Names Have Power: Tim's Magic Voice Makes A Harem (3 page)

Chapter 4
Susan Has Changed

The next morning I walked into my outer office, and
already at her desk was Susan. At least, I
thought
it was Susan.
What
the hell?

She stood up when I entered, and she seemed much
taller. Then she walked around the desk, and I found out
why
she seemed
taller: killer high heels. Which went perfectly with her sexpot outfit. “Do I
look friendly enough?” she asked.

I thought that maybe she was being sarcastic. But
no, I realized, she was
nervous
, not sarcastic.
Holy shit, she really
wants me to like how she looks
, I thought.

“Do you look friendly enough?” I repeated. I picked
my words carefully: “You look like you just came from a party.” I didn’t add,
A
party at the Playboy Mansion.

“But that’s good, right? Parties are friendly. So
everything’s okay?”

Other than this woody that your tits are giving
me, all is fine.

Truth be told, she wasn’t
quite
outrageous
enough for me to send her home to change. And now she sure was nice to look at!
But there
was
one thing—

“Susan, when I talked about your fingernails, I
meant half-inch at the longest. Inch-long nails are just
too
impractical
for working in an office.”

She looked horrified. “Oh, Mr. Hanson, I’m so sorry
I misunderstood you! I’ll take care of that tonight, promise. But please, call
me `Susie.’ `Susie’ is friendlier, don’t you think?”

“No problem, Susie.”

“Um, I’m sorry about my hair.”

“Your hair?” Susie’s hair was long, dark brown,
thick, and shiny—after her chest, her hair was Susie’s best feature. Today that
dark-brown hair was pulled into a bun that was ringed with a chocolate-brown
hair ribbon.

Susie touched her beribboned hair. “I ran out of
time, Mr. Hanson, I swear. Everyone knows that blondes are friendly, but with
all the clothes shopping I did last night, and the nail salon, I didn’t have
time to dye my hair! I’ll do it tonight, promise.”

“Susie, you don’t need to dye your hair blond.”

“I know I don’t
need
to, but blondes are
friendly.”

As I walked through the door to my inner office, I
thought,
I caused this somehow, my Power did this. But I have no idea what
exactly I did!

Before I had sat down, there was a knock on the
door. I called “Enter!” and Susan stepped in. She put a cup of coffee on my
desk, and turned to leave; but at the door she stopped and turned around. She
said, “Mr. Hanson? I’ve been wondering: Why are men obsessed with harems? You
don’t see
women
wishing that they lived with seven horny
guys
.”

I said, “I don’t know why other men are obsessed
with harems, but I know why harems excite
me
.”

“Go on.”

“When I was fifteen, my best friend and I were
looking at one of the
Playboys
that his dad had. And in there was a
picture of a sultan, with a turban and beard, and he’s sitting on pillows. And
in the room with him were about twenty young women—all of them hot, and all
looking at him like each girl wanted to f—to have sex with him. And they weren’t
wearing anything but rings on their fingers, and rings on their toes, and each
girl was wearing a transparent veil on her face. And one girl was feeding the
man grapes, and another girl was lying on her stomach, sucking—uh, pleasuring
the sultan. And that picture was sexier than anything I’d ever seen or
imagined. And so whenever anyone says `harem’, this is what I think of.”

Most men would think it weird to be discussing
harems with their young, stacked secretary. But for me, the entire last
twenty-four hours had been weird—this was just one more little weird thing.
Which reminded me—I sipped the coffee that the former feminazi had brought me.

“Coffee okay?” Susie asked nervously.

“It’s great, Susie. You remembered how I like it.”

Hearing that, she visibly relaxed. “Anyway, thanks
for explaining about harems and all.”

“You’re welcome, Susie.”

The door that hot-dressed Susie was standing next
to, had just opened. It was Mike, first to arrive for the Morning Meeting. He
looked my secretary up and down and said, “I
like
the new look, Susie.
You look great!”

Susan turned to eye him as she stood straight, her
queenly manner back in full. “I’m still `Ms. Cooper’ to
you
, Mr. Brown.”

My second Morning Meeting as the boss was strange.

The women managers, Kathy and Betty Jane, clearly
were offended and confused. They were offended by Susie’s outfit, but they were
also confused whose idea it was to wear it. Kathy and Betty Jane had known
Susan for five years, and couldn’t imagine her dressing like a slut, just
because she’d been ordered to; but Kathy and Betty Jane had known me even
longer than that, and knew that I would never give such an order. So how was it
that “Ms. Cooper” was dressed this way?

(I’m glad that neither Kathy or Betty Jane asked
me
that, because I sure as hell didn’t have an answer!)

Mike, Albert, and Bobby had a difficult time, of
course, keeping their minds on task, and I often saw a man squirming in his
chair. I understood why: I had a titanium boner myself.

Susan played the Ice Princess for everyone but me.
But when
I
spoke to her, she acted like a tail-wagging puppy. This
raised eyebrows (among other body parts). Meanwhile, even when Susan was
behaving like the Ice Princess, she remained dressed like a soft-porn
secretary.

I introduced my people to Mr. Sanderville, the
accountant from Detroit. Mike flashed an unhappy face, but said nothing. Mr.
Sanderville never noticed Mike’s reaction—Sanderville’s eyes were on Susan’s
breasts at the time.

After the Morning Meeting, Mr. Sanderville stayed
in my inner office, going through paperwork there. While he was there, I phoned
Sarah and set up a date for the first evening she was free (which was next
Monday, unfortunately). Sarah seemed very glad when I called, and very warm
over the phone.

Finally, about three in the afternoon, Sanderville
and his laptop headed to the Service Department. As soon as Mr. Sanderville
walked out, Susie walked in. Correction: she
sashayed
in. “I thought he’d
never
leave,” she growled.

“Huh?”

She moved toward me, her eyes on mine the whole
time, those fuck-me heels making her ass move delightfully. “Mr. Hanson, I can’t
be
very friendly
and
very helpful
with him in the room.”

I saw where this was going. “Susie—”

“Nothing’s more friendly than a blowjob, Mr.
Hanson. And if you’re stressed, Mr. Hanson—and with your job, you can’t help
but
be
stressed—”

“Susie—”

“—then nothing’s more helpful than a blowjob.”

She knelt.

“Susie, if I let you blow me at work, this is
wildly
inappropriate behavior.”

Her hands were working my zipper. “No, Mr. Hanson,
I
know
this isn’t inappropriate behavior. And I would be a bad secretary
if I didn’t suck you off at least once a day.” She looked me in the eyes, my
cock just an inch from her lips. “If I don’t suck you off, I’m
bad
. I
deserve
punishment
.”

“Susie—”

She dropped the sex-kitten face for a nervous look.
“I’ve only sucked cock once, Mr. Hanson. And then I tried to stop it as soon as
possible. So it probably won’t be good today. But if you let me suck you off
every day, soon I’ll make it good for you. Promise.” Susie then gave me another
sex-kitten smile, and grabbed my cock with her mouth.

“Susie, stop.”

She ignored me.
Oh man, that feels good.

“Susie, stop. I mean it.”

She still ignored me. And then I found out, even a
teeth-scraping blowjob is addictive—I couldn’t make myself say
Stop
a
third time.

A half-hour later, Susie had sucked me and had
swallowed me, and now she stood up, kissed me on the cheek, and sashayed to her
desk. It occurred to me that before yesterday, I’d never received an
under-table or under-desk blowjob—and now I’d gotten
three
in under
twenty-four hours.
I wish I could figure out what I did to make this happen!

When I walked into my outer office the next
morning, Susie greeted me with a kiss. Her fingernails were shorter, but still
of porn-actress length; and she wore a blue ribbon in her long, honey-blond
hair. You win some, you lose some. (Not that I
minded
honey-blond hair.)

Yesterday, as a brunette, she looked like a
soft-porn secretary. Today as a red-lipsticked blonde, she was definitely hardcore,
and I was definitely hard.

When I walked in, the time being ten minutes before
the Morning Meeting, Susie had been surfing the Internet. Boy howdy, I was
surprised when I saw her current page: “Lola Lush-Lips Explains: How To Suck
Cock.”

After the Morning Meeting broke up, Susie remained
in my office. I couldn’t talk her out of sucking me off, and then she demonstrated
that she indeed had learned a few things from Lola Lush-Lips.

Blowjobs at work, I decided, are nice to get.

Chapter 5
Deborah Makes A Deal

That afternoon, Mr. Sanderville made his report.
His news was not good.

“Mr. Hanson, there is $177,482.36 that your
dealership should have, that I can’t account for. The specifics are detailed
here.” He laid a folder on my desk.

“Well, I told you how my father was like, at
keeping records.”

Mr. Sanderville eyed me. “In at least one case, it
might be more than that.” He laid a second folder on my desk. “In April 2006
this dealership sold a 2004 Corvette for fifteen hundred dollars.”

“
Fifteen hundred
? Wow, some junkyard guy got
it cheap.”

“It wasn’t sold to a salvager, but to a regular
customer, Deborah something. She put five hundred down, and financed the rest
over twelve months.”

I stared at him. “A two-year-old Corvette was sold
for fifteen hundred bucks as a regular used-car sale?”

“Yes, and while there is a notation on the
contract, `Car is totaled,’ there is no body-shop paperwork to prove such.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

I wrote Mr. Sanderville a check, then I walked him
out to his car. Then I rushed back to my office and the Corvette folder.

Within seconds, I’d dropped two flags on the play.

Deborah Denise Parker had been a 23-year-old dancer
at Club Physique when she had bought the Corvette, with income listed as
forty-seven thousand. I doubted that she had gotten such a low price through
great haggling.

The approving sales manager’s signature? It should
have been Kathy’s. Instead, I saw the scrawl of Mike Brown. Who signed as
finance manager, Betty Jane? Nope, Mike. Who wrote “Car is totaled”? That was
Mike’s handwriting.

I phoned my service manager. After pleasantries,
Albert was asking me, “So Tim, you hooked up with Gothika yet?”

“Not yet, but soon. Anyway, Albert, I want you to
recall back to April 2006. Tell me everything about a red Corvette, since you
probably handled it.”

“I know just the car you mean. Hold on.” The next
thing I heard was you’re-on-hold music.

Soon Albert was back on the phone. “The Corvette
was brought to us on April 12, its tag was EATDST, its VIN was—”

“What was wrong with the car? How did we get it?”

“The real thing wrong with it was the high
insurance payments. The owner, Harold S. Brenner, was a fifty-two-year guy who
changed his mind about owning a Babe Magnet. He told me, `I want an unsexy car
now, so I’m buying Ford.’”

“How about body damage? How about mechanically?”

“Body damage was car dings, and some white on the fender.
It had 56,784.2 miles on it, and the AC compressor had gone kaput.”

“So it was drivable. Sellable.”

“`Sellable’? Mr. Hanson, I went to Mike and I
asked, `How much for the car?’ And I would’ve signed the nastiest finance
contract that Betty Jane ever cooked up. But Mike told me, `We already have a
buyer.’”

Oh shit
, I thought.

At five o’clock I was in the showroom, waiting and
able to see everything, when Mike got into his car and drove off the lot.

I strolled over to Betty Jane’s office, then chitchatted
with her as she logged-off and put on her coat. As soon as Betty Jane was gone,
I told Hank, the Assistant Finance Manager, to pull up the current address of
Deborah the Corvette-driving stripper. Six minutes after Mike drove off the
lot, so did I.

Deborah Parker lived ten miles from the dealership.
Her apartment complex was gated, but I punched in 5-0-0-0 as the gate code, and
I was in. The complex had prosperous tenants: Cars were late-model, the
buildings showed good paint, and the landscaping was fancy. I parked my car
near (but not
too
near) her building, and walked around.

I was driving a demo car, of course, with identical
“Tim Hanson Ford” paper rectangles where the license plates were supposed to
go. Near to Deborah’s apartment door, I discovered another “Tim Hanson Ford”
demo car, its hood being hot to the touch. Two spaces over from that car was
the red Corvette. The Vehicle Identification Number (or as much of it as I
could remember) in Mr. Sanderville’s folder matched the VIN of this Corvette.

The Corvette’s front was banged up somewhat, so a
headlight was busted. But other than this, the car had never been in an accident.

To make sure of that, I gave the car a thorough
examination. I looked at every inch of that car, and often I ran my hands over
it.

Which set the car alarm off. Other than my ears
hurting, the car alarm didn’t bother me. If a cop showed up, I had Mr. Sanderville’s
Corvette folder resting on the dash of my car.

I was squatting down, running a hand along the
passenger-side door, when I heard an angry woman’s voice behind me. “Hey! HEY
YOU, GET AWAY FROM MY CAR!”

I heard male feet running toward me, and Mike’s
voice saying, “Yeah, fucker, you better—”

I stood up and turned to face him. “I better
what
,
Mike? Say, who’s your body shop? For a `totaled’ car, this Corvette looks
great.”

Mike put on a winning smile, even as his face
turned white. “Tim, buddy, it’s not what it looks—”

Enough.
I said, “Michael Brown, Deborah
Parker, take me inside. We have much to discuss.”

Either it was my righteous anger, or maybe it was
my Power? In any case, Deborah invited me into her apartment. She even offered
me coffee. Mike sat on her couch and looked wretched.

A woman can’t look truly sexy when she’s worried
about going to jail. And Deborah was no longer a fresh-faced beauty of
twenty-three. But she still was tall, with very long hair. Her hair was that
color that’s too dark to be red, and too red to be brunette. And either the dye
job was very recent, or I was seeing her natural hair color. Her eyes were
brownish green, and she had Katherine Hepburn cheekbones. She moved like a
panther, when she didn’t know I was watching her. (When she
knew
I was
watching her, she made nervous gestures and her voice trembled.) Her tits were
definitely fake, or else she’d won the Tit Lottery in junior high.

Debbie handed me a cup and saucer, and sat down on
the couch, facing me. She sat a foot away from Mike.

Mike started to say something; I raised a hand. I
said, “If by five tomorrow, either of you hand me a check for forty-three
thousand dollars, you two won’t go to prison. The check must be a cashier’s
check, made out to `Tim Hanson Ford,’ and it must be given
to me personally.
”

Mike said, “That’s more than it bluebooked for.”

I glared at him. “I figured-in six percent simple
interest since April 2006. The forty-three is nonnegotiable; don’t even ask.”

I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Talk it
over,” I said.

They didn’t talk long. They walked into the kitchen
and Deborah told me, “We don’t have it. We don’t
begin
to have it.” She
was in tears.

“`Don’t have it’?” I said. I turned to Mike. “My
dealership is short 177 grand. Tell us, Michael Brown, how much of that is
your
doing? Besides the Corvette, I mean.”

“Sixty thou, maybe seventy. Your dad never noticed.”

Deborah turned on him. “You stole seventy thousand
dollars, and you can’t spend it on keeping us out of prison?”

Mike sighed. “It got spent long ago—”

“On other strippers?”

Mike looked at me. “What about my job?”

“What about it?” I said to him. To both of them I
said, “Here’s your chance to be creative: Make me an offer.
But
, Michael
Brown, Deborah Parker, whatever offer you make, if I agree to it, I expect you
to keep the deal completely.” Then I eyed Mike. “And if we reach a deal, I’ll
ask Betty Jane to write it up.”

“Well, I suppose I can let Payroll take three
hundred a month out of my check,” Mike said, with the tone of someone sacrificing
much. He was also working an Assumed Close on me.

“No deal,” I said. Let the clown try to figure out
whether I was saying No to his money offer, his assumption that he would still
be on my payroll after today, or both.

“Mr. Hanson,” Deborah said to me, with an edge to
her voice, “didn’t Mike take you to a strip club a few days ago? What club did
you go to?”

“Debbie, baby,” Mike said, “right now we have—”

I couldn’t figure out what was going on with those
two, so I answered honestly, “Mike took me to the Nimfo Club.”

She slapped Mike, hard. Then she turned to me and
said, “Mr. Hanson, you said to be `creative.’ You said to make you an offer,
right? So here’s my offer: I become your devoted sex slave and servant girl.
Whatever money I earn, you get. You want sex, just order me. You want your
floor scrubbed, order me. Home-cooked meals, ditto.”

“For how long?” I asked.

“Goddammit, Debbie!” said Mike. “You are talking
total pervert shit here.”

Angry Deborah said to me, “I’ve talked for a while
about putting in an app at the Nimfo Club. But Mike
Shit
brown here kept
telling me, `That place has liquor violations, and health-code violations, they
deal coke in the parking lot, the city’s about to close it down.’ And now I
find out he was all hot and heavy with some redhead named Sunset?”

“Debbie babe, she’s not special—”

“Oh, shut up, Mike,” Deborah said.

Then Deborah calmed herself, and again spoke to me:
“As for the sex-slave stuff, it’s for as long as you feel is fair—Mike says you’re
honest. Everything I have is yours, while I’m your slave. Well, except that I
keep title to the Corvette.”

Deborah fell silent. She and Mike looked at me.

My first thought was,
This is a joke.
But
Deborah looked too serious for me to keep that idea.

My second thought was,
This is an agreement I
can’t ask Betty Jane to write up, Deborah must know that. I bet she’ll try to
welsh.
But if Deborah was working a con on me, it was fooling Mike, too.

The fact was, I’d come to Deborah’s apartment not
expecting to collect the forty-three grand, and I’d already decided I wouldn’t
let these two off the hook for anything less. So now I had two choices:
sex-enslavement of Deborah (which
might
work out), or jailing Mike and
Deborah.

If she’s going to welsh, best to find out now.
I said to her, “Mike and I are going to drive our cars back to the dealership,
and then I’ll return here, after Mike and I take care of some administrative
stuff. Deborah, I accept your offer; and as soon as I walk in your door again,
your enslavement begins.”

She gulped, then nodded.

Back at the dealership, I collected Mike’s demo-car
keys, his general-manager keys, and his dealership credit card; got him to fill
out (in my office, not his) all the paperwork that fired dealership general
managers have to fill out; and then Hank and I watched Mike clean out his desk.
Then I made Mike turn his back on his computer, and I changed his computer
password.

Right after that, I got in my demo car and I headed
for Deborah’s apartment.

I don’t know how Mike got home later. Bus, or taxi,
or friend-as-chauffeur, or walked?
Who cares?
was my attitude—the
lowlife had robbed my
dad
!

Firing a general manager takes time, and so it was
awhile after I’d left Deborah’s apartment complex, before I returned. I was
shocked to find the red Corvette still around; I’d expected her to skip on me.
I walked to the door of Deborah’s apartment; I knocked. I had no idea what to
expect.

Deborah answered the door.