She’s a hard-working woman who really likes to let go at weekends.
My high-end job is brilliant. It absorbs and satisfies me and pays an absolute packet. It’s very demanding, though, and I’ve seen countless colleagues arriving, all keen and enthusiastic, only to leave after a month, unable to take the relentless pressure.
Not me. I’m tough. I can take it.
The trick is to give your all when you’re at work, but then, the moment you leave the building, that’s it. Work is done and finished with and it’s time for relaxation. Not everyone is able to compartmentalise but I can, on the whole. And if sometimes the pressure is in danger of becoming too extreme, I have a foolproof method of… well, I’ll call it release.
Take today. Friday. Absolutely manic and my subordinates have been maddening. They’re usually a competent lot, but for some reason they’ve suddenly lost it en masse this afternoon. First Sophie missed a deadline with a vital bid submission, then Ben went off sick with man flu. By the time Ollie upset a major account-holder I’d had enough. I yelled at him to grow up and sort it out or not bother to come back in after the weekend. He crept off looking at the point of tears and the whole team hid behind their computers, plainly terrified, as I swept through the outer office to summon the lift.
Now, speeding smoothly towards the foyer, I feel so wound up I could punch the mirrored wall. Instead I reach into my bag for my phone.
I send the text on autopilot. The codeword and phone number are so familiar to me now. And I don’t have long to wait − the mobile rings before I reach the station.
“I require your company tonight,” comes the voice. Only five words, but they immediately begin to work their magic. As I head for the escalator I can already feel the week’s pressure lifting. And, low in my stomach, there is the warm stirring of excitement.
Box Sixteen
My suite is a penthouse – well, I did tell you I earn a shedload − and straight away I slip into the shower. It’s to die for, with multiple jets of hot water pounding my body from every angle. I lather on citrus gel and luxuriate for five minutes, my hands slipping across my soapy skin, and over my stomach. My nerve-endings, already sensitised by the sensation of the spurting water, thrill at my fingers sliding downwards to curl around my pussy. I cup myself, rub my palm gently over the smoothness, noticing how much more sensitive I’ve become since my complete wax – painful, but worth every wince.
My forefinger is poised to stroke my already pulsating clit when I come to my senses and, reluctantly, stop myself. That is not allowed, of course. I shudder with repressed desire, then rinse hurriedly, turn off the water and briskly towel-dry until my skin tingles.
I sit naked on the creamy satin sheets of my super-size bed and wait. This is the hardest part. The waiting. Never knowing what will be required of me. As always, I feel the delicious frisson of fear, building in intensity until my whole body trembles in anticipation. When at last my phone rings, I start at the noise.
“You are to open box sixteen,” the voice says. After the connection is terminated, I switch off my phone. I want no distractions tonight and he will certainly not tolerate them. I open my wardrobe. Neatly arranged in a line on the top shelf are red boxes, each with a number penned on their sides. I reach for number sixteen and shiver. He’s never requested this one before so, consequently, I have no idea what is inside. I lay the box down carefully and lift the lid. As always, there is a page of instructions on the top.
‘Dress yourself in the contents of the box. Lie on your bed. You are to be silent and still tonight.‘
I place the page to one side and withdraw from the box a collar of softest black leather with a silver ring extending from its buckle. This needs no alteration to fit snugly around my throat. Next I find leather bands that are clearly designed for my wrists and ankles. Like the collar, each has a silver ring attached. I put these on, experiencing some difficulty in fixing the wristbands with only one hand free. Then there’s a bra, severely under-wired, but in flimsiest black chiffon. This, I discover, is cut low enough to leave my nipples, already fully pert, completely exposed. The knickers are of the same chiffon, with ribbons to tie at the sides. They are far too tiny for me and cover only the warm, already moist, slit of my pussy, exposing a generous margin of flesh on each side. As I put them on I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirrors that I have on every wall in this room. My face is flushed, my lips full and open and I look completely wanton. As, indeed, I feel.
I take out the final item in the box and catch my breath. It’s a black satin blindfold. I rarely wish to submit to this, usually wanting to retain some small sense of control by being able to see what’s happening to me. However, though feeling undeniably nervous, I realise I want this complete capitulation tonight. Inhaling deeply, I fasten the blindfold and lie down on my bed.
Powerless
The room is cool and quiet. I’ve no idea how long I wait. Time compresses into meaninglessness as I withdraw into myself behind the blindfold. I shiver suddenly at the thought that he might already be here, watching me, without my knowing it. This uncertainty grows and my fear is heightening to an almost unbearable degree when at last I hear the faint click of his key in my outer door. My breathing quickens with anticipation as I hear him draw nearer, his footsteps hushed by the deep softness of my carpet.
A barely discernible draught across my naked skin tells me he is in the room with me. I hear odd noises − a zip being pulled, a swish of clothing, a gentle chinking of, what? Chains? I struggle to keep my breaths shallow. I’ve been told to be quiet, and even ragged breathing might cause his disapproval. And his disapproval, I have learned, is best by far to avoid.
He’s suddenly beside me. My right hand is raised as he grasps and lifts the silver buckle at my wrist. I hear the chinking sound again and then a small click – he’s fastened a chain to my wristband. My arm is pulled outwards and upwards and I realise that he’s attached the other end of the chain to the outer corner of my headboard. My bed has sturdy metal rings fixed at regular intervals across its head and base specifically for this sort of purpose. These have proved invaluable during our times together.
He repeats the process with my left wristband, then with each anklet, until I am spread-eagled across my bed. He attaches a fifth and final chain to my collar, then clips this to the headboard too − not so as to interfere with my breathing, but taut enough to expose my throat fully to him. I’m at his mercy now and trembling with a delicious terror at what’s to come when, for the first time tonight, he speaks.
“Lift your hips.”
His voice is low and calm, but has an edge of menace. Hurriedly, I respond. There is still enough slack in the chains for me to push down on my shoulders and the soles of my feet so that my bottom rises inches from the mattress.
“Higher.”
I struggle to increase the gap between my bottom and the bed, the muscles in my belly, buttocks and thighs straining. I feel him slide pillows underneath me, manoeuvring them until they are positioned precisely as he wishes.
“Down.”
I lower my bottom onto the pillows. They are soft but very dense, and hold my hips high, so that my pussy is forced upwards, vulnerable and accessible to him. I hear the chains shifting as he tightens them, extending my arms higher and splaying my legs wider apart. Soon I am pinioned fast, spread fully and barely able to move.
The mattress shifts as he climbs onto the bed and straddles me. I can feel his knees either side of my chest and, as he lowers himself, the underside of his balls brushes my breasts. I flinch involuntarily.
“Nervous?” He laughs softly. “I’ll overlook that movement, but move again without my permission and I’ll punish you.”
His weight shifts, as if he is reaching to one side, then something touches my lips.
“Open.”
I part my lips and my mouth is invaded. It’s not his cock; it’s too cold and lifeless. As it rotates slightly against my teeth and tongue, I recognise the smooth head of my vibrator. It slides deeper, and I have to concentrate on relaxing my throat to prevent gagging. I am just beginning to feel breathless and panicky when it’s gently withdrawn.
I’m trying to steady my breathing when I feel him climb off me and move to kneel between my open legs. He must still be leaning over my body, for the head of the vibrator comes softly to rest at the base of my throat. There’s a soft click as it’s switched on. The pulses are at their lowest tempo but ripple deliciously through my highly-sensitised body. I struggle to remain still as the shaft moves downwards, diverting to either side to toy languorously with my nipples, now swollen to the point of discomfort, then on across my belly to linger, teasingly, at the top of my knickers.
My clit is throbbing and I can feel the wetness beginning to seep from my slit. He’s noticed this too and I feel an appraising stroke on the tiny wisp of chiffon between my legs, before his finger snakes underneath the material and pushes lightly against the lips of my pussy. I am so slick with desire that his finger would slip straight in if he wished it. And I want him to, so much. I want him inside me, I’m frustrated that I am not allowed to press against him, to force him to enter me and, maddeningly, his finger withdraws.
“You’re an easy slut,” he murmurs with audible satisfaction. “You’re dripping wet, you’re so desperate to come. But you’ll just have to be patient.”
He doesn’t take my knickers off, but pulls the fabric to one side. He avoids my clit with the vibrator (it must be obvious that one stroke from that would send me over the top) and slides it over the opening of my c**t and down to the tight bud of my arse. He presses gently and the tip invades me slightly, sending shockwaves through the very core of me. It’s now an exquisite torture to remain still and silent and I feel the last remnants of control begin to desert me.
Ownership
Suddenly the vibrator is removed and for several seconds he doesn’t touch me. I could scream at the loss of contact, my nerve-endings quivering and longing for release. I summon the last of my willpower to resist, for I know from bitter experience that he will leave me cruelly unsatisfied if I don’t obey him. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, but might be only a minute or two, he speaks.
“You will not come until I give you permission to.”
My knickers are still pulled to one side and I feel the vibrator pressing against my pussy. But no, it’s not the vibrator. It’s the head of his cock. Warmer and larger than my sex-toy, it slowly slides into me, the lube on his condom unnecessary since I’m so wet and open to him. His familiar girth stretches the throbbing walls of my c**t as, millimetre by maddening millimetre, it invades me until it’s buried to the hilt. Then he stops.
I want to buck against him, slam my body against his, and I’m screaming inside with an almost unbearable frustration when, at last, he speaks.
“You may come now but not until I tell you that you are released.”
I begin to panic as he withdraws almost completely, but then I feel his cock thrust hard back inside me. At the same time, he places the vibrator on my clit and ups the revs. I’m consumed with lust, my entire being focussed on the driving rhythm of his cock and the sensation is building, building, building and then –
“You are released.”
I throw open my mouth and scream as I come at last, my head thrashing from side to side, my body arcing out of control beneath his; no thought, only surrendering to the tumultuous sensations pounding through me. And at the zenith of my orgasm I feel his body respond, shuddering powerfully between my thighs. I exult, my blood strobing scarlet and gold across my closed eyelids.
I lie, done for, panting and spent as, slowly, the overwhelming waves diminish in intensity and begin to recede. I realise that he has discarded the vibrator but his cock, amazingly still hard and pulsing, remains inside me. He must have grasped the chain attached to my collar for I feel the tension tighten and my head is lifted slightly upwards, towards him. The blindfold is yanked from me and my eyes blink in shock at the sudden light. My startled gaze is met with an icy aquamarine stare.
“You accept that I control you?”
Still breathless and unable to speak, I am able only to nod my compliance.
“You accept that I am your master?”
I nod again. He releases the chain and my head falls back against the bed as he withdraws from me. My pussy feels the absence of his cock like a pain, my muscles contracting in a useless bid to reclaim it, but I am too weak to protest. My eyelids flutter closed and I’m only barely aware of the next minutes’ vague sounds and movements. The mattress shifting, zips being fastened, chains chinking as they are released and removed.
Dimly, I hear my front door closing. I stretch tentatively, slowly wrap my arms around my breasts, curl my knees up and towards my belly as I roll off the pile of pillows to lie on my side. I feel exhausted but utterly relaxed, all tension dispelled and forgotten. I sleep a deep and dreamless sleep.
Apology
On Monday morning I wake refreshed and invigorated. I arrive so early I get half a day’s work done before my minions even arrive. After Friday’s outburst they’re clearly relieved at my improved mood, though still nervous.
Ollie tiptoes in and carefully places a steaming espresso on my desk. “I came in over the weekend and sorted out that account I’d messed up. Should be OK now. I – I just wanted to apologise for my mistake.”
“Well, don’t mess up again, Ollie,” I say, then notice that his gaze is fixed on the carpet. He’s still too scared to look at me, the idiot. I decide I’d better take pity on him. “Anyway, thanks for the coffee.”
He manages a relieved smile as, at last, he looks up at me. As always, the aquamarine of his eyes is startling. “You’re welcome, boss,” he says, then quietly turns and walks away.
