either case.

      "You're a beautiful young girl, Nicole," he said, just as his fingers brushed lightly across my labia. "I think you can have a very rewarding and comfortable time as long as you learn obedience and discipline," he said.

      I wanted to say something, wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to protest, wanted to shout, wanted to squirm away, wanted to ... to do something! But I froze, gulping, mind whirling as his fingers eased further and further over until they were lightly rubbing along my bare little sex. And then I gasped as the soft tips of his fingers found that moist, swollen little button at the top of my sex - now at the bottom, I guess you'd say, given my position. I started to push myself up but he held me down firmly, and gave my bottom a slap.

      "M-Mr H-Smith!" I gulped.

      "Shhh. Don't worry. Let me make the decisions. You know I'm far better equipped for that than you are. All you need to do is obey, which is only your nature."

      I wanted to protest, still wanted to squirm away, but he held me by the hair, and whenever I squirmed too much his other hand slapped sharply against my aching, burning bottom. What was even more troubling was that as his fingers stroked lightly across my clit my insides began to churn with an almost violent sensory storm-wave laden with eroticism and lust, with passion and a dark sexual thrill.

      "D-Don't!" I gasped, the words barely audible as he parted my legs.

      That got me another slap, and when I reached back he released my hair only to gather my wrists together, pulling them behind my back, then slowly work them up between my shoulder blades. He pinned them there easily with one hand - well, I wasn't exactly struggling - and then gathered my hair in as well, kind of into a loose tail, and wrapped it around my wrists.

      I gasped as my head was lifted up and forced back again, then gasped again as his other hand, now free, began to caress my pussy and clit. I was gulping in air, face red, eyes wide, panting, moaning, as his fingers parted my thighs and then I felt myself penetrated. A single finger slid along my moist slit, then pushed into the mouth of my sex. It squirmed around a little, then slid deeper into my warm, dark pussy, twisting and turning until it was in me to the knuckle.

      "People throw the word slut around a lot, Nicky," he said calmly. "All men are sluts, really, if you judge people on their behaviour; it's in their nature. Women in our society are taught to fight against their nature, to hide any signs of sexual interest or arousal, to deny it, to pretend that they're cold, even frigid. To do otherwise makes them vulnerable to that word - the slut word. And for some reason women are desperately afraid of being thought of as sexual in that way."

      He pushed a second finger slowly through my taut, oily pussy lips, and I whimpered as the two long fingers pushed into me to the knuckle and started twisting and turning it inside my tight, elastic pussy. A third finger or a thumb, stroked lightly across my clitoris in a way which was making my insides roil and tremble, and my bottom was starting to unconsciously grind back against them as the sexual feelings inside me intensified.

      Those feelings were, I don't know, like alcohol. I mean, they were so strong that they were influencing my thinking, influencing my behaviour. I felt overwhelmed by the power and intensity of the sexual heat sweeping through me as Mr. Smith worked his finger harder against my clit and, and a sense of breathless anticipation settled over me.

      But all women are sexual. It's in their nature, just as it is with men," he said. "It's not something to fight but something to accept. Of course, most women can't do that. They're the victims of our culture. I want you to accept it, Nicky. I want you to accept that you're a slut, just like all women, just like all men."

      I gasped in pain as he pulled back harder on my hair.	

      "Let me hear you say you're a slut, Nicky. Go ahead. Don't be embarrassed. We both know it's true," he said tolerantly. "Go ahead. Say it. Say it."

      "I-I-I'm a slut!" I gasped helplessly.

      "Good girl," he said in a pleased voice. "Say it again."

      "I'm a-a slut!" I gasped.

      "Good girl," he said.

      His hand released my hair and my upper body collapsed downwards, but then his hand unclipped the back of my bikini top, and drew it calmly up and away from me. 

      I was naked!

      I shuddered as heat roiled through me, and gasped in helpless passion as his free hand now slid along my bare ribs, then underneath to cup and knead my breast.

      "Oh! Oh God! Oh! Oh!"

      "Say it again, Nicky. Let me hear you admit you're a slut."

      "I-I'm a - a slut!" I gulped.

      He pushed three fingers into me, slowly forcing them up through the oozing flesh of my swollen pussy opening, twisting and turning them within me as I moaned and my bottom jerked and rolled.

      "Naughty little slut," he said, slapping my bottom lightly. "I think I know what you need."

      He lifted me up bodily, then set me down on all fours on the carpet. He grasped my hair and I gasped in pain as he used it to kind of pull me forward a little on the floor. Then when I was out in the open, he stood behind me, looking down at me.

      "I want you to spread your knees wider, Nicky."

      Trembling, I obeyed as he undid his belt. But then he pulled the belt free of his trousers and doubled it in his hand.

      "Raise your bottom higher, and drop onto your elbows. No, higher," he said, his voice a little harder.

      The belt snapped across my bottom, though not hard, but I got the message and positioned myself as he wanted.

      "You're very wet inside, Nicky," he said. "Very wet. Do you know what that means? It means your body wants a cock inside it."

      He slapped the belt across my bottom again and again I gasped in pain.

      "Tell me that's right, Nicky. Tell me you want a cock inside you."

      I couldn't say THAT!

      The belt snapped across my bottom - harder this time.

      "Tell me, Nicky," he said his voice also harder.

      "I-It does!" I gasped.

      "The words, Nick. Say the words."

      "I-I want a cock inside me!" I blurted breathlessly.

      "Very good," he said soothingly. "But remember, you're at work now. You should speak properly. You should say sir, and say your servant instead of `I'. Now let me hear you say it like that."

      I was bewildered. Sex was supposed to be - well, sex. I mean, I knew he wanted to fuck me, and I wanted him to. He should already be doing it! In fact, it should be just about over by now!"

      The belt snapped down across my bottom and stung this time.

      "Say it, slut," he ordered.