Dirty Hands

The aide's name was Oakley.

She had the letter in her bag when they met, on the university quadrangle in front of the old science building. He took it from her and almost felt that the paper seared his fingertips. He wanted to read it again at once, but not here. Not with her watching. He folded it and pushed it into his breast pocket, inside his jacket. After that, they stood close to one another for no particular reason.

"What kind of name is Oakley?" he asked, smiling a little to soften the edge on his teasing.

"A lot of people think I'm named for that little girl with the guns," she said without missing a beat. "I'm not. I'm named after my dad's favorite sunglasses."

"Oh," he said.

"What kind of name is Justin?"

"I'm named for my dad's favorite boots."

Oakley licked her lips. Was her mouth dry? Was she nervous about something?

"Was the letter real?" she asked.

"Real?"

"Did you own a slave?"

He knew that the correct response would be to lie to her. Play it off. To tell her that it wasn't possible to own a slave in the modern world, and that the letter had been a part of some kind of game. They'd laugh it off. She'd feel silly. He'd feel rotten. They'd both go home disappointed and safe.

"I owned a slave," he said, and he watched as Oakley's breathing quickened. "I possessed her in body and soul—in every way that a woman can be possessed."

Later that evening, Oakley lay bound atop his bed. She moaned fitfully and pulled at her bonds. Her wrists remained secure, encircled in silk cords as his cum cooled on her belly. Meanwhile, he read through the letter once more. He read the final words again and again.

Then he opened the invitation from the Bitter Elm, and he made a note of the date.