Once upon a time, we had adjoining cubes in a fairly good sized corporation. I was IT, she was Sales, and although we shared a close proximity, we had little else in common. Back then, she would have given me the time of day just to be polite, but it was quite clear she expected me to stay in my world and leave her alone in hers.

Then she had broken up with her boyfriend. Abruptly aware of me as a male, she seemed to toy with the idea of becoming more than acquaintances. We began having fairly personal conversations, and she even started flirting with me. I, of course, was thrilled with this change in her attitude, but it was short lived. She ended up mending the fences with her boyfriend, and I was seriously resentful when I was relegated back to “Coworker, embarrassing, avoid if possible” status.

Still, there was little I could do. We each lived our own lives, and I knew from the beginning that my chances with this goddess were slim to none. After a few weeks of nursing my injured pride, life was back to business as usual, and while I still harbored fantasies of her changing her attitude and realizing I was the best thing for her, our relationship normalized back to purely professional.

Until I won $87 million in the Lottery.

Oddly enough, I always assumed that I was the type that, upon winning the Lottery, would waltz into work the next day, tell everyone off, quit on the spot, and move to someplace where girls wore bikinis year-round. Instead, it didn’t seem to hit me right away. I took a personal day to go down to the Capitol and verify my winning ticket. They arranged for money to be in my accounts within two weeks, and I just nodded, signed the form, took some photo ops, and went home.

Not being very photogenic and fairly awful at theatric performance, I was never asked to do any sort of advertisement for the Lottery Commission, which suited me quite well. The next morning I got up with my alarm clock, I showered, dressed, and went to work.

Perhaps it is a reflection of my introverted nature, but I never found myself wanting to share the news with my coworkers of the landfall that had come my way. Nor, for some reason, did I quit, although my attitude may have been a bit more carefree, now that I knew I no longer needed a job. If anything, my newfound confidence seemed to make me more popular with management. It felt wonderful to be the only one in the office in on this private joke of mine. This is not to say I did nothing with the money, as I had already invested a significant amount, which in a short time was already showing impressive returns.

I did toy with the idea more than once of trying to impress the lady now fellating me with my recent luck, but the idea of her being interested in me because I was rich was most unattractive, so I never said a word.

Four months passed, and no one was the wiser. I was considering purchasing a house, but still living in my apartment, when late one evening I received a visitor.

Expecting no company, I was shocked to be greeted by name by a sharply dressed gentleman and his gorgeous companion, a 5’10” brunette with the face and figure of a supermodel, but dressed like a porn star. He politely asked for a few moments of my time, and not about to turn a vision like her away, I numbly agreed.

It changed my life like the money never did.

He laid his spiel on me. I had attracted their attention because I had come into a significant amount of cash and had kept it low-key—which was the type of customer they preferred. At this point I figured he was just another one of the shady opportunists that I had had to deal with in those first few weeks after winning the jackpot, but then he told me what he was selling.

Slaves.

Say what? I said.

Yes slaves, he said. Consider Veronica here. Beautiful, isn’t she? She will do anything I command, with no hesitation or argument, he said. Her large brown eyes seemed completely transfixed of him, not reacting to his misogynistic declaration at all.

Yeah right, was my silent response. I wish.

His cultured eyebrow raised expressively at the implicit challenge written on my features, and he smiled. His own expression reminded me of the car salesman that had lured me into engaging him on price, sure that he could make the deal. That guy had read me like a book, too. I still had that car.

Turning to Veronica, he told her that she was my property for the next 24 hours. She nodded serenely, murmuring “Yes Master”. Focusing back on me, he told me he would return the following evening to discuss the “offering”.

Then he left. Me. And her. My slave, pro-tem. Whose gaze was now riveted on me.

Hardly daring to believe, I started out timidly. I asked her for a glass of water, which she leaped to provide. She returned from the kitchen moments later and knelt in front of me, glass of water in her hand as she offered it up to me with an eager smile.

With trembling hands, I took the glass from her and thanked her. I had never understood comparing a smile to the sun until that point. The joy expressed in her smile upon pleasing me dazzled and humbled me.

I took a few sips, looking uncomfortably through the glass at this incredible woman still kneeling at my feet.

So what sorts of things can I tell you to do? I asked, unwilling to accept a lack of limitations after a whole life of clearly defined boundaries.

Anything, was the immediate response.

Anything, including killing somebody, or yourself, or parading down the street naked? I asked, hypothetically of course—although truthfully, the idea of seeing her naked was highly intriguing and had long since captured my imagination.

Yes, Master, was her response, although she qualified immediately after that if she did any of those things, she probably would not be able to serve me any more. I experienced yet another humbling moment as I entertained the notion for the first time that this “offering” might be legitimate. My resolve to test the limitations of her servitude crystallized.

Still, being a cautious sort of fellow, especially in the hitherto unexplored arena of the modern-day slave trade, I asked a series of questions, determined to discover the “catch.” Would I be held responsible for your actions, would this “slavery” attitude wear off, was it easy to break, et cetera, all aimed to discover my true question: Would I find myself dealing with serious repercussions if I pushed just a little too far?

Her responses were clear and no-nonsense. She was aware that she had been “treated” like many before her, and even so she could not imagine disobeying her master, even if her master required her to take her own life to prove her loyalty. She expected, even anticipated, her service to take sexual form. Her loyalty and obedience could not be broken by any means that she knew. Pure trust and confidence radiated from those liquid brown eyes. It was hard to meet her gaze. I was undeserving of such devotion.

The time for the acid test had come.

Strip, was my simple command, my trousers uncomfortably tight.

With her serene smile, she quickly divested herself of every last stitch of clothing and kneeled back down in her original position, awaiting my next directive. Her eyes were cast down, but a small, satisfied smile played across her exquisite lips.

I commanded her to undress me.

My dear reader, you cannot envision the erotic pleasure of being undressed by a nude slave that is committed to nothing but your pleasure. I certainly cannot describe it. She did everything in her power to make it powerfully sensual, slow... I experienced a transition from the sweet agony of my need to torturous pleasure of her skin on mine as she gently removed each piece of clothing. To this day I do not know how I withstood the temptation to leap on her halfway through.

I have no idea how long it took for her to undress me, it could have been minutes or hours, but after a time, I stood before her, naked, as she submissively kneeled in front of me. My erection pointed straight at her forehead and her gaze seemed transfixed by it.

I told her I would appreciate a blowjob. Her smile said that she would appreciate it too.

Within seconds, my flesh was in her mouth, and I was doing all I could to keep my knees from buckling. Finally (it couldn’t have been any more than a few minutes) I had to sit down in my easy chair to keep from passing out. Her supple hands caressed my thighs as she varied her rhythm on my shaft. Hard suction, soft, long strokes of deepthroating, some shallow, occasionally keeping me on edge by stroking me with her hands as she paid attention to my scrotum or balls... it was heaven, or hell, depending on the precise moment one would ask.

Finally, there was a point I could no longer take the pressure. I grabbed her head and forced her down on me. She immediately allowed me to essentially fuck her face, sucking hard and swirling her tongue around as much of me as she could. The sensation of basically masturbating myself with her mouth overcame my resistance and I came into her with a force I had never experienced before.

Minutes later, as she was gently lapping at crotch, having happily swallowed my seed with no hint of hurt or embarrassment, I accepted the dapper gentleman’s outrageous statement as fact. And I was definitely hooked.

Veronica had been a delight, but my little goddess put her to shame. There was something powerful in knowing what she had been, and how different it was from her current state. Veronica could never truly be mine, she was just a sales gimmick that worked extraordinarily well. Jennifer, on the other hand, was custom-remade for me.

My slave sensed the change in my excitement and increased the intensity and speed of my fellatio. Her head was now bobbing up and down, burying me to the root between her lips, with a low humming coming from deep in her throat. Reminiscence fled from me as I allowed my pleasure to drown out rational thought, and with a gasp I came into her expectant mouth. As always, she accepted my sperm without complaint or comment, and just as quickly as I jetted into her, she swallowed it.

I allowed her to spend a few more minutes cleaning me up with her dexterous tongue (mostly from habit, as there was actually very little mess) and then told her to start preparing my dinner. Without a word, she stood and sauntered sexily into the kitchen.

Veronica willingly allowed me to experience things none of my previous girlfriends had permitted, like a full introduction into the realm of anal sex, even some bondage and discipline. It was obvious that some of what we tried was at best uncomfortable to her, and at worst very painful, but she made it clear that I had a complete right to do whatever I wished with her. I naturally called in sick the next morning so that I might leverage the full 24 hours to its utmost, unsure of what was going to happen when the refined gentleman returned.

Precisely 24 hours after he had left Veronica with me, my doorbell rang again. I invited him in, offered him refreshment, which he politely declined. He waited until I sat down.

So? he asked, his cheshire grin saying he already knew I was hooked.

How much? was my immediate response, not bothering with the pretense of being undecided. I had already determined I was prepared to go as high as two million dollars for Veronica.

The standard package (like my good friend Veronica there) was a mere three hundred thousand, he said. For this you got to select among a large catalogue of lovely women.

I blinked, thinking it was Veronica that had been for sale. I hadn’t realized this was a commercial, assembly-line sort of enterprise. Then Veronica is just a floor model? I asked.

He smirked at my choice of words. Indeed she was, he said, although she was certainly available for purchase as well. He cautioned me to view the catalog before settling, however, warning that while Veronica was exceptional, I might discover one even more alluring to me.

Handing me a white binder filled with photos (some semi-dressed, some tasteful nudes, some blatantly sexual), he invited me to inspect the merchandise. If I was undecided between two or three, he said, he could bring me to them to make a final decision.

Looking up, I asked the next obvious question: what if I wanted two or three?

Again he smiled, and told me company policy was one purchase per customer per year... otherwise the very rich and very foolish would have harems and the rest of us millionaires would have nothing. I nodded at the fairness of the policy.

On the last page of the binder, where there was typically a photo with a small datasheet, was a large question mark? Once more he smiled as I showed it to him in askance.

He explained that for only another hundred and fifty thousand, I could select someone who was not in the catalogue, contingent on management’s approval—they weren’t the type to take chances with exposure.

What?

Sure, he said. Hadn’t there been anyone that I wanted to own? A high school crush, perhaps? An ex-girlfriend? A resistant co-worker?

“A resistant co-worker” reverberated in every fiber of my being. The moment he suggested it, I knew I wanted Jennifer. To have her like Veronica, waiting on my every desire, eager to please me above all else... I closed the book.

I told him about Jennifer. What had almost happened between us, how I was almost acceptable, but not quite—the bitterness I felt. He was properly commiserating. He asked for as much information as I could provide him about her, and then promised to see if management could clear it. Collecting Veronica (I was sorry to see her go, but she was already transfixed back on the salesman), he promised he would be in touch within a week’s time.

It was destined to be the longest week of my life.

Going to work the next day was so incredibly difficult. I couldn’t stop thinking about owning Jennifer, excited like a five year old kid the week before Christmas, hoping he’d be getting the toy of his dreams.

Luckily, the salesman came back after only two days and told me that there would be no problem. I was surprised and gratified by the quick response. I handed him a cashier’s check for the down payment of a hundred grand, and the next day, Jennifer gave her notice.

My patience was tested to its absolute limits for those two weeks. Even knowing the job that had been offered her at three times her current rate was completely fake, even knowing she would soon be the property of yours truly, I could barely contain my excitement.

Even on her last day, as she made her rounds and said goodbye to everyone, the urge to tell her I’d be seeing her again soon was almost overpowering. Knowing the “treatment” would still take another two weeks, I despaired for being able to last that long.

This is not to say I wasn’t busy. The day Jennifer gave her notice, I made an offer on a secluded house in a wooded area of upstate New York, offering cash and wanting to close in a month. Considering that the house had been on the market for over eight months, the owners quickly accepted my offer. The day Jennifer left, I gave my notice, which I’m gratified to say my boss didn’t take very well. He even offered me a significant raise, but I remained firm.

My last day of work, I made the rounds, said my goodbyes, hopped in my car, and drove the eight hours to my new house, staying in a nearby hotel. First order of business the next morning, I signed the papers, got the keys, shook the lawyers’ hands, and drove to my new home.

I had a housewarming present waiting for me.

Not bothering to question how she had gotten in my house without the key, I appreciated my new slave from the doorway as she knelt silently in the middle of my barren living room, wearing a white lace teddy, compliments of my favorite salesman.

After a moment’s pause, I strode into the room and reached out to touch her cheek. She sighed in pleasure as she pressed her face into my hand.

“Master” was the only word she said.

It was the only one she needed.

My Jennifer. My slave. My pleasure, forever. And all it had taken was a dollar and a dream.