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MMS – Chapter 5 – A Visit from Marcy

by | mms | 0 comments

She didn’t say anything, she just walked in. She just brushed me aside and sauntered in with that strut she had. She looked around as she pulled each finger of her glove off.

“You don’t look sick,” she said, looking me up and down as I closed and locked the door.

“I mean, you’re pale, and your hair is dull and lifeless, but I’m guessing you always look like that.”

Why was she in my apartment? Naturally, Mr. McIntyre sent her. Why her?

“As I can tell from your silly little scrunched up face and crossed eyes you’re trying to fathom why I’m here.”

With her gloves finally off, she stuffed them into her pocketbook. She was walking around my living room, examining each book and each knick-knack on my shelf with a look of wry amusement on her face.

Marcia Elizabeth Peterson. Marcy to her friends. Of the Chicago Petersons. Twenty-five, about the same height as me but somehow far more imposing.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she said pulling a silver cigarette case out of her purse and as well as an expensive looking gold filtered cigarette.

“Actually, my roommate is allergic-“

I was cut-off as she lit the cigarette despite my protest.

“I’m going to cut to the chase, Abigail. Jake told me to stop by and make sure you were alright – but I have a few things I’d like to get straight with you.”

She closed in on me, circling me like a vulture. I felt naked in my thin nightgown. My nipples hardening, my head turned down. I was all goosebumps and panic as I stared at my bare feet.

“Jake McIntyre’s wide-eyed secretary. Doting on him, making his calls and hiding his dirty little secrets – and now?” she looked around and then sighed, tapping her cigarette into Eloise’s long cold teacup on the coffee table.

“Every fly in his web has had that first little movement that captures his attention. He’s good looking, powerful, cocky with balls to back it up. There are lots of girls like you. I bet you don’t know that. Hell, his wife is like you. So obedient, never asking questions, though between you and me she knows everything. So the question, little girl, is what you did to you so to make the big guy take note?”

Her eyes were on me, like a man’s. I didn’t want to, but my arms came up to shield my body from her gaze. She made me shake and want to go put on clothes. She talked with such smooth confidence.

“I- he found something,” I whispered.

“What?” she blew out a cloud of blue smoke and stood right in front of me.

“It’s- none of-”

“Tell me,” she hissed.

I didn’t want to, but the words were on my lips.

“My diary.”

The smile started in her eyes and spread to her crimson lips. A dirty smile, knowing and wanton.

“The mousy girl who writes down all sorts of little secrets in her diary. How pathetically adolescent. I can imagine what happened, knowing Jake. He saw it, and he told you to bring it to him. You fought it and beat yourself up and eventually you did.”

My face was burning. My ears on fire and my heart pounding, but I wanted to show her. I want to shut her up for a minute.

“No, you’re wrong. I didn’t fight it. I gave it to him right then and there.”

I thought she would be impressed or shocked, but she took a long drag on her cigarette and studied me. She flicked more ashes into the teacup, then she dropped the cigarette in there, and it hissed against the cold liquid.

“Abigail, are you a virgin?”

For some reason, my eyes focused on her knees which were just barely exposed at the edge of her black dress. Her legs were shapely and clad in dark stockings. Her shoes looked expensive. She was beautiful, and it made me feel plain.

“I don’t even know you,” I mumbled. Who was I kidding? I wanted to tell her everything. I don’t know why, maybe because I never say those things aloud.

She looked at me, expectantly, leaning back against my wall, her chest thrust out, the low neckline of the dress exposing cleavage I could only dream of having. She was pure sex, and she was asking the mousy girl with the diary about her lack of a sex life.

“Maybe,” I whispered.

She moved in, and I walked back until my butt hit the couch. I sat down, and she sat down on the arm of the couch next to me. Towing over me and looking down with that Cheshire cat smile.

“Poor thing. Do you think of Jake being the one?”

The idea struck me as preposterous. I did things for him, I would do whatever he said, but having sex with him? He had a wife and a mistress. Many mistresses! He loved sexy, adventurous women. I was just his plain, mousy secretary.

“Mr. McIntyre?” I squeaked, puzzled.

Her eyes opened wider, and some understanding seemed to dawn on her.

“You are completely unaware, aren’t you? You are just getting his coffee and keeping a schedule of his rendezvous and writing in your little diary all the dirty things you think about.”

She stood up and grabbed my hand, pulling me up. She dragged me into my bedroom and stood me in front of my mirror.

There was plain old me, brown hair in a ponytail, plain face, with a few freckles. My body was average. My hips were too wide. My butt was a little too big.

“You can’t even look at yourself,” she purred in her husky arrogant voice.

“You don’t even know that men would fall over for you if you just dressed yourself up. Look at those lips. Big pouting bee-stung lips. Those eyes, huge and innocent. Not to mention that bottom.”

Her hand rested on my hip as she stood behind me.

“You think Jake wouldn’t fuck you? He would. He will. You’re just not ready yet. He’s- not for beginners. Jake’s a bad boy. He can trample a woman. Hell, I’ve seen him trample full-grown men,” she said moving her hands up my hips to my waist.

“I’ve seen the boys in your office. They fuck the nineteen-year-old cigarette girls and the coat check girls and the doe-eyed junior secretaries. Jake likes women. He likes someone who can take his roughness and isn’t going to break.”

She moved over to my bed. The way her hand slipped off my hip as she walked away made my chest hurt a little.

She put her high heeled foot up on my bed, the black heel digging into the white sheet. She pulled her black dress up her leg slowly, showing the black lace top of her stockings and the naked flesh under her garter. Her panties were small black silk French things. She hypnotized me. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think. I didn’t even breath.

On her thigh were four purplish bruises. Right where fingers would dig in if someone were to grab you from behind violently. Then she turned and flipped up her dress showing her bottom, her fingers pulling her panties so that the round, smooth cheeks of her ass were fully exposed. A scattered little splash of purple, yellow, and brown. I’d never seen bruises so large and colorful.

She looked back at me and our eyes locked. She showed me what she wanted to show me, then she moved her hips a little and showed off her body. Her eyes were different now, not so cruel. Though she was in control of the situation in my apartment, there was someone who owned her body. The same person who owned my heart.

“He hits you?” I whispered.

Her bratty smile came back as she stood up and let her dress fall back over her secrets. Her eyes darkened.

“No. He spanks me. He slaps me. He rarely hits me unless I ask very nicely,” she said with a long slow laugh.

I wanted to ask more questions, I wanted to be shocked, but I knew this happened. Even in my dreams, I saw it happening. The image of his massive hands on her ass flashed through my head. His powerful fingers digging into the flesh of her hips.

I’d read books about it too. Dirty books. Heck, there were some under the very bed she was on, hidden books in a little box with a lock on it. Kidnapped damsels, devil worshipping lesbians, sadomasochists who were whipped and beaten and branded for fun.

“So what did you write in that little diary, Abigail?”

Her question cleared my mind of the images. It stood me straight up and made my face flush red again.

“Maybe ‘Mr. McIntyre’ already told me.” she said, mocking the way I said his name.

“He wouldn’t.”

She laughed.

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t. He has a lot of rules in that head of his. Anyhow, I don’t want to know, if I don’t read it then I can just think the worst. The dirtiest.”

She straightened her dress and walked to the door of my bedroom.

“Well, Mr. McIntyre asked me to stop by and wanted me to give you this message: He is sorry you are feeling under the weather. He hopes it wasn’t his assignment that led to your absence.”

She walked back towards me, and I backed up again as she advanced until my back was against the wall. She smelled like expensive perfume which was strong but not overpowering. The scent was rich and delicious, and it made me dizzy.

“He said that when you come back tomorrow everything can go back to the way it was, but if you return with the assignment he requested he may have additional responsibilities for you,” she said moving in on me even more, our breasts touching a little, her words blowing sweat breath into my ear.

“Do you understand Abigail?”

“Yes,” I squeaked. It was less than a whisper.

Her hand was on my hip again, petting me.


Her hand moved up my waist and then to my side, the tip of her thumb just under my breast. She touched me as a man would. My body was confused. My head was spinning.

“I think because of my relationship with your employer and the fact that we hardly know each other you should probably reply to me in a manner more appropriate to our stations,” she said in a cold tone.

I swallowed hard. The last time someone touched me like that was on a blind date almost a year before. A pushy man in a bad suit. His forwardness made me scared and disgusted, but her hand made me nervous and ashamed. And wet. She was so pretty, so soft. She smelled so good and her words so strong. She was like a piece of Mr. McIntyre, a proxy, an agent of his imposing sexual self.

“Yes, Ms. Peterson.”

Her hand moved a millimeter higher, the nail of her thumb digging into the tender skin under my breasts. She paused there and in the silence of my room, I heard her let out the tiniest little growl.

“I like the sound of that,” she whispered, sounding different than her usual confident tone.

With that, she was off of me. The cold air of my room flooding into her absence and making me feel naked in my thin nightgown. She watched me and smiled. I didn’t know what that smile meant.

“Well, I suppose I will be seeing you Abigail-or not.” and with that, she turned around and walked out of my room. A second later I heard my front door close.

Then I was alone. Just my body, which was hungry and aching, my heart, which was racing, and my diary which laid on the bed waiting.

Alone with a decision to make.

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