The Case of the Minnesota Twins – Part 1
A Dan Diamond mystery by j.
“I’ve eaten in Thai joints all over the country,” I said to Darrell, “and I think this is the best satay I’ve ever had.”
“I thought you’d like it,” he said. “Everyone in Santa Barbara eats at Your Place. Rich folks. Poor folks. Everybody.”
“I didn’t know you had any poor folks in Santa Barbara,” I said.
“Sure we do,” he said. “Who do you think weeds all those flower beds and keeps all that grass cut on those big estates? When all the fat cats are going to those lawn parties and knocking back champagne at the polo club, someone has to clean their houses and take care of their kids.”
We were in what passes for the low-rent district of Santa Barbara’s upscale downtown. Your Place is on the lower end of Milpas Street, just north of the 101. Milpas starts at the beach, on the far eastern edge of downtown, and runs straight northwest for maybe eleven or twelve blocks until it reaches the outdoor amphitheatre called the Santa Barbara Bowl, where the flat coastal plain ends and the hills rise sharply into the Santa Ynez Mountains.
The steep hills are covered with expensive homes, and it seems as if about ninety-nine percent of them have those red-tile roofs that are a symbol of conspicuous consumption in Southern California. The ocean and the slopes dotted with Mediterranean-style homes and the mountains rising in the background are the reasons they talk about Santa Barbara as the California Riviera. And, of course, there’s all that money, too. Don’t forget that.
The funny thing is, some of the best things about Santa Barbara don’t involve big bucks. Like Milpas Street with its funky shops and a whole string of ethnic restaurants. It’s ironic that in a town with way more than its share of high-ticket places to eat, two of the best are inexpensive joints on Milpas. There’s Your Place, where Darrell had taken me, and just six blocks up the street is La Super-Rica, a taco stand where they serve some of the best Mexican food on the West Coast. Even Julia Child thought so.
I would have liked to saunter up to La Super-Rica for a few of those great soft tacos for dessert, making it an international dining experience, so to speak, but we were a little rushed. Mrs. Stern expected us back at her mansion in Montecito by 7 o’clock, and we definitely did not want to keep Mrs. Stern waiting. On the other hand, maybe we did. If we made her a little peevish, she might decide to punish us herself, and just the thought of that hardened the bulge in my Levis.
I’d been in a semi-hard state ever since Mrs. Stern invited me to come up and spend a week at the mansion as her “guest.” She’d taken a fancy to me after I saved her bonehead son from a lot of embarrassment and maybe worse, and she knew that spending some time at her joint would be a treat for me.
“Besides,” she explained when she telephoned me at my office on the edge of Chinatown, “I’d be very glad to have you around that week. The Andrews Sisters are planning to pay us a visit, and it would be reassuring to have someone with your experience around just in case.”
For a moment, I thought she was joking, but Mrs. Stern is not someone who kids around a lot. I figured that I’d better ask.
“The Andrews Sisters?” I asked. “I didn’t know they were still alive. I think they were going strong when my Dad was a little kid.”
“I see that you don’t keep up with the jet set, Mr. Diamond,” she said. “These Andrews Sisters are two silly blond girls with more money than they can spend. And their father in Minneapolis just keeps giving them more. He must sell a very great deal of beer to be able to afford them.”
“Okay,” I said. “Now I know who you’re talking about. The Andrews Twins. Mandy and Candy. I’ve seen their photos in Vanity Fair when I was skipping through looking for the underwear ads. They’re always showing up at some big-bucks affair or at some club-of-the-week in New York or L.A. I guess that’s what you do if your daddy owns a brewery.”
“Those are the young ladies,” Mrs. Stern said. “They plan to stay with us for several days.”
“They’ve tried everything else, so now they’ve decided to try B&D?” I asked.
“I don’t believe they are complete newcomers,” she said. “I gather there was some sort of scandal when they did some very peculiar things to one of their maids. It apparently cost their father a great deal of money to cover it up.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting them” I said.
“Don’t be too sure,” she said.
* * * * * * * * *
When I arrived in Montecito a week later, Ms. Davis was at the desk in the entrance hall of the mansion, and she watched with her customary sneer while I stripped off all my clothing, stuffed it into the paper bag she gave me and handed it back to her. For the next week or so, I’d be naked except for when I was wearing the skimpy French maid outfit that Mrs. Stern put on all her submissives. When Ms. Davis had made me undress on my first arrival at the mansion a year or so before, I’d been nervous, but now it didn’t seem like a very big deal. My hard-on rose only a fraction of an inch more.
She took me back to the same little room I’d had before, a sort of subbies’ mini-dorm that I would again share with Darrell and Delia and Darrell’s dick. You get to thinking of Darrell’s king-sized equipment as a distinct personality, and sometimes it really does seem like a friend of his that he’s bringing along to join in the fun. All that equipment gave Darrell a real word-of-mouth (so to speak) reputation in the bondage trade, but not many knew that he was actually Mrs. Stern’s partner. He enjoyed playing a submissive, and most people thought that he was just one of the hired help.
Mrs. Stern not only dressed all her subbies, male and female, as maids, but she assigned them all girls’ names. I was going to be Dorothy again, and Darrell went by Donna. Delia was Delia, and I never was sure whether or not that was her real name. I don’t know whether Darrell’s dick had a name. Probably not, because when most women saw it for the first time, they were speechless.
When we got to the room, Mrs. Stern was there talking with Darrell, who wasn’t naked and wasn’t wearing his maid outfit. I was surprised, because it was the only time I’d ever seen him in street clothes, except for the time Mrs. S. brought him to my birthday party in L.A. And he got out of his duds pretty quick at that party, too, when Delia started talking about his giant pecker and all the dames demanded that he drop his drawers so they could have a look.
I was even more surprised when Mrs. Stern told Ms. Davis to go back and get the bag with my clothing. You could tell Ms. D. didn’t like the idea, but she wasn’t about to argue with the boss lady, so she took off in a huff, walking like she had a corn cob up her butt. You could hear the heels on her shoes clicking all the way down the hall.
Mrs. Stern explained that the Andrews Twins wouldn’t arrive until just before dinner, and since they’d be the only paying guests — except for three or four subbies — there wasn’t any need for Darrell and I to hang around the place that afternoon. He was going to show me around Santa Barbara and take me somewhere to eat, since we’d be on duty as maids at dinner that evening, not sharing the meal. That’s how we wound up at Your Place and I wound up with a new standard for satay.
We barely made it back in time to check our clothing with Ms. Davis, run back to the room and get into the maid uniforms. Luckily, they didn’t amount to much except a slipover top attached to the shortest skirt you’ve ever seen, so they weren’t hard to put on. But it had been a while since I’d had to pull on a pair of long silk stockings and fasten them to the clips on my garter belt. I always had trouble with the clips, and Delia, who’d been waiting for us, had to help me with them.
“Your seams aren’t straight,” she told me.
“Good,” I said, “maybe Mrs. Stern will see them and put me over her knee for a nice little spanking.”
“Dream on,” she said. “More likely that bitch Davis will stripe your ass with her fucking riding crop.”
I’d have to take my chances, because there wasn’t time to pull the stockings off and put them on again. We hurried to the dining room and got there just in time to be standing at attention along with a couple of other maids when Ms. Davis arrived. We were in a row at one side of the room, and she walked up and down looking us over. Then she walked around to check our backsides, and Delia was right. I heard the swish of the crop in the air before I felt the burning stripe of pain across the tender backs of my thighs above the stockings.
“Your seams aren’t straight,” she said. “Don’t let it happen again.”
Delia couldn’t hold back a giggle, and that got her a red stripe of her own on the underside of her lovely bottom, which wasn’t quite hidden by the tiny skirt.
“Shit!” she gasped, and that got her another.
I remembered from my last visit that Ms. Davis seemed to take special delight in handing out punishment to Delia. If I’d been writing up the situation for a term paper in Deviate Psychology 101, I’d have concluded that Ms. D. secretly envied Delia and would have liked to be standing there herself with her bare butt hanging out instead of in that buttoned-up gray suit. Of course, if she did have that kind of secret desire, she probably wasn’t admitting it even to herself. All she knew was that she didn’t like Delia and wanted to whack her whenever she had an excuse.
We were spared any more of that riding crop because Mrs. Stern came in then, along with Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. H. ran the household staff, which consisted of Darrell and Delia, the staff subbies, and whatever “guests” were on hand that week for a vacation of punishment, humiliation and general abuse. I had kidded Mrs. Stern once about having a great racket — not only did her submissive customers do most of the work around the place, but they also provided the butts that her dominant customers loved to wallop. She was not amused, and I never mentioned it again.
There were no dom guests at the mansion that week except for the Andrews Twins, so Mrs. Stern, Mrs. Hudson, Ms. Davis and the twins from Minnesota would be the only ones at dinner that night. The only ones sitting down and eating, that is. There were five submissive guests on hand, if you counted me, and with Darrell and Delia that made seven maids, one to serve each of the diners and a couple of spares. That could come in handy if one of the doms was in a mean mood and wore out the first butt she’d been assigned.
Mrs. Stern motioned for me to take my place behind her chair. That got enough of a rise out of me that it was noticeable under the front of my short skirt. I’ve mentioned before that Mrs. S. was a real turn-on for me, and I’d never figured out exactly why. She was an attractive woman, but she’d never see fifty again. Her dark-brown hair was pulled back severely, and she always dressed conservatively, like the businesswoman that she was. Never raised her voice, either, though a sharp edge could creep into her tone when she was irked.
A Mother Figure? No, I really don’t think so. I think I can safely say that I never had the slightest desire for my mom to stripe my ass with a whip or pull down my panties and take my dick into her hand for a casual inspection. (Of course, I wasn’t in the habit of wearing panties when I was a kid. The ladies’ scanties had come along in the last few years as various doms began dressing me up for their amusement.)
I think the thing was, Mrs. Stern never seemed less than business-like when she was doing something like that. She didn’t scream or shout. She barely even raised her voice. She could stand there with your dick in her strong fingers, and just about the greatest emotion that crossed her face was mild amusement. Of course, that made it even more humiliating — humiliating in a very nice way for someone with my tastes. And if someone else was watching her do it, so much the better. I was scared — but hoping, too — that something like that would happen before the dinner party was over.
For now, though, nothing much was happening, because the Andrews Twins hadn’t arrived. I guess they had decided to be fashionably late. We all sat there and waited. Or rather, Mrs. Stern, Mrs. Hudson and Ms. Davis sat. The rest of us stood there in our skimpy little maid uniforms and felt silly. The guests who were new to this probably felt really silly, but I was getting used to it by now, and it was old stuff to Darrell and Delia. Darrell was across the table from me, standing behind Ms. D., and he winked at me. Mrs. Stern probably saw him, because she didn’t miss much, but she didn’t reprimand him. In fact, she apparently didn’t feel like saying anything, and because she wasn’t talking, there was no conversation while we waited.
Time dragged on, but finally we heard the chatter of voices in the hall, and two very blond young women came abruptly into the room. I recognized them from the photos I’d seen. Mandy was taller and plumper. Candy was shorter and skinnier. They both looked great in their very tiny, and no doubt very expensive, little black dresses. Mandy looked just a little bit greater than her sister, though, because her black dress seemed to consist mostly of lace, and her equally tiny black underwear was clearly visible. So was most of Mandy.
The submissive surplus rose from two to three when they arrived, because they’d brought along a sub of their own. A girl who looked to be barely out of her teens — about the same age as the two sisters — was being dragged after them on the end of a rope that Candy was holding. The rope was tied around the girl’s neck, which was not a good idea, even when you were playing bondage games. It should have been attached to some kind of collar, probably a well-padded collar if you planned on jerking on the rope the way that Candy was. Maybe these Minnesota twins didn’t know all that much about B&D. Or maybe they were just mean.
The girl’s arms were fastened behind her back, and she looked scared to death. You couldn’t see much of her mouth because it was crammed with a makeshift gag made out of a strip of toweling that had been knotted several times and tied around her head. But her eyes looked terrified, bulging with a lot of white showing as they darted around the room. She wore a diaper, one of those adult Pampers. It was thick and bulky around her hips, but most of her body was on display because that diaper was all she had on.
She didn’t have much of a chest. When they were handing out tits, I guess she thought they said “zits” and told them she wanted small ones, because her boobies looked like ones you might find on a wanna-be she-male who was still real early into his hormone treatments. The rest of her was fine, though, and no one was going to kick this chick out of bed for eating crackers, tiny tits or not.
I wondered whether she was the Andrews Twins’ new maid. If she was, she obviously didn’t ask enough about the job description when she was being interviewed.
“Hi!” said Mandy brightly. “We’re really sorry we’re late.”
She didn’t sound very sorry, and her sister didn’t say a thing, but Mrs. Stern seemed to take it in stride.
“That’s quite all right, my dear,” she said. “We just sat down a few moments ago.”
“Oh, good!” Mandy said.
“I’ve believe you’ve met Ms. Davis,” Mrs. Stern continued. “And this is our head housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson.”
Mandy said, “Hi!” Her vocabulary appeared to be a little limited, but her sister’s was nonexistent to this point. Candy just stared and didn’t say a word. She had the sullen look of someone who wasn’t particularly pleased with the world and didn’t care who knew. Then her eyes fell on me, and her face brightened a bit.
“Is that the guy with the huge cock?” she asked.
“No, Dorothy is adequate but probably could not be described as huge,” Mrs. Stern said. “I think that you’re referring to Donna,” she added, nodding at Darrell standing behind Ms. Davis’ chair.
Candy dropped the end of the rope, walked over to Darrell, lifted the front of his short skirt with one hand and yanked down the front of his thong panties with the other. His penis popped out and immediately rose to the occasion. Old Mr. Dependable.
“Not bad,” Candy said, but the tone of her voice sounded as though she hated to admit it.
“Great!” said Mandy. “We’ve been promising Marilyn that she’s going to get something really big up her butt, and that looks like just the thing!”
Despite the thick gag, you could hear the muffled cry of terror from the girl on the end of the rope, and she might have run if Mandy hadn’t picked up the end that her sister had dropped.
“Bring her over here,” Candy ordered. “I want to see this.”
I knew Mrs. Stern wouldn’t be happy about the prospect of someone getting fucked up the ass at her dinner table, but I guess the Minnesota twins were paying royally for their stay at the mansion, because she didn’t object. She must have been biting her tongue, though, because there was a long pause before she spoke.
“Very well,” she said. “But I would prefer that you remove that rope from around her neck. If you like, we can provide a collar, but using simply the rope itself can be very dangerous.”
“She’s probably right, Candy,” Mandy said. “We don’t want to get in trouble again. Remember how much Dad had to pay out the last time.”
Now that’s real Christian charity, I thought. She wasn’t worried about something happening to the poor chick. She was worried about the price tag in case something did.
In the end, the twins decided that they didn’t need the rope to keep Marilyn under control. They were right. When you get yourself into a bondage situation like that, what are you going to do?. Was the kid going to make a break for it with her hands tied behind her back and wearing only a diaper? I was wondering about that odd undergarment, and I guess some of the others were, too.
“Why does she have on that diaper?” Miss D. asked.
“She was a bad little girl,” Mandy explained. “So we made her drink a lot of laxative, and she’s been pooping all over the place. She hasn’t gone in three or four hours, though, so I guess she’s not going to do any more.”
“She won’t be able to if she’s got that big prick up her asshole,” Candy said, and she grinned at the thought — the first time she’d smiled since she’d been in the room.
The diaper was stripped off the terrified girl. Her pubic hair had been shaved, and there were red welts on her bottom that looked like marks from a cane. She was bent over the table with her butt in the air. She was staring across in my direction, and I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head.
“I think you’ll need some kind of lubrication,” Mrs. Stern said. “Even if she is used to being entered in that way, we’re talking about a very large object.”
“You’ve got butter, don’t you?” Candy said, looking around the long table until she spotted the butter dish just to Mrs. Stern’s right. “You — what’s your name?” she said to me. “Dorothy? Bring me that butter.”
I picked up the dish, brought it around the table and held it out to her.
“Don’t hand it to me,” she said. “I don’t want to get my hands all greasy. You rub it on his dick. And coat the whole thing. I want to see how deep it’ll go in.”
I knew about the butter bit. Years before, a girlfriend and I had been watching “Last Tango in Paris” on the tube and were so impressed with the buttered-buns scene that we decided to try it ourselves. She went to the refrigerator in her apartment, settled for a low-priced spread and brought it back to coat my hard-on until it was dripping. I didn’t feel much like Brando, though. I was enjoying it, but I felt just like any other guy with a slick dick. I didn’t have as much luck as Brando either. My girlfriend had a tight little virgin anus, and we couldn’t get my penis in, even with all that greasing, so she decided to lick it off instead. I didn’t mind.
Anyway, I was kind of a veteran when it came to buttering, but I was still dismayed by the suggestion that I was supposed to grease up Darrell. I stood there with the butter dish in my hand and no idea of what to do next. I didn’t want to tell Candy no, but I wasn’t about to rub that butter on Darrell’s dick. He saved the day by reaching over, grabbing the stick off the dish, squeezing it between his hands and beginning to rub it on his erect penis. It looked for a second as though Candy was going to object, but she was too fascinated by Darrell’s hard-on, which was growing even larger as he stroked it. It was a good thing that Marilyn was bent over the table in the other direction or the sight might have caused her to faint. She was squirming on the hard surface, trying to twist her head around so that she could see back over her shoulder, but her bound arms made it almost impossible.
“Lie still, you little bitch!” Candy said, picking up a salad fork and jamming it into the tender flesh of Marilyn’s welted bottom. “If you don’t, I’ll stick this right up your slimy little asshole!”
She didn’t jab hard enough to break the skin, but the threat was enough to make Marilyn stop trying to get a look at what was behind her. She dropped her forehead to the table top and lay more or less quietly, though her shoulders were heaving enough that you could tell she was crying now. The gag muffled the sobs, and I hoped the kid wouldn’t choke if her tears got out of control.
Candy kicked Marilyn’s legs farther apart, spreading the cheeks of her butt and leaving it open and vulnerable there on the edge of the table. Darrell stepped up behind her and began to lubricate the rim of her quivering little anus with two butter-covered fingers. Mrs. Hudson and Ms. Davis had gotten up from the table and walked around for a better view. Even a couple of the subbies tried to edge around a little so they could see. I’d like to say that I was filled with sympathy for poor little Marilyn and wasn’t tempted to do the same, but I couldn’t resist sliding around a little farther myself. Sure, I felt sorry for the kid, but are you going to try and tell me that you wouldn’t cop a peek in the same situation?
Darrell let his two buttered fingers slip inside Marilyn’s rectum. He slid them in and out, plunging as deep as he could. I don’t know if she liked it, but she’d be grateful for the lubrication when Mr. Happy had his turn. That was about to happen. Darrell removed his fingers, wiped them on Marilyn’s thigh and took his dick in both hands, one above the other as though he were holding a baseball bat. Even with that grip, there was a lot of round flesh sticking out at the end. He pressed the head against the puckered ring of the anus and thrust his hips forward.
To my surprise, there was only a moment of hesitation before the penis popped inside. Someone gasped. It couldn’t have been Marilyn, because she was gagged, so it must have been one of the other broads, living the moment along with the helpless girl. Darrell took his hands off his dick, gripped Marilyn along each side where her slender waist began to swell into her hips and shoved. The dick kept going in. It went in a long way. Not all the way but a real long way. I didn’t know how the chick could hold all that, but it seemed pretty obvious now that Darrell wasn’t assaulting a virgin backside. He reached up behind Marilyn’s head and pulled loose the knot of the gag. The strip of toweling dropped onto the table as the girl raised her head. It looked as if we were going to get sound effects with this drilling.
Yeah, we sure were. The moaning began almost immediately as Darrell began moving his hips. He took his time. The long rod of flesh slid slowly out for a half dozen inches or more. Then it slid slowly back in. Except for the low groans from Marilyn, there wasn’t a sound in the room. There were a lot of open mouths, though, open in awe. Even Mrs. Stern, still seated across the wide dining table, looked interested as she stared into the girl’s face.
Darrell made four or five of those long, drawn-out strokes, and then his hips began to move faster. Marilyn’s hips started to move, too. She wasn’t so much bucking back against the thrusts of that colossal organ as she was rubbing her own sex on the tabletop. A little frottage with an inanimate object, I thought. Frottage. I’d loved that word ever since I ran across it in the tattered paperback copy of “Fanny Hill” that my best buddy loaned me in high school. I don’t know what the verb form was. Frottaging? Frotting? To frott? Something like that. Anyway, that was how Marilyn was carrying on with the table. They’d have to run that tablecloth through the wash an extra time.
No matter how the girl was getting there, her moans made it obvious that she was on her way to an orgasm. I’d been surprised by the ease of Darrell’s penetration, but I wasn’t at all surprised by Marilyn’s response. Though that old girlfriend and I had failed to play out the Brando butter bit because of her tight sphincter, I had kept hoping she’d suggest that we try again sometime and I was disappointed when she never mentioned it. She worked for a newspaper, and she got an offer of a much better job from a paper in another city a few months later, so we said our goodbyes with no real regrets but a lot of fond memories. Two or three girlfriends later, I was going with a lady who liked to try new things, so I rented “Last Tango,” and we watched it at my apartment. One thing led to another, and after that memorable night, we had backdoor sex maybe a dozen more times. She always got off. Sometimes she did it by reaching down to her clit with her own fingers. Sometimes I reached around to help her out. And a few times, she apparently got off just from the penis in her backside.
I don’t know how much her tabletop rubbing helped Marilyn along, but there was no doubt that she got off, too. Big time. She was twisting violently when her moans and panting rose into a long, gasping groan of pleasure, and she slumped onto the hard table. Darrell withdrew his dick and laid it between the cleft of the girl’s buttocks. He was close to cumming himself, but his many past performances for the paying customers had turned the guy into a real showman, and he wanted to give the crowd a really good look at the equipment in action. He was doing a little “frotting” of his own now, rubbing his dick on the girl’s soft bottom until a jet of cum came shooting out, followed by another and another. The first lit on Marilyn’s back nearly at her shoulders, and the others left a trail down her backbone all the way down to where the softening penis was draped across the curve of the girl’s butt.
“Okay,” Candy said, breaking a long moment of silence. “I want that thing up in my room right now. And if you know what’s good for you, you’d better be able to pump it up again.”
She turned and walked out of the room. Darrell glanced at Mrs. Stern, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod, and he followed Candy, grinning as he left.
“Well, shall we have dinner now?” Mrs. Stern asked after their steps had died away on the hardwood floor of the hall.
“Not moi,” Mandy said brightly. “On the way here, we stopped at this taco stand that’s supposed to be so great. The food was okay, but there were all these, like, Mexicans there. I couldn’t believe it!”
She paused so that we could consider the enormity of Mexicans hanging out at a Mexican food stand. Everyone looked a little puzzled, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m going up to my room and have my bad little girl here give me a massage.” She glanced over at Delia. “Can I have this one, too?”
“All of our maids are at your service,” Mrs. Stern said.
“Good!” she said. “I think I’ll make them whip each other while I watch. I am, like, tres tired, and I don’t feel much like doing it myself.”
Delia helped Marilyn up off the table, and they both followed Mandy out of the room. We listened to their footsteps trail away, too.
“Well, that was certainly pleasant,” Mrs. Stern said. “I seem to have lost my own appetite. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retire for the evening.”
The meal that followed wasn’t very lively. Ms. Davis and Mrs. Hudson ate quickly and silently, paying little attention to the five maids who remained. When they were through, each of them collected a couple of subbies apiece and took them off to some dungeon room or the other. After all, those four were paying for a week of sore butts and abject humiliation, so they were probably expecting some kind of mistreatment before the evening was through, and the customer is always right. Right?
That left me, all dressed up in my tiny panties, lacy garter belt, mini-skirted uniform and high heels but no place to go. I walked slowly back to the room I was sharing with Darrell and Delia and sat on my narrow bed wondering what kind of a bad old, good old time they were having. What a bummer! I’d been looking forward to this visit to Mrs. Stern’s digs, and now I was just sitting there with my dick in my hand. And I mean that last bit only figuratively. I was so disappointed that I didn’t even feel like jacking off.
Finally, I took off the uniform, lay down on the bed and went to sleep. I don’t know how long I’d been asleep, maybe a couple of hours, when I was shaken awake by Ms. Davis.
“Get up! Get up!” she screamed at me. “Mrs. Stern wants to see you in her office right away!”
I stumbled to my feet and picked up the maid costume.
“Don’t bother with that!” Ms. Davis snapped. “She wants to see you right now!”
I hurried naked out of the room and down the hall leading to the front of the mansion. Ms. Davis was right behind me. The fuzz of the deep sleep I’d been in was fading now, and my penis began to harden as I tried to decide why Mrs. Stern wanted me in her office. Maybe I’d been a bad boy without realizing it! The evening was beginning to look up.
The door of Mrs. Stern’s office was open, and she was sitting behind her desk. She looked up and smiled, but it was a grim smile, not a happy one.
“Thank you for coming, Dan,” she said.
That was a surprise. I don’t think she had ever called me by my first name before. When I was a maid at the mansion, it was always Dorothy. When we met in the outside world, it was always Mr. Diamond. Now I was really baffled. I stood in front of her desk, resisting the urge to cover my genitals, and waited to hear what she had to say.
“I’ve just had some unfortunate news,” she said. “Apparently, someone has kidnaped Mandy Andrews.”
* * * * * * * * *
NEXT: A boy and his butt plug.
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