She works hard for his money

An anonymous comment inspired today's story. After I wrote about financial domination in The Poorest of the Wealthy, someone said they would love to see a story where the woman was the one being financially dominated.

It took some time, but ask and ye shall receive.

Six figures of servitude

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

 Alexis couldn't take her eyes off the boots. The soft leather, the laces up the back, the rubber sole. They looked so comfortable, so sexy. She could almost feel them against her skin, hugging her calf. The strap over the toe, that rusted color to the leather. They were perfect.

She sighed. “No,” she said, “I'm fine. Just looking, thanks.”

She looked at the other boots. She looked at a pair of suede boot, fur lining around the top, along the tongue, a wedge heel and silver buckles. She looked at knee high boots with embroidered cherry blossoms on the black leather. At a pair of Victorian boots, the heels curved inward at the back, the buttons up the legs.

She sighed and looked at the bag in her lap. It was denim. Made from an old pair of jeans. Her old pair of jeans. The pocket at the front had once been her back pocket. The zipper at the top had once been her zipper. It wasn't much to look at, but it was hand sewn. She'd spent hours on it.

And inside was her security pass, her ID, twelve dollars, and her keys.

She still had the Porsche key chain. It looked odd next to the key to her ancient Honda, but it reminded her of what her life had been before. Back when she could have bought all four pairs of boots on a whim, when she wouldn't have even needed to look at the price. When she would wear expensive perfume, use expensive shampoo. When she had a purse that was hand made, but hand made in Italy. When there was a designer logo on it that wasn't Levi.

She stood up and felt the duct tape stretch, holding the sole of her current boots onto her feet. She wiped hands down her side, hands that had once been perfectly manicured. The pants scratched at her skin, but she was getting used to it. No more silk. No more lace. Sooner or later, it would stop feeling like burlap.

She walked out of the store and squinted in the sunlight. No more sun glasses. She walked down the rows of cars, looking at each one she passed. She could have driven that one. Could have owned that one. Leased that one, maybe. Her credit was still good. Nothing wrong with that.

When she finally got to her car, she leaned against the threat bare seat and gritted her teeth as the engine slowly turned over, groaning and screeching as it did. The smell was as bad as ever, and she didn't even try to turn on the AC. The radio played static when she was lucky. She pulled out of the parking lot, missing her XM radio, missing her CD player, her MP3 port. She missed having a car that ran so silently that she could actually think, that would keep her cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

She wiped her eyes, eyes that at one time would have had mascara. That was a plus. No streaks from the tears. She laughed at that and turned into traffic.

She parked a few blocks away from the apartment. She still couldn't bring herself to use the garage, even if it was heated, even if she did pay for it. Carrying her briefcase, she walked the last few blocks, going around the building and taking the service entrance. She didn't want the doorman to see her. Didn't want to risk him telling her she couldn't go in. Worse, didn't want to risk him recognizing her.

She took the stairs all the way up, knowing the exercise would do her good. Her feet were killing her by the time she reached the top. Those boots had once been her most comfortable, back before she'd had to nail the heel on, back when they were more leather than duct tape, back when the laces were all one single string, rather than the tattered, frayed, and knotted together excuse for twine they were now.

She used her key to open the top of the stairwell, and stopped to take a breath on the carpet. She leaned against the wallpaper, remembering when the interior designer had first shown it to her. Remembering when she said that money was no object.

The door to the apartment wasn't locked. They didn't need to lock it.

She stepped inside, bent down, and wrestled the boots off her feet. She pulled off the threadbare socks with the holes, then stepped onto the thick plush carpet. She put her laptop on the table, plugged in her smart phone, and stretched away the aches of the day.

She cracked her neck by the leather couch, ran her hand through knotted hair as she walked past the huge plasma television. She went into the kitchen, took out a place mat. She set the table for one, using the finest china. She polished the silver, placed it carefully on the table, making sure everything was just so. She opened the wine bottle, let it breathe.

He didn't say a word when he came home. Just tossed his keys into the bowl by the door and sat down at the table. He inspected the place setting, poured himself a glass of wine, swirled it around, tasted it.

Dinner was in the oven. She put it on a tray, carried the tray into the dining room, and set it down in front of him. She put the napkin in his lap, and she watched as he cut the first bite. He took a taste, smiled, and gave her a gesture.

She walked back to the kitchen, grabbed a glass of tap water, a plastic fork, and a can of cat food. She brought it over to him, set it on the floor next to him, and sat down. He patted her on the head as she opened the food and took the first fork full. Maybe some day, she'd get used to the taste.

He ate slowly, and so did she. He savored the taste, she tried to ignore it.

Read the rest in Book Three: Boots and Bondage