Chapter 6  A Submissive Female of New York City

Chapter 6
 A Submissive Female of New York City

There is a Mrs. Susan Beresford to see you, said the downstairs receptionist on the phone.

Phil was still at the office at six, luxuriating in his triumph that afternoon. "Can you send her up? I'll meet her at the sixth-floor reception."

He had not thought of the outfit that Sue was wearing, the same highly provocative green miniskirt, the intoxicating perfume and slutty-looking makeup. Eyebrows rose as she walked down the corridors. Women were either amused or resentful. Men were universally staring.

Sue didn't look like a friend, or girlfriend. She looked like he had hired a prostitute and brazenly invited her to the office. At least she wasn't wearing the leash. She made no attempt to touch Phil, but gave coy smiles to all who stared.

Phil sat her down in a chair beside his. "Your legs are crossed," he said. "Uncross them."

Sitting down, the sheer power of her legs mocked any male in eyeshot. The clear view of her thong would be enough to stain his reputation for weeks.

"Pretend you're stupid," he told her. "Like you're a simple-minded bimbo who I won over with expensive gifts."

Many men were stopping by and saying hi to him and his "friend", even those that didn't know him, referring to him as "the web guy from San Jose". Sue flirted with them all, letting their eyes greedily take in her bulging chest and open skirt. They kissed her hand, even putting their arm around her shoulder. She gushed at how "smart" they were they weren't and gave them perfect vacuous looks, incongruous coming from someone clearly of MILF age.

She continued her cock-teasing of Phil's colleagues as they made their way to the exit. It took them a surprisingly long time to leave.

Like many tech firms, Phil's colleagues were much more Asian than the typical American population, even by New York standards. Sue hadn't failed to notice.

"So many qualified Asians at your company. Mine is like that too. Almost all my developers are Asian."

"We try," said Phil.

"You Asians are smarter than us whites. You seem to have everything under control. We spend hours studying, drift off to the TV half the time, and get Bs and Cs. You just focus and whip out A after A."

"That's not true for all Asians. During the colonial era—"

"Every Asian I know. We whites are too stupid to read history books anyway. Why do you think I have such a fetish for you? Well, that and the exotic color."

Phil could not believe that Sue held to such crude racial stereotypes. And he knew she was intelligent, more so than he. You don't get to be a director at a Wall Street firm with a private office if you aren't strong in brainpower.

"You can't make generalizations on the basis of a few—"

"Stop thinking logically," she interrupted. "Use your emotions. Give in to your baser impulses."

How would that feel? He'd had plenty of arguments with people where they judged an entire ethnic group based on just one person's behavior. They thought based on emotion, not logic. He'd always held that in contempt.

"It would feel very weird to be on the giving end of racial insults for a change."

"I think you need that, master. I think you need a white slave. After all," she added, "how many Asian girls would behave like a whore? Like me?"

Phil thought of the disgust his relatives often expressed towards the loose dress and loose morals of Western women. Already he found himself starting to think her way.

"So you're a...you're a...."

"A stupid white whore," finished Sue proudly. Phil's cock leaped for joy at the taboo insult. He felt a surge of freedom race through him. It was illogical, unfair, and arbitrary. It was evil. But damn, did it feel good!

Was this the freedom white men had once had, then lost? The freedom to say whatever they wanted to believe, no matter how racist and sexist? For the first time Phil felt some sympathy for them. To have this freedom and to lose it...no wonder they railed against the so-called tyranny of political correctness. Well, two can play that game.

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "I'll...I'll do it," he said excitedly. "I'm going to say or do whatever pops into my head.
No matter how awful. If you don't like it, safe word."

"I won't need to safe word," she scoffed. "Treat me like dirt. Don't ask permission."

"I want to sexually harass you. Pretend you haven't agreed to anything, but don't cry out or try to get any kind of help. Make only feeble attempts to fight back."

He put his hand on her tit. She closed her eyes tightly, as if in pain. He toyed with her breasts, enjoying the feel, but also enjoying humiliating her in public.

"Open your eyes, bitch," he said.

She looked at him, fear and trepidation in her eyes.

"Do you still want me to hurt you, slave?"

"Yes, master."

He lifted his hand close to her face, then quickly slapped her, right there on the street.

She looked stunned for a moment but rallied quickly. "I deserved that, master," she said proudly. She pointedly turned her head to the other side. She was literally turning the other cheek.

"You didn't deserve that. But I did," replied Phil, slapping her, harder this time, on the other cheek.

He saw her flinch, knew he was hurting her, but neither could he slap that sly grin off her face. Nor did he want to. Was this not yet another, deeper taboo? Couples spank each other, as traditional parents spank children, but slapping on the face is forbidden, an act done more to humiliate than to hurt.

A wild energy was flooding through Phil. He desired Sue in that moment more than any woman he'd ever known. But he just as desperately wanted to make her uncomfortable.

He resorted to something Sue had never agreed to do in person.

He spat in her face.

The white spot hit her in the eye, dripping down her cheek like a grim talisman. But the defilement only made her more beautiful.
Sue's expression was radiant.

To be continued