The Shamber Chronicles, Part 6 By Chaucer mawgren@hotmail.com Shamber's fists show themselves to be effective and versatile. Greg was in a place he rarely, if ever, spent time. The interview room was finely appointed. Large, heavy, overstuffed chairs occupied all the correct locations. A huge, billowing couch perched beneath a stunning painting. Rich tapestries and wall coverings presided over luxurious thick carpet. Well maintained plants stood robustly in what would be simply "voids" without them. The only problem was that Mr. Thomas sat beside him. They were discussing the upcoming projects Greg would administer. They all seemed rather bland. But then, just about anything would be bland compared to what he had been through. Thomas gathered up his charts and legal pads and all 48 of his pencils and started to leave. "There's someone here to see you. We've agreed to open this room to you for the next two hours or so." He flashed a sneer, which was his definition of a smile, and left. Two hours? Or so? Who was coming to see him, the President? Greg chuckled. Presumably the president has returned from South Dakota or South Carolina or one of those western states. A soft click drew his attention to the opening door. It stalled somewhere between ajar and half-way. Mr. Thomas' voice was on the other side. He talked too loud and too fast. He tried to be funny. He laughed. It sounded like a car refusing to start. He appreciated his humor and walked away. The door opened. Shamber stepped through. Her legs stepped through and presumably the rest of her joined them. Her legs demanded that Greg watch nothing but her legs. They scissored into the room, flowing and smooth. Their curves and their creamy richness did things to Greg's hormones that can't be discussed in public. Above them was a dress, a short dress. A short dress, a blue dress. Soft blue color and soft knitted fabric. Above that were breasts, her breasts. Her breasts demanded that Greg watch nothing but her breasts. But something else pried away at his vision; her eyes. Set off by soft blue, her large, penetrating green eyes appeared to be aqua. They were framed by soft wisps of make-me-hard-as-a-rock blonde hair. His eyes lost their support and fell to the floor. There he saw her pointed toe, high heel shoes. They were jet black, glossy and sinister. Then he saw her legs. His eyelids went away somewhere. He was unable and unwilling to blink. "I . . . I-ya . . .," she linked her fingers in front of her like a school girl, "I kind-a like figgered from all the, you know, the stuff you said and stuff . . . ," she shifted her weight nervously. Greg saw every implication and result of this shift; every one. Had he blinked, certainly he would have missed something. So there. "I mean like I can like tell that you like legs . . . so I . . ." she flipped her hands upward quickly and immediately drew them down. But the most stunning thing of all was actually seeing her for the first time in person. She was far, far more gorgeous in person than in any of the hundreds of pictures and videos he had seen of her. The third dimension made all the difference. Whatever was supposed to recede, or be slender receded beautifully. Whatever was supposed to protrude, REALLY seriously protruded. He was speechless. He was enthralled. He was in love. He was also now motionless. "I . . . um, Mr. Thomas pulled me from the field." WHAT? What did she say? "He . . . he fired me by giving me another job. It pays the same but it won't be fun." Nothing could make Greg speak, but this did. "Oh, Shamber, I can't . . . I hope you don't think I had anything to do-" "Oh no, no, not at all. In fact, I think that if it wasn't for you they'd have yanked me a while ago." She stood awkwardly. Probably she didn't want to just stand there, but she stood. Greg found his eyelids. He found other things to watch; the carpet as he paced, for example. This was awful. Obviously he still had his job; at least for the moment. But his world had become a little darker; a great deal simpler and less stressful to be sure; but bland, and gray, and old. "I . . . I don't know what to do . . ." She walked up to him, slowly. "I do." At that point in time, Greg discovered the answer to a great mystery. It had perplexed him for months. He never could understand why Shamber's fighting left her opponents so devastated and frightened. He learned part of the answer as her fist collided with his jaw and sent the ceiling lights whizzing by at supersonic speed. He learned more as her other fist blasted his chin, rattling his bones and scrambling his reflexes. He gained full knowledge when his cheek exploded with searing agony; not once, but twice, as each excruciating thump threatened to wrench his head from its moorings by the sheer intensity of its swiveling motion. And what was this grand mystery, this unsolvable riddle for the ages? Her fists hurt. Period. Oh, my, did they hurt. Oh God. They hurt. Her knuckles were sharp and pointed and edgy and craggy. They struck quickly and sank deep. To the bone. They seemed to find the exact spot that hurt the most. Perhaps the tiniest bit this way or that would have been much better. And she could find that exact same spot the second time. Also, the pain went straight through the bone to his mind; completely debilitating his thought process. Clarity and understanding melted away. Jumble and foolishness took their place. There was no capacity for reacting or forming a counter attack, or even for running. From the very beginning the only option was standing there and taking more punches; right up until the time he'd be lying there. He clung to one clear thought, however. He was not going to beg her to stop punching him. He was not going to scream for her to stop and then be willing to jump through as many hoops as she spun in front of him just to appease her. Then her next punch struck and instantly changed his mind. He saw the wisdom and the necessity that so many had seen before him. The words lined up, neatly and in order. Don't. Stop. Stop hitting me. Don't Punch me again. Please. Don't. He was ready to scream them all as many times as it took. Then her hand met his face again. But it wasn't a fist. It was a smooth, soft, open palm. And it wasn't a punch. It was gentle rubbing and caressing. A soft request, a shhhh, came from somewhere; somewhere close. It was Shamber's voice. "It's all right." It was a wonderful voice, soft, feminine, inviting. "It's all right, it's over now. I promise." Promise her anything but give her Chanel. Yeah. "Here, sit down . . . let me help you." The backs of his legs brushed against soft cushion and then settled in to it. Then her soft hands were gone. Where did they go? He needed them. He liked them. They were nice. Cold wetness made him flinch. It was a towel dipped in water. Her hand was behind it. Yes, that's good. "I'm here Greg. Take your time. Slowly. I'll be with you. I'm not leaving." Good. So good. Greg had no idea how much time passed. But now he was aware of his surroundings. He remembered. He comprehended what happened to him and the embarrassment it brought him. The fearsome pain of his assault had changed into the nagging pain of bruises and cuts and black and purple and swelling. It would stay with him for days. He'd have to get used to it. Shamber was there. Her face was open and direct, but it held great inner turmoil and indecision. "Greg, I have much I need to tell you." She drew close, "But first, know this. I hit you for the first time today. I also hit you for the last time. Ever. I promise." He looked deep into her large, large eyes. They were sincere; all the way through. He believed her. As she rose and paced away, he saw that she was different. She held herself differently. She was more, erect, more proper. And her voice was formal and eloquent. Her words came from far forward in her mouth. She sounded almost like a British subject. And the things she said. I have much to tell you? First, know this? Shamber can't speak that way. She never spoke that way in her life. She couldn't even speak that way successfully if she were reading from a script. He must be punch drunk. But he wasn't. As he watched her form her thoughts and work her way through what she had to tell him he knew, deep in his bones, that this was the real Shamber. More embarrassment welled up. He had always suspected that she was actually quite bright. But to learn now that her entire persona and attitude and essence had been a ruse, a disguise and that it fooled him completely? Insult followed injury. It shamed him. "Greg . . . I promised myself almost every day that I would do this to you. I told myself I would knock you out. But . . . I changed my mind. I realized finally that this isn't what I wanted. I had a promise to fulfill, yes, and I believe I did that, but it isn't right. I know what I need to do, what I sincerely want to do." He watched her twist in the wind. She was suffering; and he had just learned exactly what suffering is. "When they removed me from field work, it really hurt me. I was devastated. I had lost my purpose. Why? What's the big deal?" She stopped pacing and turned to face him. "It didn't take long to figure out. What made it so exciting, so thrilling, was the fact that you were controlling me; telling me what to do." Her huge eyes grew misty. "You looked out for me and took care of me, and made me listen." She smiled briefly, "Whenever you could, of course. You kept me safe, kept me moving, kept me alive." Something very strange and very exciting was happening here. Greg leaned on her words. If she stopped speaking he'd probably fall on the floor. "I knew that I had to have your control in my life. I need it . . . badly. If it's no longer available at work, then I need to find it apart from work." Yes, yes, continue, do go on. She began pacing again. "So, today, I'm the administrator and you are the field agent. Today you do exactly as I say for a change." She stopped directly in front of him. "Here are your duties . . . you are to do anything and everything you want to do with me or to me. Here are my duties . . . I am to accept and submit to your orders and I am to enjoy them . . . and love them." Then, she stopped talking. Greg certainly loved the sound of all this. But it was too goofy. If she changed her mind about beating him up then why did she beat him up? If she's all eager and hot to love whatever it is he plans to do to her, why is she wearing this expression of fear and apprehension? He began to pace. Let's think through this. Shamber has always been direct. She says what she means. If we take her words at face value, what do we have? We have her knowledge that I try to be polite and considerate. So, maybe what I'd claim I wanted to do to her wouldn't be what I'd REALLY want to do to her. Maybe the thrashing was motivation to turn me lose, to draw my real intentions from me. And, maybe she looks worried right now because it's altogether possible that I might return apples for apples, a little tit for tat, a little punch for punch and she just promised to allow anything I wanted. Well, she needn't worry about that. There were far, far better things to do with Shamber than beat her up. But his theories were all pretty shaky. Perhaps it was time for some field testing. "So, as I understand it, you're willing to take whatever I dish out; every . . . INCH . . . of it." Relief drew the clouds from her face. She spoke as though a dread weight had lifted, "To the very last drop." OK, there's no doubt that they understood each other. But it was too vague. It wasn't enough. She had run Greg ragged, had driven him crazy, had come close to costing him his career, and had passed within a wink of punching his lights out during the most painful moments of his life. And now he was to call the shots? The whole thing still didn't make sense. "What if I were to say that your responsibility in this little adventure is to devote yourself fully to, and concentrate completely on, serving a particular . . . part . . . of me for my pleasure and satisfaction." He paced slowly, unwilling to face her. "And that your devotion and concentration will succeed only if it results in a gooey mess." A little shock value never hurts. "And what if I were to say further that my responsibility is to become as comfortable as I can become in order to devote myself to and concentrate on my own pleasure and satisfaction." His pacing picked up a bit. The clincher was on the way. "And what if I were to say also that your pleasure and satisfaction was of no concern to our agreement or to me?" He stopped pacing. The moment of truth had arrived. Shamber quickly turned from him and stood with her head lowered. He could see she was trembling, ever so slightly; anger, perhaps. Was she going to knock him out now? And again when he woke up? He began clicking through his options. It was a frighteningly short list. He checked the distance to the door. He had recovered enough to scream really loudly. She raised her head, but didn't turn around. "Before we . . . begin . . . I have four concerns and also four requests." Ah-Ha! Here we go. Concerns and requests! Four, no less. Now we'll see. Greg knew he was right to lay it all on the line like this. He sat in the room's lone straight-back chair. Somehow, it seemed appropriate. Shamber turned. Her face was not as he expected. It did not carry the look of someone about to mop the floor with him. "I . . . I want to thank you, sincerely, for offering me this excitement, this thrill. I'm concerned that you may consider me unworthy. I don't want to miss my chance. Please know that I will do everything I possibly can to please you in the way you want to be pleased." She moved closer to Greg and spoke more directly. "I also request that, at the time of your choosing, you will please name the place on me, or in me, you want this gooey mess to occur. I'm concerned that, without your guidance, I might fail to please you properly." Greg could only respond with a wide-eyed nod. How incredibly stupid he must look with his mouth hanging open. She turned away and became tentative. "Also . . . this is the tough one . . . if you discover that my devotion and concentration fail to please you, I request that you grant me the privilege of a second chance. Please do that . . . please." He couldn't believe these words were coming from such a glowing vision of erotic loveliness. "And finally, if you find that my devotion and concentration do please and satisfy you and that you want to experience more of it, I . . . I . . . uh," she put her fingers to her forehead in frustration and loss. She moved to him with purpose, her face brimming with lust and emotion. She sat in his lap, her incredible body made for a pleasingly warm presence. She stared into his eyes from just a few inches away. Her luxurious, full, smooth breasts poised under his chin. She opened her mouth, closed her mouth, swallowed, and spoke. "I want you to let me make you feel good and to let me make you spurt again and again whenever and wherever you want. Please, Greg, please." He could only stare back. This magnificent creature, who had the power to force him to become her sex slave, was, instead, begging to become his. He took the time he needed. He couldn't appear scattered and confused; not now. "I can't wait." Unbridled joy leapt from her. She giggled with relief, beamed with pride, and sobbed with gratitude. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you." She kissed him with complete, open abandon. Greg, again, was dumbfounded. She sincerely feared that he, HE might turn HER down. Incredible. The kiss quickly turned her joy to lust. Soft, mewling sounds of intense pleasure welled up in her. Her lips twisted into his. She moved rhythmically in his lap, trying to draw closer and closer. Then, he did what he had dreamed about doing for months; what he envisioned time and time again, knowing that he'd never get away with it. He took her luscious, smooth, round, unthinkably feminine and overflowing breasts into his hands and caressed and fondled and swirled the stiffening buds at their peaks beneath his thumbs. Shamber emitted a low, desperate, moaning sigh of surrender. It dripped with torture and proclaimed how hot and bothered she had suddenly become. It was as if the only thing in the world she wanted to do was to resist him, to stop this invasion, to walk away and never come back. But she simply couldn't. The things he was doing to her were just too wonderful. Greg watched as his actions drove her increasingly insane. He couldn't believe it. After all the nights and days of fantasizing about this very moment, of wishing that she would allow him this unearthly pleasure; after arriving at this point and finding that it was even better than his dreams predicted; after all that, she was enjoying it more than he was. Incredible. He watched many things as she sat there. Her creamy smooth legs, spread rather widely, flowed erotically toward the floor. Each breathtaking curve assaulted his male wiring with anticipation and thrill. The hem of her hypnotic skirt sagged between her upper thighs. It didn't sag much. Her panties were clearly visible behind the lowest point of the arch. They smoothed and flirtatiously obscured, mostly, the form and shape of her body behind them. He looked between her thighs and watched the back of her skirt stretch along his lap. It, in turn, provided the backdrop for the lacey hem of her frilly slip. Her full, round, inviting hips framed all of this luscious allure along the way to her small, waspish waist. Much of that fled from his view behind the most stunning pair of breasts he had EVER seen . . . in person, on film, in pictures, on the internet, in his dreams . . . ever. But, in truth, it was her arms that demanded the major share of his attention. They were bent at the elbows and again at the wrists with her palms facing upward, her hands close to her shoulders. Graceful, slender fingers curved slightly in varying degrees. Her pinkies curved the most. The others became progressively relaxed until her index fingers were almost straight. She held her arms well back, as far to the rear as she possibly could. This thrust her already enormous bust forward, making it even more prominent, high, and exposed. But that wasn't it. That's not what captivated him. She was keeping her arms back to allow him complete access, to make certain they were out of the way, to assure that she couldn't possibly interfere with the touch of the master. It was the final proof that she truly intended to submit everything to his will. Her head tilted back in dreamy oblivion. Her eyelids closed, but not all the way. The whites of her eyes twitched and danced spasmodically. Only the whites were visible. Her full, rich, inviting lips continuously changed from circle shapes to square shapes to varying shapes between. All of them spoke of incredible passion and desire. The pace quickened and the intensity rose. Clearly, unmistakably, Shamber was being torn apart by a monumental orgasm. It ripped through her like a freight train, devastating her with pleasure in its wake, sending jolts of uncontrollable energy all the way to the quaking soles of her feet. Greg's mind was no longer capable of comprehending too much. But it did seize on the odd fact that all of this was happening with both of them fully clothed and without any form of genital contact. And, his mind also seized on the fact that this appeared to be a violation of his masterful edict. Her pleasure was supposed to be inconsequential. Yet here it was, loudly dominating the room. But then another thought pushed itself onto his radar. Everything he was watching, and everything he was doing, he saw and did for his own pleasure. The fact that his actions accounted for the only reason Shamber was coming with no end in sight also brought him great pleasure. So, maybe, it was all cool anyway. Then, with a vaguely gagging, strangling sound, a lurch forward, and a great expulsion of breath, Shamber finally gained freedom from her soul- shaking climax. She fought and quivered and fought to regain her composure. She seemed almost aware that a world existed. Greg kissed her. She clamped her arms around him clumsily with a sudden thud, smothering him with her creamy smooth presence. Short blasts of air jetted through her nostrils. Soon the air carried sound with it. Perhaps it was sobbing. Perhaps it was laughter. Ending the kiss did nothing to help define the sound. But it definitely was intense. From a deep, groggy haze she ran her tongue along her lips. Opening her eyes was far beyond her capabilities. She needed to cuddle, she needed to snuggle. She needed to sleep, warmly and deeply, against his body. Then she became aware of how prominent Greg's "particular part" had become. Alarms clanged within her. Mortified, she rose to the occasion, fighting desperately to push the dreamy coma of afterglow aside. She was blowing it, blowing it badly. Her purpose was to please him. That's why she existed. How could he possibly forgive this? She needed to attend to business. Did he want to stay in this chair? Where would he be the most comfortable? On the couch? In a deep, cushy chair? In this chair? He announced that he preferred one of the large, low, overstuffed chairs to anything else. She raced to help ease him into it, which meant he needed to help her across the floor. She asked about cushions and if he had enough cushions and could she go get cushions from somewhere else and what about cushions? After he seated himself and adjusted himself, she tried to help plump and fluff and soften his surroundings. He reacted with amusement to all this. That's good; that's very good. She kissed him in gratitude. But not very long, she couldn't kiss him for long, she needed to move on. Gosh, that's a great kiss. She freed Greg from the confines of the clothing that was restricting him. It was then that the magnificent, capable Shamber returned. It was then that her fearsome fists of pain transformed into phenomenal fists of pleasure. Gawkiness and confusion gave way to poise, grace, and a silken, sultry voice. "Does that feel good?" " . . . oh yeah . . . it feels . . ." "Yes?" " . . . it feels . . . real good." "What can I do to make it feel better?" " . . . don't . . . . . . stop . . . " Shamber had no intention of stopping. After all, he had lots of catching up to do.