the ladystouch Third Level 2 Assignment

[H Dean]

I welcome any light on this problem, even H Dean's.

You shall suffer for this!

Again, thank you both so much for all the time and thought you put into helping aspiring writers like me. I can't imagine the amount of time you must devote to this site. I can only tell you it matters--a lot.

You are quite welcome for the aid. It is quite nice to receive such comments as these. You make me blush like a little girl.

[theladystouch]

You are quite welcome for the aid. It is quite nice to receive such comments as these. You make me blush like a little girl.

Hmmm...trying to imagine Mean Dean as a blushing little girl. My mind boggles!

[theladystouch]

You shall suffer for this!

Gee, I thought I already did. You mean you tore my story apart BEFORE you saw this comment? <wry grin>

[theladystouch]

Thanks again, H Dean, for your constructive critique. I've taken most of your advice, though I did disagree with one point (I'm sure you are shocked ).

Steve is not passive, because he hasn't accepted his slavery. I've tried to make his duress a little more obvious. Please let me know if this works. Anyway, since the manager knows he is under duress, I felt he would take sadistic pleasure in the cat-and-mouse power game. Opinions? AG? HD?

So, without further ado, here is my rewrite:


Steve stood outside the metal door, waiting, running his hand through his short, dark hair. There was nothing else to do. The door in front of him was as innocent of a doorknob as the one behind him. And the blank white walls offered no distraction.

He knew he shouldn’t get angry. Anger was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Accepting his situation was the only option that made any sense. But Steve knew that this delay was intentional, and he resented it. He was aware of his status; there was no need to remind him this way. His belly roiled as his mind skittered down the well-worn and useless paths. Discouraged, he wondered if he would ever reconcile himself to his situation. Finally, with a skill born of long practice, he schooled himself to patience.

Eventually, that patience was rewarded, and the door in front of him opened. Erasing the signs of his inner turmoil, Steve marched into the room beyond. The same utilitarian anonymity marked this room, save it was larger…and the man in the grey, worsted suit offered plenty of distraction.

The decor was white and chrome, and was clearly not designed for comfort. But, then, Steve had no expectation of comfort in this interview.

“Hello, Steve. Be seated.” He silently followed the order, his manner tense and guarded. The manager was new to the company, leaving Steve wary and uncertain.

The heavyset man in the suit took the other chair, sat, and perched a pair of dark-framed reading glasses on his aquiline nose. His iron-grey hair was brushed back from his temples, framing and emphasizing heavy jowls. He opened the folder on the table. “I’ve been reviewing your file, and it seems your performance has improved only marginally.”

“Sir, there have been extenuating circumstances. Some of the intelligence I received was inaccurate, causing the security breach. But, Sir,” Steve said, desperation creeping into his voice, “I’ve always been told the quality of the slaves I deliver is excellent.”

“Yes,” the man conceded. “That is true. You do seem to have a knack for training these girls. You manage to deliver obedient slaves who haven’t had their spirit broken. But I cannot overstate the risk you exposed the company to when you allowed a trainee to escape.”

“Yes, Sir,” Steve dropped his gaze, shifting nervously in his chair.

“It seems your performance was deemed substandard last year, as well.”

“Yes, Sir, but—” he bit off his reply as the man raised his hand, gesturing for silence.

Steve quietly fumed. Last year’s review had been patently unfair; the result of professional jealousy from a superior who felt threatened by his competence. It didn’t matter. The results were the same: he had been forbidden to see his sister, Fran, for an entire year.

He couldn’t face another year without seeing her. Fran, thirteen years younger, had always been the delight of his life. He missed her terribly, and felt responsible for her. She worked at the company headquarters in Montreal, having no idea what his work entailed; and he intended to keep it that way. She must never know that she was hostage to his continued good behavior. As usual, thinking of Fran left him feeling agitated and powerless. As long as the company controlled her, they controlled him.

The man in the suit made a production of appearing to weigh his decision carefully. Steve was certain this was intentional. A cat playing with a cornered mouse. His gut tightened, sweat breaking out under his arms and between his shoulder blades. He tried hard to hide his anxiety, knowing he had failed when the big man smiled.

“In cases like this, where the decision is too close to call, I like to allow a little input from the subject.”

He stood, turned away from the table, and, grasping the tab of his zipper, slowly lowered it, opening his trousers. Reaching in, he pulled out his flaccid cock, and, turning to Steve, said, “Suck my dick, slave. Prove to me you are competent at something, and maybe I’ll decide you’re worth the trouble of retraining.”

Steve hit his knees, and proceeded to earn another chance at a favorable performance review.