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From: "Louis Nessus" <nessus29@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Nessus RP: Wicked Game 1 (FD CB Mast Magic)
Date: Thu,  4 Jan 2001 17:10:03 -0500
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This story is intended for the enjoyment of adults over the age of 18 or 
whatever the legal age is in your part of the universe. It contains fantasy 
scenes of graphic sexual activity.   Please, if you are under the age of 18, 
or if you will be offended by such material, use your intelligence and read 
no further - delete the file.  Otherwise ....enjoy!


The Wicked Game Chronicles:
Book 1.
The Devil and Mr Brownlow.
(Part 1.)

by Nessus

FemDom Mast Humil CB Magic


I had a difficult beginning but now, at twenty-six years of age, I was 
starting to move up. Growing up in the tough streets of London, I had never 
envisaged that I would be, some day, living in New York.  A guiding teacher 
in my early years had shown me that education was the only way out of the 
slums and I had devoted myself to books by day while working as a waiter in 
London's East End at night. It was hard and lonely but finally, I completed 
my Honours Degree in Economics and looked forward to a good future, 
determined to never be more again.

With no time for relationships and only my books and old movies to keep me 
company, I had honed my accent to present myself as a most suitable 
candidate for a position in one of the cities old firms. Accents are the 
badge of your place in life in England and I had cultivated a upper class 
aristocratic rhythm to my speech. Eagerly, I discussed my future with many 
recruiters from the various companies after graduation but I was surprised 
to be the most pursued by an American giant headquartered in New York.

New York, the heart of the new empire and a city that had fascinated me 
since I first saw Gene Kelly dance through its streets in the movies. I 
wondered briefly why they were after me but I told myself  I had the 
academic qualifications and I think my polished accent, boyish good looks 
and shy manners impressed the female recruiter as well.

After a great deal of psychological testing, I was accepted and here I am, 
ensconced in my little cubicle on the eleventh floor and working on 
marketing segmentation plans for a company that dominates the marketplace. I 
vowed never to return to London permanently, New York was to become my new 
home. I also vowed to reach the thirty-seventh floor executive suites one 
day as well.

The company took good care of my move and allowed me stay in a small 
apartment owned by the company at a reduced rental. I had twelve months in 
that apartment, laughingly referred to as the College Dorm by staff, while I 
searched New York for that elusive perfect apartment. I promised myself I 
would be out of the Dorm well within a year.

The President of the Marketing Unit was Lucy Duivel, a woman who had a 
meteoritic , and, it was whispered, the most ruthless woman on Wall Street. 
I had glimpsed her once in the lobby as I pushed towards the lifts, (sorry, 
elevators), as she strode regally to the executive elevator that would whisk 
her to the thirty-seventh level. Tall, elegant, aged early to mid thirties, 
she was the epitome of a New York power woman.

The staff was nice to me in that broad expansive American way but left me 
alone. I am shy and find it difficult to mix with people so that suited me 
very well indeed as I had a magical city to explore. And what a city it is. 
Immediately, I fell in love with its toughness, its brashness and its many 
quirky corners. New York would be home.

After a month of working solidly, I had a surprise visit from the mail 
clerk, Donna.

"Hi, Mr Brownlow," she said as she wheeled her mail cart to the desk. Donna 
was a shy young girl who delivered snail mail to all desks and was the 
youngest employee in the Baden Building in which we all worked.

With a coy smile, she dropped a  gilt edged invitation to dinner with the 
Chairman on my desk. Shocked, I stared at it. Christopher Brownlow and 
partner it said and I wondered why I had been invited. More importantly, I 
also wondered where I would find a date.

Nervously, I asked Troy, my workgroup leader, why I was invited to dinner 
with the Chairman. He laughed loudly when I had stuttered my way through the 
question. "Relax, Christopher, its not a little intimate dinner. There'll be 
about a hundred people there, buddy." Troy affected the weary air of an 
experienced older brother, one that I found irritating but had to accept, as 
he was my boss. He impressed upon me his vast experience with women but I 
suspected it was a facade and, underneath the false persona, he was, like 
myself, quite shy and inexperienced.

I sighed with relief. "But, why?"

"The Chairman and his executive team like to welcome all the new graduate 
recruits. You won't get to talk to Will Macintosh or any of his execs  but 
you've got to go, man. If you want up the ladder, you can't be a no show."

Sometimes I found it a little difficult to actually understand what my 
colleagues said but I managed to receive the gist of his message. "It's 
mandatory?"

"Huh?"

"I have to go?"

"I just said that. You'll dazzle them with that royal charm of yours. Get 
your dinner suit out and enjoy yourself." He returned to his computer 
screen.

I cleared my throat. "Do I have to take a date?"

"This is New York. You show stag and you'll be talked about in every 
restroom in this god dam building. Especially, you, English Tom," he 
grinned. Apparently, one of the office wags had started the rumour that I 
was the young British cousin of Tom Cruise and several young ladies had 
fallen for it.

I looked around the department's workstations. "I suppose I could ask one of 
the ladies here," I said.

"What!" Troy spun around to face me, shocked. "Man, you can't do that. You 
have to look like you're out there, networking, that you know people."

"But I've only been here a month."

"So?"

"I don't know anyone."

"Oh, that's the problem. No worries. Here." He slid a small card across the 
desk and I picked it up.

"Escorts?"

"Sure. They're the best. Will cost you but you'll get a classy lady that can 
talk to anyone. Tell them I sent you."

Slowly, I walked out of his office, clutching the card. Nervously, I placed 
the call and made the arrangements for the following Friday evening. I felt 
better when I understood that my date would be a young woman called Judy 
Daimon who had majored in Banking and Finance. This was going to work out 
fine.
End Part 1.

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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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