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Messaging Mick

By Miss Monica

Pam Crane sat at the picnic table behind The Eagle Diner nibbling at the last of a blueberry muffin. The spot in the alley, while not picturesque, provided a quiet place to take a break from the bustle of the restaurant where she worked. She bent over her phone, intent on a how-to book about knitting. Her friends teased her about the grandma-worthy hobby; what twenty-two-year-old young woman actually knits? But she found the repetition and the concentration kept her from worrying about other problems.

Number one on that list, a job. Okay, waitress was a job, and it paid the bills, but it was only temporary. Six months ago Pam had graduated from college with a degree in management and still hadn’t found a position in her field. She hoped that would change soon.

The backdoor of the restaurant popped open and the owner, Rafe, stuck his head out. “Hey, Pammie, lunch rush is hitting early. Can you get back on the floor now?”

Pammie. Everyone who’d known her as a girl still called her Pammie. As a long-time acquaintance of her grandparents, Rafe was no exception. He’d even printed her nametag as Pammie. She’d been so grateful to be employed that she didn’t complain.

Pam consulted her watch. “Aww, Rafe. I just sat down.” She was entitled to fifteen minutes off her feet and she needed it.

Rafe steepled his fingers and smiled big. “Please.”

Pam gave an answer that would satisfy him. “Okay. I’ll be there in five.”

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“Sure,” she said although she wasn’t doing him any favors. Her break was over in five minutes anyway. She wadded the muffin wrapper in a napkin and tossed it in the trash. She was about to slip her phone into her pocket when it chirped with an incoming text. With a tap, the new message flashed on the screen.

MICK: Good morning Miss Pamela.

Pam smiled. Mick. The latest submissive who had fallen under her spell. But he wasn’t following her instructions. She typed back to him.

PAMELA: I said to contact me at three pm.

That was when her shift ended. Six thirty am until three pm. Two breaks, and a half hour lunch. The pay wasn’t great but the tips were usually good, and she could use the afternoons for resume submissions and interviews.

MICK: I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m just so anxious.

I bet you are. She didn’t write back. He could just twist until she was ready. Pam, or rather, Miss Pamela had a whole string of needy men on the line. They liked to be told what to do, and she was happy to direct them. The power was intoxicating and exciting. Arousing even. So much so that she didn’t carry on any text conversations during work, it would be way too distracting. She put her phone away, returned to the crowded restaurant, and tied her pocketed apron around her waist. Then she was off to serve the masses. Later, the masses would be serving her.

Pam was looking forward to training Mick. He’d represented himself as middle-aged, long-divorced, inexperienced yet curious. That could be true, or that could be a load of crap. Online anything was possible. She always said she was forty-two. Adding years to her age gave her an aura of experience that was unheard of in a twenty-something. The mistress game was for the fun, not to find a life long mate, so why let a simple number scare potential play partners away.

And yet, young as she was, the command and control came naturally to her. She’d been the mature one all through school. High school class president. Captain of the volleyball team. In college, she was president of her sorority and chairman of the Campus Advisory Council. With good grades and impeccable credentials, she still didn’t understand why she hadn’t been able to launch her career. She didn’t consider herself in the same category as her giggly, flighty classmates who’d somehow already been hired. She consoled herself with her subs, lined up like fish on a stringer attempting to win her favor.


Michael Reeder sat at his desk in the county accounting office tapping a pen against the arm of his chair. On the wall across from him, the second hand of a clock swept in a slow circle. Ten forty-five. Ten forty-six. Ten forty-seven. At this rate, three o-clock would never arrive. He took out his phone and stared at the blank face.

Last night he’d chatted online with a woman. A mistress. Someone who had reached through the computer screen and penetrated his mind like no one else. By some miracle, she’d given him a phone number with instructions to text after three o’clock. But he was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t wait. Yes, he was supposed to do what she said, but above and beyond would surely be appreciated. He typed.

MICK: Good morning Miss Pamela.

Michael didn’t send the message right away. He sat and examined it, triple checking the spelling of those simple words. Finally, he grew brave and hit send. As soon as he did, a rush of exhilaration washed over him.

He’d named himself Mick for his online adventures, but no one called him that in real life. Real life had become boring and predictable. A mundane job in an obscure hallway of the courthouse kept him busy but not fulfilled. He’d dated some since becoming single again, but most women didn’t understand his deep need to appease and comply. He thought his wife, now ex, would appreciate such devoted service, but his meek submission only irritated her. She called him a wimp and divorced him.

Michael’s phone buzzed. When he saw it was from Miss Pamela, a thrill raced through him.

PAMELA: I said to contact me at three pm.

Short. Curt. And calling out his disobedience. The terse reply made his cock tingle a little. Maybe he could pass off the faux pas as misunderstanding. I thought you said before not after. No, he didn’t want to come off as that dumb. Honesty would be the best policy.

MICK: I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m just so anxious.

Truth. He was anxious. And excited. But he’d just have to stew until three o’clock. He sat at his desk, pushing papers around, but his mind was far away. Instead of thinking about the various requests in his inbox, he let his mind wander to his favorite fantasy.

Life with a dominant woman. He always imagined it to be a perfect mix of harsh and nurture, training and testing, punishment and reward. He wanted to be held to a high standard, and if he failed, he expected to pay the consequences. So far he wasn’t sure what those consequences might be.

He usually concentrated on the reward. Taking off her shoes and massaging her feet. Kissing her toes. Sucking her clit and tonguing her pussy until multiple orgasms left her exhausted. When, and only when, she was satisfied would he turn his attention to his own sexual release. He never imagined intercourse. That would be too much to ask. Instead, he thought about masturbating on his knees in front of her. She would watch and direct him.

How this would play out over text he didn’t know. All he could do was wait and see where the ride took him. He stared at his phone for ten minutes before he realized she wasn’t going to write back. Even that sent an excited zing through his body. Miss Pamela knew what she wanted and what she didn’t want. That was that.

Michael pushed up from his desk and sauntered to his office door. From there he gazed out at his charges. He was the only CPA on staff, and by virtue of his education and tenure, he’d been promoted to manager, but he had no control over the group of twenty-somethings that filled the department roster. Right now they were talking, texting, playing solitaire, posting to Facebook, ordering new shoes. The list of time wasters went on and on and he couldn’t figure out how to stop it. In many ways, he didn’t care.

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