Peppermint Chapter 4
This is the fourth chapter in the Peppermint series; if you have not already read the preceding three, I suggest that you do so; if nothing else it will give you the context for what happens to Aimee in this chapter.
As always, during text conversations, my own messages are shown in bold type, and Deborah and Aimee’s in italics.
As always, the “you” referred to in my narrowing is Deborah, the woman who led me down this path.
A few days had passed; nothing of any interest occurred during them; although tempted, I decided not to contact you. I also ignore Aimee, although the desire to meet her and fuck her weighed heavily in my mind. I just went to work, endured a fusillade of cached taunts every breaktime from Charlize and her friends, the Murder of Crows, worked on my house and played my guitar. As much as I enjoyed the latter two activities and tolerated theFirst easily enough, the second was beginning to annoy me. The ridiculousness of it didn’t both me but the homophobic tone of the abuse did. Although not being gay myself, I dreaded to think how someone who was might suffer under the sharp focus of the cruelty. The verbal had developed from sly hints and barbed questions to open hostility; barbed slurs that would have hurt someone of a more sensitive disposition than my own. The reality of it was that the Murder actually knew nothing about me and my lack of response to their jibes annoyed them almost as much as it mystified them. After a visit from a concerned colleague (who assured me that nobody else in the factory cared that I was gay, despite my assurances that I was not) who said that he’d take it up with HR if it didn’t end soon, I decided to put an end to it. The method I’d chosen would, I thought, be very effective; I wasn’t going to use aggression or complain to the management – I was going to use Aimee.
To this end Ihad messaged her a curt few sentences, instructing her to dress as if for a formal business meeting and to take a picture of herself sat at her work desk. This she had done, and the result could not have been any closer to my expectations. The image showed her perched on the edge of her desk, wearing black fuck-me boots, a tight pencil skirt and a short black bolero jacket. Under the jacket a blue and white striped work bloom (well fitted, naturally) hinted at the general swell of her breasts, her fine silver chain showing in the upper fraction of her cleavage. Her hair was wound tied back into a loose ponytail, her usual dark brown waterfall retreated into a manageable stream that coursed over her left shoulder. Perfect for my purposes, I decided. I sent her another message; not words of thanks, but of instruction.
You need to begin to work on the third task, Aimee.
Yes, Jack. I will. Her reply came immediately, as I had known it would.
I will telephone you at work tomorrow at lunch time. Be sure to answer immediately.
The following day I ensured that each element of my plan was in place. I made certain that the Murder saw me as I arrived at the factory. Usually I was there way before they arrived; they liked to hang on until the last minute, hanging around by the fire exit, smoking and exchanging gossip, commenting unfortunately on Those who arrived for work and have to walk through their group. The arrival of this infuriated me – they were in their thirties, for Christ’s sake, and should have been beyond such pettiness.
“Oooh, you’re late this morning, Jack. Did you have a late night over at your boyfriend’s place?” Charlize barked the question and sure enough her sidekicks’ shrink laughter cracked across the car park and echoed off the concrete. “Here, Vikki, check to see if he’s walking funny!” Charlize ordered a minion, who produced her phone and began to video me as I made my way through their number and towards the door.
“I dunno, Char, what do you reckon? The big lump always walks like he’s shit himself, don’t he?” Vikki was known for her loud voice and her Croydon facelift. I ignored her, opened the door and walked to my workstation, the echoes of their laughter becoming quieter as I made my way to my lathe. Once my ear defenders went on and I began machining my thoughts turned to my plan for lunchtime. Swarf poured from the lathe and formed a convoluted pattern before breaking off in clumps. Between pieces I swept it, discarded, into a plastic bin, a habit that I knew drew derision from some of my workmates for being “too tidy”. In my eyes, though, a tidy mind equaled a tidy workplace, and a tidy workplace equaled a tidy mind. It was also safer; the edges of the curls of swarf could be as sharp as razors, and a nasty cut could be suffered if it built up around the lathe chuck. A sloppy approach could, I found, often lead to an unexpected consequence.
* * * *
An unexpected consequence was what occurred when Charlize approached me at my table in the corner of the break room at lunchtime and slapped my newspaper out of my hands, plonking herself down at the table next to me. I ignored her.
“Here’s the thing, Jack. We don’t like queers here. We think you should fuck off and leave us straight people to it”, she whispered. I assume she whispered because she knew full well that “we” certainly didn’t mean everyone in the workforce and that she’d be put rightfully in her place if she was overheard. “You’ve got two days to find another job, because if you’re still here on Friday afternoon my boyfriend’s going to kick your fucking teeth in”. With that she made to rise from her seat, saying “You haven’t even got the balls to stand up for yourself, have you? You’re pathetic; a pathetic queer bastard with no fucking balls”.
At this I looked at her for the first time. “Charlize, please don’t make the mistake of judge my sexuality. Furthermore, it should be of no interest or concern to you. As it happens, I have something to show you”. I too spoke quietly; there was no need to cause a disorder, and the impact of what I was about to do would be all the more effective for being done unobserved by any colleagues.
Curiosity got the better of her and she sat back down. “I’ll judge you any way I want, you sad little man. What are you going to do about it?”.
I opened my phone and showed her the picture of Aimee in her business clothes.
“So what? A picture of some tart from the internet? What am I supposed to be looking at?” Charlize was unimpressed.
“This is not ‘some tart from the internet’, as you so politely put it, Charlize. This is my…. slut.”
Charlize’s cache of disbelief rang through the break room. “In your dreams, freak! What would a woman like that have to do with a fucking bender like you?” She barely managed to force herself to whisper.
“I assure you”, I replied, “that this is Aimee. She is my slut”.
“Go on then, fucking prove it!”. Victorious delight showed on Charlize’s thin face. She obviously didn’t believe a word of it. “That’s just a picture of some woman you’ve found online and you think I’m fucking dumb enough to swallow some bullshit about her being your slut? Fuck off!”
Ignoring her derision, I selected Aimee’s name from my contacts list and said “We can video call her, if you like. You can see what she has to say”.
“By all means, if you want to make yourself look even more of a weird sad-sack than you already are, go ahead, Jack”. The disbelief was still write large on her face.
I tapped the screen and after a few short moments Aimee answered the call. She was sat at her office desk and wearing a white blouse with a black bra showing pretty through it, her hair once again the familiar shiny brown waterfall. I glanced towards Charlize, whose cruel grin had been replaced by a look of uncertainty.
“Hello, Aimee. I have someone here I want you to meet. She doesn’t believe that you are my slut. Explain”. My voice had taken on the authoritative tone that I used when communicating with Aimee; Charlize’s gaze flicked towards me in surprise as she heard it. I angled the phone to allow her to see Aimee’s image clearly.
“I’m Aimee, and I’m Jack’s slut”, she said, without hesitation or embarrassment. “Jack tells me what he wants me to do, and I do it. I need him to treat me cruelly, like a slut should be treated. He hurts my body and belittles me; he makes me expose myself in public and make me orgasm for his entertainment. I’m his slut and I enjoy our arrangement. Who are you? You don’t look like his usual type at all”.
Charlize’s smile was completely absent now. “Jesus, Jack, I knew you were a fucking weirdo but that’s just… fucked up”.
“You have no idea, Charlize. Watch; Aimee, unbutton your blouse, remove your left breast from your bra and suck the nipple”. Aimee immediately began to comply, showing no disappoint at being ordered to self-gratify at her desk, swiftly undoing several buttons and easing the lightly-tanned flesh from the cup of her bra, raising her nipple to her mouth and running her tongue over it before sucking it into her mouth. “Are you convinced, Charlize?” I asked, before instructing Aimee to go back to work and ending the call.
“Fuck you, Jack. How fucking dare you make me look a fool like that? Not your usual type? I though boys were your type but it seems mental women with huge tits are more your idea of fun”.
“It would be in your best interests to leave me alone, Charlize. I have done nothing to offend, insult or upset you. However, enough is now enough. There is a lot you don’t know about me, and I suggest you keep it that way. Furthermore, I do not respond well to threats, and I will not be seeking alternative enjoyment. It would be best if your boyfriend did not appear here on Friday afternoon. I’m sure he has enough problems in his life without adding injury to the list”. Charlize received this in stunned silence before rising finally from her seat and stalking away from me. I picked up my newspaper from where it lay, smoothed the pages down and recommended reading. Before long the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch and the beginning of another four hours’ work.
* * *
Thursday evening had arrived; tomorrow was the day of Charlize’s ultimatum. I’d heard nothing more from her or the Murder of Crows since I’d challenged their leader, but neither had I reason to believe that her boyfriend had been called off. If anything I expected a visit from him in retaliation for my embarrassment of Charlize, but I wasn’t worried. I am a man of few talents, but being fast and distributed are two that I do possess. Should he be sent to cause issues the following day I was confident that I could hold my own against him. I had walked home in the autumnal gloom, receiving a message from Aimee as I made my way through the streets:
Jack, It’s Aimee. Sorry to disturb you but I am ready to carry out your next instruction. I have the items that you instructed me to get. The username you need is AimeeIsJacksSlut@bucksheemail.com and the password is Pepper.Mint32. I will be ready at any time after 6.30pm; I have told my colleagues I will be here late in order to conduct a video call with a contact in Sao Paulo.
This was good; it means that Aimee had purchased what she needed and was ready to further humiliate herself for my entertainment, surrendering control of the circumstances without hesitation or question. The fact that she would be doing so whilst at her workplace added further interest but was not of huge significance in the grand scheme of things – it just told me that she valued her role as a bottom very highly, something which came as no surprise.
Good. I will video call you thisEvening. Be ready. Make sure your door is locked.
I returned home, shown and changed. I prepared my evening meal and ate it whilst reading my book. It was fully dark by the time I opened my laptop and checked my emails and did some online shopping. Following this I sat on my sittee and entered the details that Aimee had provided into an app that had been installed on my phone a couple of days Previously. I left the app open and began a video call to Aimee from my laptop.
* * * *
Aimee answers immediately. As instructed, she is sitting at her desk, wearing a black pinstriped jacket, the neckline pumping, her hair tied behind her head in a bun. Her makeup is carefully applied in the style that I prefer, eyes darkened with kohl and eyeshadow. Her lipstick is a red so dark that it looks almost purple. She looks at once sophisticated, alluring and expensively trashy, and my pulse quickens at the sight of her, presented just as I liked to see her. Behind her I can see through her window, the buildings of the City tall and ostentatious in the evening sky, artistically lit to enhance their looming presence over the skyline. Aimee’s office is scrupulously tidy, reflecting her status as someone senior enough not to have to share with others. It is lit warmly but not overly brightly by ceiling lights, and comfortablely furnished.
“Aimee, place your phone on the windowsill and switch it to the speaker setting. You will then return to your desk and sit quietly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Jack”, she replies, “I understand”. I watch as she stands, walks the three paces to the glass wall and places her phone against it. After a few seconds the camera angle is reversed and I see her walking away, back towards her desk, standing deeply behind it next to an expensive swivel chair. As instructed, she is wearing a short skirt that matches the jacket and a pair of her signature sheer black hold-ups. I cannot see her feet yet I know they will be encased in the kitten-heeled shoes that I like so much.
“Good. You will now remove your jacket”. She does so, unbuttoning it slowly, shrugging it from her delightful shoulders and placing it carefully on the back of the chair. I can see that she has followed my instructions and is wearing a dark red plumge bra, the colour both a contrast and compliment to the shade of her skin, without a blouse or shirt above it. Her breasts swell against the well-fitted cups, the straps sanguinary conduits from the honeys of her clavicles. I wonder if it an off-the-peg item or whether she has had bespoke underwear made. Either way, it is time to push Aimee’s subscription a step further, I think.
“Aimee, you will set up the camera I instructed you to purchase on the edge of your desk”. My voice is harsh and commanding, brooking no disagreement. I see Aimee shiver slightly at the sound of it, a spray of goosebumps peppering the skin of her forearms. She bends down and takes a small action camera from her desk drawer and erects a miniature tripod. The camera is clipped in place and Aimee arranges it so that the chair is framed by the lens. A softly blinking red LED confirms that it is recording. I will review the footage when I am sent it afterwards, I think, before I send it to you and claim my reward; Aimee’s humiliation and orgasm tonight earn me that.
“Good. Tonight, Aimee, I am going to make you degrade, mark and humiliate yourself. You will beg me to allow you to hurt yourself for my amusement. Do you confirm that you give consent, want and need me to treat you in that way?”
“Yes, Jack. I want you to make me hurt myself for you to enjoy. I want you to humiliate me and use me cruelly. I Just wish you were here so that you could fuck me afterwards”. She is already needy, enveloped in the role that will bring her satisfaction.
“All in good time, Aimee. You may start by sitting and explaining to your camera who you are and what youare” I say, nodding to myself as I see her instantly slipping into her seat and making ready to address the camera. “You will remove your breasts from your bra and pull hard on your piercings whilst you do this”.
I watch as Aimee carefully lifts each breast from her bra, allowing them to be pushed up and forward by the disabled cups. I privately agreed with your assessment of Aimee’s breasts; full, inviting and no doubt enviable. I recall how you looked at them, how you handled them and the soft tone of near-awe in your voice as you regard them. Many women would indeed wish for breasts like these, large, well-shaped and inviting. Aimee’s slim fingers toy briefly with the silver bars that pass through each nipple before taking a deep breath and pulling them forward as far as she feels able. The weight of her breastflesh causes them to exert a greater pull on each dark nipple, heightening her first taste of the evening’s promised pain. The anticipation is clear on her face.
“I am Aimee”, she says, without hesitation, her voice low and measured, cultured and expensive-sounding. “I am, amongst other things, a slut. I have been given to Jack by Deborah, who wishes him to treat me in any way he sees fit. I want him to make me scream with pain, to force me to hurt myself, for his pleasure. I want him to force me to make myself orgasm for him. I want him to make me beg. I hope that if I continue to please him he will fuck me, make me his whore. I want him to paint me in his come, to cover my face, tits and hair in his sperm. I want him to use me and humiliate me. I want Jack to fuck me until I cannot stand. I want to choke myself on his penis”. Here she pauses briefly and raises her hands, further stretching the skin of her nipples. “I will do whatever Jack tells me to do, behave in whatever manner he requires and accept the consequences without question. I am Jack’s slut.”
As she speaks the last sentence I jab my finger onto the screen of my phone, using the app to trigger the remote vibrator that I had instructed Aimee to wear that day. Immediately she jolts upright in her seat at the burst of stimulation. I leave the machine running at full power for a few seconds, watching as her arousal grows, before cutting the intensity back to minimum.
“Aimee, explain what happened then”, I command,
“I’m wearing a remotely controlled vibrator and Jack just switched it on. It feels good. It makes me feel like a complete slut to sit here whilst Jack controls me. I want him to make me come for him, like a good slut would”.
I instruct Aimee to let go of her nipples, which she does with obvious reluctance. They are already swelling along with her desire.
“Take the bulldog clips and attach one to each nipple, Aimee”. I see her reach again into the drawer of her desk and remove two large stainless steel clips. Silently and carefully she plays the strongly-sprung jaws of the first clip, raising it to her left breast. She gasps loudly as she releases the grips, feeling the spring pressure impacting the delicious skin and flesh of the engorged nipple, mashing it against the silver bar. It obviously hurts; a tremor in her chef suggests that the pain is significant, but other than this and a quickening in her breathing she gives no indication of it. Still, she is slow to apply the second clip and I rebuke her harshly:
“Hurry up, Aimee. A proper slut would be quick to follow her orders. Just remember, you want me to hurt those pretty breasts, do you not?”
“Yes, Jack. I want to hurt myself for you. I will do better”.
So saying she quickly applies the second clip to her right breast, whimpering slightly as the pain melds with that of her left. She trembles slightly and draws a large, heaving breath, causing her bus to heaven pleasantly before laying her forearms flat on the surface of the desk.
“Good”, I say. “You will now remain motionless. I will continue to stimulate you with the vibrator. If you move or make any sound at all I will instruct you to hurt yourself. Do you understand?”
Aimee gazes into the lens of the camera and replies in the affordable. She is already battled to ignore the pain that she obviously feels. I move my finger in a random pattern across my phone’s screen, varying the frequency and intensity of the viruses. It idly occurs to me that there may be some Resonant frequency that would bring Aimee more or less instantly to orgasm. This particular model of vibrator offers stimulation of both the cliporis and Gräfenberg spot directly, and well as indirectly to the walls of the vagina. Surely some combination of speeds and intensityities applied to both extremely should reduce Aimee to a howling wreck in seconds? She is strong, though, I think, and wants to please me, even if This means delaying her own orgasm.
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