Elena and the Contract Ch 03

Elena stared at the bowl and its colorful contents for about a minute. The hot food steamed her glasses a little; with annoyance she scraped aside the artfully placed chopsticks laid across it onto the tray.

Ru had offered ramen, a roast beef sandwich, or anything else; longing for something familiar she'd chosen the former. Yet this was far different from the noodles in hot water with the good chicken packet. Half a boiled egg? What kind of lettuce is that? Is that meat... pork?

There was some vindication in the noodles themselves, long and thicker than the cheap stuff. Mom had always insisted that the 'proper' way of cooking ramen was to crush the noodles to bits in the package, over Elena's protestations. Making her own and leaving them intact felt like rebellion, but this meal was a whole revolution, not from a package at all: it smelled odd, but really good.

At least the tray had, in addition to the chopsticks, a fork and a... kind of spoon? Completely untrained in chopstick use she resolved to teach herself how, for all of forty-five seconds, before her desire to just eat outgrew her desire to figure it out. Grabbing the fork, she stabbed some meat and nibbled: yes, pork, and it tasted even better than it smelled. She dug in heartily.

The irritation at being given something unexpected when hoping for something she knew, melted into satisfaction. She'd thought she'd known what "umami" meant, like a good burger or steak, but this was beyond any of that. And alternating between fork and spoon: definitely the way to go. The bowl was two-thirds gone when she pushed back from the desk, sated.

With growing pride, she gazed down for the hundredth time that afternoon at the purplish-red cups covering her breasts. Elena had called it maroon, but Jackie had clucked her tongue no, burgundy. It was made by Empreinte, a brand totally new to her like everything else these days. It felt so, so good! The straps weren't pulling at her shoulders, the back wasn't shifting around; heck, even just breathing felt better. And this was just one of a whole bunch of new ones, all different, all super fancy and expensive, and all hers, if Mixon's word was true. Ru had whisked the bags away to wherever Mixon was deciding her outfit every day, which unnerved a little, but still. New bras.

The two hours in SweetSense had been a luxurious run through lingerie and useful things, support and shaping, and happy reassurance from her "coordinator" Jackie, a conservatively dressed platinum blonde in her early thirties. Notably she was almost but not as top-heavy as Elena.

The damned shirt, still moist from Mixon's stupid spray bottle on the subway, was never mentioned at all. Still damp (let it rot, Elena's mind chattered) it was removed and forgotten once the fitting was underway, and subtly included with her purchases afterward. Likewise, neither the leather collar nor the marks on her tits from that fucking riding crop made any noticeable impression. Which was strange, Elena thought, sure she was going to hear about the little marks all over her tits at any moment. She wondered what her answer would be when asked. Yet, nothing. Strange.

So ritzy was this operation, they saw only one customer at a time. After a lengthy fitting session combined with what Jackie laughingly called Boobie School, the effervescent saleswoman sent several different diminutive Latino men scurrying to fetch for her client these tasty little lemon cookies and a "mocktail." The older knowing blonde apologized profusely at her inability to serve alcohol to someone underage, making Elena wince.

Jackie paid her discomfort no mind and directed the staff to bring out the store's wares. Overall, it was a lush, catered experience the inexperienced Indiana girl found relaxing and satisfying. Jackie was pretty and Elena quickly liked her, put at ease by her jubilance, glad to get help from a fellow bearer of a heavy bosom.

Yet outside the subject of the store's wares and the joy of finding a good bra, Jackie seemed deliberately uninterested in personal details or conversation, for which the far-from-home girl was starving. When Elena tried to bring up being totally new in town, or gush over the new-to-her experiences of Manhattan, Jackie would quickly blink and wave to the next product available for purchase. And when Elena asked for multiples of things she liked the most, the woman had an odd look on her face as she apologized, but it was against 'his rules.'

With a sinking feeling the teenager realized Jackie probably knew what other rules might be in play. Elena was surely only one of many young girls who came to this place under contract, spending untold amounts of some old pervo's credit on expensive sex-wear. Though stung, Elena shrugged inwardly and leaned in to spending serious money.

She'd pointed and nodded yes to almost everything the small Hispanic men paraded before her, trying on most of it with brisk efficiency as the men vanished and Jackie turned her back. Just about everything went in the pile.

Full cup, demi-cup, underwire, shaped, even a strapless. Exotic lingerie and fantastic daily wear that just felt right. Foreign brand names that Jackie somehow made sound even more elite. Colors that sprinted between muted, vibrant, and odd to Elena's unrefined eye. Corsets, teddies, nightgowns, T-shirts, and a halter Elena knew she'd be spilling out of, but fuck it.

Throughout the carnival of fabric and lace Jackie was effusive in her praise of the girl's figure, complimenting the effect that finding her proper band size, twenty-eight inches, produced in her posture. With a superior lilt of one skilled in sales she informed the girl that outside this room she would have trouble finding brassieres that fit her as well. Finally granted the knowledge of what a band was supposed to look and feel like, Elena could only agree.

Ru's appearance had brought the carousel of clothes to a stop; Elena pouted only a little, knowing she couldn't complain. Jackie didn't mind so much, obviously already spending her commission in her head while she rang up Elena's haul. Despite her attempts, the proud new owner of all these expensive things failed to catch a glimpse of the bill: the register had no display facing her, and no items bore anything so gauche as a price tag. Sighing, Elena settled on trying to guess how many months' rent at Mom's house this money would cover. She'd basically lost count until realizing she had absolutely no idea how much the total cost of her purchases could be, beyond 'almost certainly four figures.' That in itself made her a little ill, but not for long. The satisfaction of successful shopping, using someone else's money no less, drove away any distraction.

The decision to wear just this Not Maroon, Burgundy full cup bra, over the skimpy jean cutoffs, out SweetSense's door by itself was made quickly. Because why the hell not, like all of Manhattan hadn't already seen her nearly naked today, her rack looked amazing, and as she'd guessed, the only walking was to the car waiting outside.

This bra wasn't lacy at all but had firm spots in just the right places to make her... pop, is all she could think. Yes, Pop is a good word. Is this what it's like, to like how you look?

Blinking out of her reverie at her desk, she blinked and glanced at its other contents beyond her meal. Next to the tray sat the e-reader, and then the laptop lacking a power cord. The computer was an ugly taunt, a connection to the busy world outside the window denied. She had the sense Mixon wanted her to feel she needed to earn lots of little shit like this, feel indebted for his beneficent graciousness should he deign to provide her with such luxuries as an internet connection. Prick.

Sighing, she grabbed the e-reader and flipped it on. Then she climbed into her small excuse for a bed; small, but comfortable, at least. He should be Mixed-Message-Son, a voice in Elena's head tittered as she thumbed through the authors on the device. Then one caught her eye, a name she thought she'd seen before. Tapping on the title she began a queer sultry summer tale of a girl who didn't know why she was in New York; she lost herself in Sylvia Plath's prose as her thumb idly rubbed at a spot on her neck where the collar had been.

A hundred pages in, the buzzer-and-light alarm made her jump. She rose, placed the reader on the desk, and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Yes, I like this bra, she breathed. Even breathing felt good. Inhaling deeply, she made her best attempt at a confident stride toward what she called the Window Room, curious to see Mixon's reaction to this new look.

Her eyes first went to the night sky, no stars but small off-white squares of others' windows, was both reassuring and intimidating, a feeling Elena couldn't put her finger on. Several paces out of her doorless room her self-assurance fled as she saw the room had been rearranged.

The oversized lounging chairs were pushed against the wall; in their place sat what sure looked like some kind of exam table, with what sure looked like the same kind of stirrups she had been in this morning at the gynecologist's. Like everything but the ornate white tub in the corner, it was covered in black leather. Most disturbingly it was placed so that she would have her legs wide open to the Hudson beyond the huge glass panes. Like, Hackensack or whatever was over there would be assisting in her examination.

Near this new unsettling object was another smaller cart on locking wheels, which had an unrecognizable grey device propped at an angle. The softball-sized spheroid bit at the top of the thing, Elena noted with moderate alarm, was about where her crotch would be in those stirrups. It didn't look like a dildo, at least. Next to it on the cart lay a coil of red rope.

Mixon lazed back into the couch, without the stupid hat but still dressed as she'd seen him at lunch. Gazing at her he toked a fat joint, his bare feet propped on the coffee table next to the silver flask.

His eyes widened at the bra, and he flashed a big smile while nodding approvingly. Elena approached on now mincing steps. Her eyes darted from the grinning wrinkled weirdo on the couch to the stirrups and back again in a rush; she had no idea what kind of expression she wore, but guessed it was fear.

"Oh, calm down, gorgeous," he called lazily, waving away her concerns through clouds of smoke. "You were in one of these earlier today."

"Yeah, with a doctor," she heard herself snarl through a stiff jaw, though with less certainty than she felt. That look on his face was back, and her anxiety started cycling upwards.

He pointed at the ground near where she'd stood last night. Suppressing a groan she stood as indicated, her eyes all over the place, taking in the lights beyond the windows as well. This mood shift wasn't welcome. Until moments ago (with the exception of microaggressions from Jackie) Elena had turned this bizarre day into something she'd kinda enjoyed after all. This reeked of bad; the idea of capping this strange-but-fun day with more pain felt like a betrayal.

But then, he'd told her he was gonna hurt her, hadn't he? She should've expected this. Fuck. Maybe asking nicely would work. "Look, Mixon... I still kinda hurt from yesterday," she lied. "Is this gonna hurt? I... Just, tell me if this is gonna hurt. Please."

Mixon coughed as he shook his head, hurking thick clouds around the whiskers jutting from his unkempt sideburns. "No, no," he cough-sang, with a condescension that pissed her off. As if thinking he'd told the truth about future agony was the foolishness of a silly little girl. Jerk.

He gulped at the flask as he recovered. "Naw, I'm going the other way tonight, baby."

Drunk again, she realized, as he grinned at her and made his eyebrows jump and wiggle. In her head a braver Elena snottily demanded to know if he practiced all these little mannerisms, if he thought they looked cool, because he was so wrong.

The real girl said nothing while the meaning of his words sank in. The other way... Oh. So, this was it, then. Sex with Mixon. Now, in that chair, and New Jersey gets to watch -- and not in a bed, but in some wack-ass doctor's chair. Super-classy Mixon! her mind screamed to the void.

Wait, she couldn't have sex for seven days, per the doctor this morning. No fucking way was she gonna be pregnant! But, oh yeah, he'd specified when he agreed to that, no vaginal. New York sex, so weird!

"Ignore that a minute," he waved at the exam table dismissively. "Do you like the reader?"

She scowled and twisted her head to one side, gaping at him. Ignore the thought of you fucking me while I'm in that... that thing there, in front of these huge windows. Okay. Sure.

"Yeah, it's cool," she said, though her tone was closer to could-give-a-fuck.

"What are you reading?"

"The Bell Jar."

"No shit," he blurted. "You're not gonna stick your head in my oven, are you?" he added with a quick bark of a laugh, but his eyes were on hers.

"No!" she spat back. "I'm eighteen, not thirteen! Yes, it's fucking bleak, no I'm not going to fucking kill myself!" She glared at him. But inside her thoughts roiled, hoping he truly knew nothing of the book: it was, she had to admit, one hundred percent not the greatest first choice of a read for a young girl fresh into New York City. The novel was a rough ride to be sure, but she was committed, never able to stop a book halfway through.

Mixon didn't speak but silently regarded her, intermittently sucking smoke from the joint, his expression slack. No longer blowing it at her face like yesterday; yet she still was noticing a loopy feeling, added to some nervous paranoia regarding telescopes in high-rises. She wasn't swaying on her feet, not like she felt like she was... Was she?

Tapping his toes together slowly, Mixon gazed levelly at her face as her mind raced. He was clearly pleased to have thrown her off, relishing in her discomfort. Ass.

"What are you going to do," she eventually asked, hearing the shake in her voice.

"I'm -- not -- tell-ing," he crooned in that silly sing-song again. "But! I tell you what, lovely El-e-na," he drew her name out in an exaggerated slur as he plopped his bare feet to the floor and leaned forward, his finger in the air to make his point. "If you get your legs up in that right now, and let me tie you to it," he held his finger still for a moment to watch Elena's reaction.

Which she didn't let show, because fuck him.

He seemed disappointed to get nothing, but barreled ahead. "If you let me do that, and you don't tell me to stop, I'll give you the power cord to the laptop."

Now she reacted, her eyes widening at the idea: she'd intended to ask him for that, but now he'd set the stakes, as she'd kind of expected. Not this soon, maybe, but still...

"Everyone will see." Involuntarily a little whine entered her voice. Pointedly craning her head, she cast her eyes through the gigantic windows at all of Manhattan and New Jersey beyond.

"Nuh-uh," he teased back, leaning to press a little raised spot on the table. The windows turned into a fuzzy impressionistic tableau. He pressed another button, and a panel in front of the exam table began to rise out of the floor.

"Motherfucker," she breathed. "Money's pretty fuckin' nice."

"It is, it is pretty fucking nice," he agreed solemnly. The panel, interrupting a third of the view on that side, rose about seven feet. Though it was entirely black Elena guessed it was a television of some kind. Isn't that the standard, for rich people to have TV's like that?

"So!" He stood suddenly, and clapped once -- it echoed loudly, startling her. "No, they're not gonna see you. But I ain't telling what I'll do once you're in this," he tapped on a stirrup.

Elena's twisted mind imagined him declaring "Look how many sluts this bad boy will hold" like a car salesman, and she giggle-whimpered in spite of her uncertainty. Mixon grinned in return and went on.

"I will stop when you beg me to, I promise, but then no laptop for a while."

"And if I say stop, that's breach, right? And it's all over?"

His smile twitched. "Nah, not this time." He sucked hard at the joint before stubbing it out. "I'm really just curious to see what'll happen. I think you're gonna quit early."

She rolled her eyes: oh yeah, call me chicken, that'll work. "Time limit," she breathed, her voice soft but hopefully communicating her resolve.

"You're pushing it." Hands on his hips now, he'd lost the goofy cadence, his tone now flat signaling an end to negotiation. She looked down at the table again and hoped that without meeting his eyes, he'd break first.

Surprising herself, she was right. "Fine, fine," he said in mock-exasperation, "an hour at most. I'll probably get bored before then and I'm sure you won't last anywhere near that long, so it's academic really." He bent and pulled out a step from the table's base. "Bra, off. Shorts. Off," he waved at Elena's body, hand on his hip again.

She closed her eyes a few seconds. Okay, no pain, sure fine let's go.

Forcing her eyes open she glanced at Mixon, read his annoyance at the delay, and sighed. Reaching back she undid the hooks (and it just slips right off so easy, this thing is so nice), watching his face as the cups slid forward and off. Turning -- and smiling a little as he eyed her profile -- she gently placed it on the coffee table.

Mixon displayed the ogling stare he'd had at lunch, a covetous lecherous hunger. Elena's nipples were hard now, she was very aware. But as her shaking hands went to the button of the cutoffs he spoke up. "Turn around."

She failed to stifle a whimper and slowly turned away from him. A memory of Rick leaped unbidden into her mind: his ugly face laughing that it was a good thing she had tits with an ass that flat. Yeah well you come too fast, she wished she'd've yelled back.

Under Mixon's stare, her own view went to a picture on his wall of framed art: a crazed mash of eyeballs and feathery wings hurtling through a broken sky. Staring that monster straight into one of its twisted pupils, she unbuttoned the shorts.

"Lean forward as they come down." He couldn't see her face, so she mouthed Fuck You at the eyeball as she bent. "More." Fuck you! She felt her boobs hanging heavily as the shorts slid from her fingers and down her legs to her feet, and she rose. "No. Stay like that. Spread your cheeks."

Ohhh, fuck you so hard. Stepping out of the shorts, she spread her stance for balance; after some nervous hesitation bent far forward again and put her hands on her butt.

"Spread." She heard him getting annoyed with her; God, this was bad. He's looking at my butthole and my pussy and I'm spreading them wide open for him, her brain was saying on repeat. For a while, because he wasn't saying anything.

Until he did, quieter and without impatience. "You're a beautiful girl, Elena. Thank you."

She wanted to take this as a cue to let go, but he'd gotten mad when she'd stopped too soon before. So she remained in position, spreading her ass for mister weirdo. "Thanks?"

A few more dreadful moments, then he spoke. "Okay. Hop up."

Straightening up quickly she let go of her ass then faced him and the exam table, pushing her glasses up her nose with a trembling hand. Elena knew she was going to do it; it was just taking a moment to get her legs to take the steps. His words alternately indicated that she was going to enjoy this, but that she wouldn't be able to handle it for too long; this just wasn't logical. But, okay.

Carefully she stepped forward, then up onto the table, lifting her legs into the stirrups. These were padded a bit better than those this morning, and the position was super vulnerable, yet not uncomfortable, almost relaxing. But being wide open and exposed like this to a man she was contracted to... This is bad.