The Taming of Archer Cordell

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

“Freedom suppressed and again regained bites with keener fangs than freedom never endangered.”

- Cicero

Sabrina

At first, the real world seemed artificial, shrunken. No chartered jets, no exotically-displayed s*x pets, no million-dollar deals—just people living an everyday life, the sort of life she’d once envisioned for herself before her parents died, before her world collapsed, before she sold herself into a new identity. Sabrina Swann had returned—the slavegirl Alcina was gone, gone forever. The trouble was, she didn’t know what it meant to be Sabrina Swann any more. It didn’t mean what it used to, that person and the world in which she lived was gone. She got off the plane in her home town and no one recognized her. She was surprised; it had only been a few months—but then she remembered: she’d had a complete physical makeover before she became a slave.

She wandered the town for some hours in a semi-daze. It was shrunken, small, plain. It wasn’t her home anymore; it had been the home of another woman—a girl—and she was dead. And now Alcina was dead, too. Standing on the banks of the river, she threw a pebble into the water and watched the ripples. She was free, truly free for the first time in her life. Archer Cordell had set her free. He had broken her heart, but he had given her freedom. But that freedom made her feel directionless, confused. She looked at the water for a long, long time, then she walked back into town, caught a taxi, and took the next flight out.

Some hours later she was in California. It was late in the day; the sun was painfully bright, the air was dry. She had no luggage, no possessions—only her clothes…and five million dollars. She took a room at a random hotel, showered, ate dinner from room service, and fell asleep before the sun was fully set.

She understood finance; the next day she visited a bank, set up her accounts the way she wanted, brushed off the well-meaning but patronizing vice-president. He was young—though no younger than she was—with no real life experience. She let him ask her to dinner, accepted, and afterwards when he asked her to his apartment, she took control.

“It’s a nice apartment,” she said, and as he closed the door behind them she turned, pushed him back against the wall and kissed him hard, her tongue probing his mouth, her hand sliding down to cup him aggressively between his legs. She could feel him gasp and swell, she could feel him tremble with confusion as well as need. Good. She undressed him, button by button, belt, zipper, stripping him in the hallway, stroking his revealed flesh, teasing him, turning him on, feeling him yielding to her. Shortly, he was naked before her and she was fully dressed. She could see his embarrassment; she smiled. She took him by the c**k and pulled him down the hall into his bedroom, pushed him on the brass bed and straddled him. She lifted his arms above his head. “Hold onto the bars and don’t let go,” she ordered, and he obeyed.

Without undressing, she ground her panty-clad p***y against his c**k, feeling it swollen and leaking. She tormented his n*****s until they were white as stones. Then, perched atop him, she reached behind her, unzipped her dress, let it drop, revealing her breasts in a lazy bra. She unsnapped the bra and trailed it over his chest, shimmying her shoulders to display her breasts to him. He reached up to caress her n*****s; she pushed his hands back.

“No. Touch me again and I’ll leave,” she ordered. Confused, he obeyed. But she didn’t plan on taking any chances. She was wearing a scarf belt; she pulled it off and used it to tie his hands above him to the brass bed. He pulled at his bonds; this was all happening too fast for him, then she slid down between his legs to suck him, to take his c**k in her mouth and drive him to the edge of an orgasm, then let him cool and then did it again and again.

When he was gasping so much she knew he’d come in an instant, she stood, removed the rest of her dress, her panties, and her stockings, then straddled his face. She was wet. His tongue probed her clumsily, but she was turned on by his helplessness; she rubbed her p***y against his face and cupped her breasts in her hands, used his face as a masturbatory tool and then slid down again, licked her tongue over his lips to taste her own juices, as she took his c**k and rubbed it over her c******s, using it as a dildo as she pushed a n****e into his wet mouth, and drove herself over the edge into an orgasm.

He moaned and writhed and when she let his mouth free began to beg for her to f**k him, make him come. For a moment she thought about leaving him there, hanging, but she wanted the feel of a c**k inside her, so she rode him, stretching her out. And when she felt him tense, ready, she lifted up off him and grabbed his c**k and pumped his spurting come over his belly. She dressed, then untied him, and left.

It was time for her to recreate herself again, and the plastic surgeons started by giving her a new body, a new face. This one was more mature, more knowing, still beautiful. A rich mane of red hair, green eyes, a sculpted, athletic figure. Her legs were her best new feature, her breasts shapely but a more modest B-cup rather than the C she’d worn as Alcina. Her waist was narrow, her hips curved. Her mouth was sensual, small, with full red lips. Her ears were delicate, her cheekbones high.

She came out of the California clinic reinvented again; she headed for the shops of Rodeo Drive and a new wardrobe: professional, chic, sexy, powerful. She paid a call on her alma mater and negotiated with the department: one intensive summer session and an advance alumna donation and she had her degree, one more year to an executive MBA, and a return to Manhattan.

There was a long parade of interested men, and her lack of interest seemed to increase theirs. On a weekend trip to Cancun, she let a muscular pretty boy pick her up; the s*x was athletic but uninspiring. In a study group, one boy about three years younger than she fell for her hard; she mercy-f****d him like she’d f****d the bank manager—stripped him, tied him, used him. He kept hanging around her, hoping for more; she had to push him away. Months separated her lovers, such as they were. They were occasional diversions, nothing more, over as quick as they started. She locked her memories of Archer in a compartment in the back of her mind.

Because she had no distractions, she found herself on a meteoric rise. Working in venture capital, she had an instinct for the right deal, a talent for negotiation, an eagle eye for the key contract details. She knew her body was a tool, and she used it that way. It was mostly a matter of appearance, as she’d learned with Archer—flirtation and awareness of s****l tension, the ability to maximize it and not lose her own head. Occasionally it was more than just flirtation, and when that was the way to advance her goals, she did it. Other people had the emotional involvement, other people wanted more, other people wanted repeats. She was self-contained.

She grew to be grateful to Archer, not angry with him. She began to understand his need for control and independence, how she’d threatened that. She followed his career carefully, subscribing to research services and conducting her own investigations. In fact, she’d latched onto a couple of important deals because she saw that was where Archer was going. She felt great fondness for Archer, a little bit of anger, a lot of compassion, and enormous interest.

But Archer had taught her one very critical lesson above all: as much pleasure as her journey into submission had provided, she never wanted to be any man’s slave again. She wanted control. She wanted power. At the very least, she wanted the power to choose.

Sabrina was the feature story in several business magazines, admired, respected—and sometimes feared. Her rise was rapid—a vice-presidency by 25, a corner office (with window) strategically located. She acquired the various trappings of success: a penthouse apartment, the right clothes and jewelry…and her own slaves.

At that level, owning slaves was customary, a symbol of status and power. Most people at her level were male (still), and the average executive had a personal secretary/s*x toy. She acquired a male secretary, handsome and young and bisexual. She tried him out sexually, but boy-toys weren’t her fancy. He was a good secretary, though. She let others believe what they wanted or needed to believe about their relationship; in reality she used him as another tool, finding that he knew how to seduce and pleasure women, but was especially good with men—especially straight men. Later, she acquired a female slave as a personal servant, knowing the gossip would add to her fame and allure, wanting it that way. She tried this slave, too, though her s****l interest in women was limited.

Fortunately, Jarrod the secretary and Danielle the valet had an almost carnivorous interest in each other; she’d come back to her suite late at night and hear the two moaning and gasping in their room. Danielle was dominant while Jarrod was submissive; she was an aggressive blonde with a cruel smile and reminded Sabrina of Lizandra, the Countess Esmeralda’s top personal aide (though she could never think about her time as the Countess’ prisoner without a shiver of mixed horror and arousal). Sometimes Sabrina would notice that Jarrod had red marks on his back, or trouble sitting down, or an erection that wouldn’t quit, and she knew Danielle had been playing games with him. She approved; Danielle was the right choice for certain of the men in her orbit. And Jarrod seemed content enough.

The men in her life were business associates, and many of them liked strong women. Many of them liked the idea of giving up control. She found herself being pursued on a different level—as a mistress, rather than as a toy. She liked the feeling. She liked being in control, being in charge.

Talbott Hamilton was worth over a billion dollars, and was a key participant in several major buy-outs on which Sabrina worked. He was handsome and well-bred and obviously attracted to her. He used gallantry to signal a taste for being ordered around. She noticed it at once and used it as a weakness to exploit, giving him directions and simply assuming he would obey. She used him as an escort, as a dinner companion, and rebuffed his gentle advances with a teasing smile. She could be warm and inviting one minute, cold and distant the next. He never knew what to expect, but he kept coming back. He wanted her, and she was able to bring him to the table for deal after deal.

She played with him for months, unsure even to herself whether the flirtation would eventually lead to s*x. And one evening, after he’d taken her to an exclusive nightclub, a currently-fashionable speakeasy where exotic drugs were on an elaborate menu, she was high and horny and she decided almost on a whim that tonight would be Talbott’s fantasy come to life—though on her terms.

Without asking, she leaned forward and ordered the driver to take them to her building, someplace she’d never invited him before. Then she ordered him to fix her a drink. She slid over to the rear-facing seat of the limousine and crossed her legs. Her short skirt rode up to the top of her glittering stockings, her high heel dangled invitingly. She smiled at him over her glass. Quickly, he moved over to be beside her, but she stopped him. “No. Get back on your seat. Now.” He obeyed. This would be good.

She extended one long leg and placed it squarely in his lap. “Be a dear and rub my feet,” she teased, squirming her foot around, the spike heel probing his most vulnerable point. He gulped slightly, then carefully slipped off her shoe to caress her feet. He lifted her toes to his lips and kissed them. “That’s all very nice,” she said, “but I want a foot massage. They’re sore. Make them feel better.”