For Her Pleasure
Kyoko Church

Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

‘Sweet –’ Mistress started. But he saw her flinch. And his heart died a little. ‘Paul, there’s no such thing as truth,’ she said.

He didn’t disagree. He remembered, now, his place. He kept his subbie mouth shut.

This is what she’d been teaching him. In the human psyche there is no such thing as truth, only perspective. She understood that a person can have a secret, something he thinks is ugly. So he hides it from view, tucks it away, only visits it in secret, on weekends and then only to torture himself, like picking at a scab. But she saw the glimmer of it. So she plucked it out, dusted it off. Turned it a hair to the left. And stood back for him to see. Waited for him to realise: the thing he most hated, he could actually love.

She taught him that. She gave him that gift.

And then he betrayed her.

‘Take these keys and unlock that cabinet.’ Her emerald eyes flashed with a thousand storms behind them. Only yesterday they shone with her laughter. That he was responsible made him want to crumble to the floor.

Obediently he took the keys. The cabinet she was motioning to was in the corner, mahogany to match the other furniture in her office. He’d never noticed it before.

He opened it. And gasped. But then he knew. And suddenly, unaccountably, shockingly he was consumed with want, with need. A new need. A dark one.

‘You pick which one –’ her voice, coming from behind him, was taut with barely contained rage ‘– slut. And bring it to me.’

Knees trembling, he chose a wooden paddle. Its wood was also dark and polished to a high sheen. It looked like an oar with most of the handle cut off. There was a leather tie running through a hole in the top of the short handle from which it hung in the cabinet next to other tools.

When he was naked, when he was prostrated over her desk, when he felt the first blow come down on his bare ass, heard the smack, felt the wind rush up as her arm was raised again for a second one and the heat and pain sprang from his reddening skin as the breath was sucked out of him, only then did the hammering of his breaking heart begin to still, to slow. He turned slightly to see her face. It was a mask of calm. But for the glassy sheen of tears welling in her eyes.

And he willed her: harder. Hit me harder. It’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Chapter 1

‘A typical victim of sexual harassment,’ he was saying confidently, just before the madness began, ‘is someone in a subordinate position. Perhaps an immigrant or someone in a first job.’

A noise in the back of the room, the sound of the door to the conference room opening and closing, caused his colleagues to turn around. They all watched as she entered and the air in the room changed.

‘I sincerely apologise for being tardy,’ she said, a warm, wide smile on her face. ‘There was an accident on the highway that detained me unavoidably.’ She walked to the front of the room. ‘I’m glad you were able to get started in my absence.’

He knew nothing about women’s fashion but he recognised quality and elegance in a woman’s business suit when he saw them. That she could combine those characteristics with complete professionalism and not-a-hair-out-of-place fastidiousness in her grooming was his first indication of who she was. There was more there too, right from the beginning. A heat. The way the suit glided snugly over her curves, like she could have made the decision to go a little bigger but then the material wouldn’t pull in just the slightest way, suggesting as it did that her luscious figure could barely be contained, that it was waiting, like a predatory animal, to spring out at a moment’s notice. But he shoved that out of his mind like the completely wrong thought at the completely wrong time that it was.

He felt the slightest stirring of unease for a millisecond as she put out her hand to introduce herself. He was not usually intimidated by beautiful women. But something about her – glossy auburn hair all swept up in a surprisingly old-fashioned chignon away from emerald eyes that seemed to look right into his brain; gorgeous, flawless ivory skin over cheekbones so exquisite – made him unusually ashamed of his own geekiness. Normally he wore his geekdom like a badge of honour. But in the face of her perfection he was briefly transported back to high school, aware of his average clothes, his average shoes, his average hair. She was not even the kind of woman he was normally attracted to. He usually went for the petite blonde type. She was all curves, very Marilyn Monroe, but with that hair the colour of fire. Embarrassingly the phrase ‘va va voom’ ran through his head.

But then he took her hand, slim and soft in his own, and the way she smiled so easily at him made his unease flutter away, swept off like threatening clouds blown by an easy wind on a summer day.

‘I can take it from here,’ she said, bringing out an iPad from a smooth leather handbag and plugging it into the projector with deft hands.

When, after an hour, they broke for coffee, she approached him, off to the side of the conference room. ‘Thanks again for getting the workshop started. I hope you’re happy with how we’ve customised the visual presentation so far,’ she said.

‘It looks great,’ he said.

‘I’ve got some things I need to go over with you. Mostly just confirming the content of the upper management workshop. The biggest difference is the liability issues. We won’t get into much detail about that at this level.’

As she spoke he became aware of something else: he could smell her.

Not perfume. There was none of that. And not soap. There was that, yes, she was certainly immaculately clean, he thought. But it was something more. Something compellingly feminine. Human. Base. Images of the ocean washed through him and a thousand pictures of flowers blooming, opening their petals, flicked through his mind. His dick stirred. He felt a slight heat in his face.

‘So if I could come and see you in your office after we wrap up here,’ she was saying.

Talk now, he told himself, realising she was staring at him, waiting. ‘Sure. Yeah, yeah, sure. That’s … fine. Good. Um, I’m on third, with legal actually, though I’m not really with legal, still doing client work, just for now it’s easier with the whole sexual harassment policy thing happening, while I get this in place, after everything, well, you know about that. Just, since I chair the committee I, um, I …’ God. He wasn’t making any sense. He was trying to keep talking to hopefully distract her attention from the fact that he was now staring at her shoes.

Heels. Black patent. Sexy as fuck. Open-toed with her pretty red nails peeping out of the top. She caught him looking and he blushed and stopped talking. But then she smiled at him. A slow, sly smile. He saw a light go on in her eyes and in an instant he understood that she knew him. She saw what he was exactly.

* * *

‘Just a few closing remarks,’ he said in front of his colleagues as she unplugged her iPad and settled herself into a chair in the front row. ‘I’d like to thank Ms Joan Halliwell for her presentation today.’ Light applause. She sat back and unfastened the top two buttons of her suit jacket. ‘And thank you for your participation here today to learn about what we, at X Architects, consider to be an extremely important subject. Before we end for today I’d just like to echo Ms Halliwell’s final thoughts –’ he started. But as he spoke there was a tiny clattering noise that drew his attention. She had dropped her pen on the floor. When she reached down to pick it up her suit jacket fell open and he was suddenly uniquely privy to the plain fact that under her finely tailored and completely professional suit jacket she wore only a skimpy, lacy, midnight-black bra. The skin of her breasts, almost translucent and glowing against the black lace, threatened a wardrobe malfunction the likes of which would have made Janet Jackson’s little stunt seem like Romper Room.

He gulped. And was rendered temporarily mute. By the time his colleagues near her in the front row turned to see what had caused his sudden silence, she had righted herself once more, her suit jacket lying flat, primly against her chest, her face a mask of innocence.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, as the power of speech continued to evade him. ‘I dropped my pen.’

‘Oh, no, no, I –’ he stammered ‘– it wasn’t that. I just momentarily lost my train of …’ He put his hand to his forehead. ‘Sorry. I was saying …’ But he still couldn’t reassemble his jumbled thoughts.

‘I believe you were about to restate the importance of respect for colleagues and customers in the workplace,’ she prompted. ‘Oh, yes, and consultants as well, of course.’ There was a soft chuckle in the room as she smiled that warm and wide smile at him. And then – did she wink? Or did he imagine that?

‘Of, of course,’ he echoed. And then thought, I gotta get outta here. Now.

Because suddenly there was something worse, much, much worse than just some awkward pauses in closing remarks in front of his colleagues that was a concern. There was an increasingly pressing concern.

His dick was on the rise. And threatening to push against the seam of his fly in what could no doubt only be thought of as the all-time worst display possible: in front of business colleagues forced to attend the first session in a two-week training workshop about sexual harassment in the workplace, a session led by the chair of the sexual harassment in the workplace committee.

He made some manic, stuttered words of conclusion. And bolted.

* * *

In the stall in the men’s bathroom he stood, fully clothed, with his forehead pressed against the cool metal of the back of the stall door. He breathed slowly. In. Out. Willing his erection to go down.

He would have liked nothing more than to pull down his trousers and furiously jack his cock until it spurted its goo. It wouldn’t take long. He was, as ever, acutely aware of that.

But he was panicked by the idea that someone could come in at any moment, perhaps even to check up on him after his odd behaviour. So to have, say, Ed Canavan, CEO, enter the bathroom to the tell-tale sounds of masturbation, to be called out as a man who wanks in the men’s washroom at work – God, the shame of the thought alone was too much to bear. And yet somehow thinking it was not helping his fight to tame his stiffened prick.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Plus she was waiting for him. Right now, right this second, he imagined she was in his office wondering what could be taking him so long.

And maybe she was just going to continue the conversation about the management-level workshops she had mentioned. Or maybe she planned on laying into him, lashing up one side and down the other about how he was ogling her breasts, and didn’t he know who she was, what knowledge she had, what she could do to him, ruin his career, his marriage, everything. Maybe it was even more sinister! Maybe she had planned it all along. This was what she did, with her body that screamed ‘come fuck me’ and her shit-eating grin. Set up a guy to make a wrong move and then bring down a harassment suit on him so fast it would render him impotent ever after. Before she moved on to the next. Maybe that was how she could afford those Kate Spade heels (for women’s shoes he did know) and custom-tailored clothing.

That did it. His dick shrank back to its proper place and he prepared to go back to his office.

But as he walked down the hall, the other thought that had been lingering in the back of his brain began to take form. And that thought was this: she wanted him to see. And not to slap him with a lawsuit. Just because.

Because she liked it.

* * *

When he got back to his office she was stretched out on the leather sofa beneath the large picture window that looked out high over the city. Her feet were up, Kate Spade heels on the floor. Again, those red toenails.

He shut the door behind him.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I made myself comfortable while I was waiting. Been on my feet all day.’ The look she gave him could only be described as imploring. Imploring in a way that sucked his gaze back to those gorgeous feet. An inexplicably helpless feeling bloomed in his chest.

‘Have a seat,’ she said, indicating the sofa beside her.

He settled uncomfortably at the other end, not knowing where to look or how to position his body. She chuckled. ‘A little closer, silly,’ she said, lifting her foot up, offering it to him as he moved closer. He blushed but took it, gently. Her foot was surprisingly small and slender, the skin pale so the red toenails stood out sharply.

His mind raced. Raced. Everything in his brain screamed how wrong this was, how they were the two people in the entire building most aware of the wrongness, charged as they were with informing the entire company on the intricacies of how wrong everything about a man touching a woman’s foot in a work setting was.

Especially when that man was pitching a tent in his trousers.

But he absolutely could not stop. His dick screamed back at his brain to shut the fuck up, just shut up for once and let me have this one.

Well, what harm would a little consensual foot-rub do? That was the key word, right? Consensual. He began to massage slowly.

‘Wait a second.’ He looked up. ‘Turn to me a little,’ she said. ‘That’s right. Now lift your knee up onto the couch.’ He did so and jumped as she placed her other foot gently but firmly against his crotch. ‘Keep rubbing,’ she commanded, gesturing at the foot in his hand. ‘I just want to make sure you’re not getting excited.’ Fire exploded in his face. He looked away from her, at her foot, then looked away from that.

She laughed. ‘It’s OK,’ she cooed. ‘I know you like my feet. And I do need a foot-rub right now. So you rub my foot.’ He hesitated. ‘Do it,’ she said, not laughing now. ‘But I just need to make sure, you know, for legal reasons, that you’re not being a disgusting pervert and getting all excited about my pretty feet. I need to make sure this foot-rub is just about you doing something I’ve asked you to do for me. All right? For massage therapy purposes.’

How could he be so confused and at the same time his dick be growing? Did she mean it? Of course she didn’t, but he couldn’t be sure.

He rubbed, obediently trying to clear his mind, trying to think of anything but her slim foot in his hands. But there was also the pressure of her other foot against him. And then she started making little noises. Little whimpers, groans of pleasure. ‘Mmm, that’s right,’ she purred. ‘Ooh, right there, that feels so good.’ He was helpless. He sat helplessly rubbing her sexy foot while his cock grew with a mind of its own.

‘Oh, my God, what is going on?’ She looked at him. ‘I can feel you, you know,’ she said, wiggling her toes against his stiffness, only worsening matters. ‘God, what horny little thoughts are going through your head? Was it the noises I was making?’ she chided. ‘I was only enjoying the foot-rub! You weren’t thinking that’s what I sound like when I fuck, were you?’ Oh! To hear that word. To hear that word come out of her mouth. It hung in the air, like a spark, like an echo. A mere half-hour ago she had been standing in the conference room lecturing on what constituted inappropriate language in the workplace! But he could not deny that he had never heard that word sound so fucking sexy ever before. A hard slap of a word, and when she said it he immediately wanted nothing more than to do it. With her. Now.

He stared into his lap, unable to respond. ‘Well, if you are going to act like a horny little dog, then that’s how I’m going to have to treat you.’

This is how it was that the chair of the sexual harassment committee of X Architects found himself on all fours on the floor in front of this goddess, trousers around his knees, praying, hoping against hope that no one opened the door to his office that he didn’t think to lock, while he humped his straining shaft against her foot like some kind of human lapdog.

It was sheer and utter madness. And he was powerless against it.

Even though she didn’t make it easy for him, did things like swing her foot away, complain that he was going too fast, laugh, force him to keep all four limbs on the ground, to not use his hands – even still his little problem reared its ugly head.

He spurted, hips helplessly bucking, after two minutes.

Oh, no.

Here it comes.

He knelt in front of her and braced himself. He steeled himself against the familiar onslaught of feeling – frustration, anger, shame – that always raged through him like a firestorm, burning everything in its path. But instead of the usual reactions of disappointment, pity, anger or worse, the yawning silence, pregnant with judgments and unspoken resentment, there was something different.

Giggling. Like tinsel. Like glasses chinking together, crystal laughter.

‘My, my, my, we are the eager little beaver, aren’t we?’

Heat rose. He could hear the blood pump through the vessels in his head.

‘That’s OK, sweetie,’ she said and she leaned over and put her lips right next to his ear, so he could feel her breath on his skin. ‘Mistress has all sorts of ways of dealing with a horny little puppy like you,’ she whispered.

Oh, fuck.

‘Starting with,’ she said, dipping her finger in the creamy mess on her foot, ‘rubbing your nose in it.’ She swiped her finger across the space between his nose and his upper lip. A moustache of his own shame. The sharp, acrid odour immediately brought a fresh jolt of humiliation. ‘You may not rub or wash that off,’ she announced. She took his chin with her fingers, stared right into his eyes. His heart pounded in terror. ‘You will wear your disgusting mess on your face. It will be there for all of the rest of your meetings today.’ Oh, God. ‘And when you go home and kiss your wife.’ Oh, God! ‘And when you put your head on your pillow tonight.’ She sighed, closed those gorgeous eyes and smiled. ‘When you have your shower tomorrow morning you may wash it off then.’ He realised he wasn’t breathing and took in a gasping breath.

And suddenly he realised something else. Something astounding.

He was hard again. Harder than he had been the first time.

There was shame. But no anger. There was humiliation. But no frustration.

Pure humiliation. Not blazing, like the white-hot heat of the firestorm of his secret torment, but rolling in slowly, like molasses, covering him, turning his insides liquid, enveloping him in a mass of humility, shrinking him down, making him want to place his hard, needy little cock before her in an act of complete submission.

And what she did then made it throb and ache even more.

She leaned in and placed the tiniest kiss with her full, soft, pouty red lips right on the tip of his nose. Like the period at the end of a sentence.

There it was. Just like that. Turned a hair to the left. His torment died.

His kink was born.

* * *

She was having those feelings again. The ones that made her feel closed in on, made her breath come fast, made her start to sweat. Fine, it was fine, she told herself over and over. She ran a hand under the cold-water tap and pressed it to her forehead, squeezed her eyes shut tight. If she could just stop her brain from spinning.

Yes, things at work were bad. Hadn’t been anything but bad for five years, really. Ah, she remembered the heyday. When everything came so easily, money rolling in and her at the top of her game. But there was more to life than work. There was him.

That’s right. Things with him would be fine. She had herself a good one.

She was sure. She was pretty sure.

Chapter 2

‘Oh, you’re home,’ his wife said. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘Yeah, just got here,’ he said.

‘Dinner’s ready. You want to eat now?’

‘Sure. Or, you know, whenever.’ His wife looked at him and he turned quickly to the fridge.

‘You OK?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, fine. Why?’ He took a beer out and reached for a glass.

‘I dunno. You just seem … weird. Edgy.’

He poured the beer. ‘You want one?’

‘Well, not really. It’s Wednesday.’

‘So?’

‘You know I do Pilates Wednesday nights.’ She peered over his shoulder. ‘OK, what’s wrong? Could you just –’ she touched him on the shoulder ‘– turn around so we can have an actual conversation?’

He plastered a smile on his face and turned around. Willed himself not to feel that dried, crackly feeling above his lip. ‘What? I’m fine. Just … been a long day at work, is all.’ He took a sip from his glass. Eyes wide.

‘Well, OK,’ she said, a slight furrow in her brow. Her eyes searched his face and he felt a flush start to rise. Nothing there to see. Nothing there to see. ‘Are you hot? You’re getting red.’ She put a hand to his forehead. ‘Maybe you’re coming down with something.’

‘I’m fine, hon, really,’ he said, submitting to the kiss on the forehead she used to test his temperature. ‘I just – it was hot in the office today. I’ve been sweating.’ That was true. He had been sweating through his meetings that afternoon.

‘Phew, sorry, hon, yeah,’ she said, laughing and pulling away. ‘You need a shower.’

‘Yeah, ha, sorry,’ he said, a little wanly. ‘I’m so beat though, I might just flake out on the couch.’

‘Well, OK, Mr Stinky,’ she teased. She moved to grab a hoodie and a yoga mat. His heartbeat started to return to normal. ‘I’ll be back around eight thirty or so.’ She grabbed her keys. Then –

‘Hey! You never gave me a kiss when you came in.’ His heart-rate immediately skyrocketed as she reached up to him for a little peck. She pressed closed lips firmly against his. One hand on his cheek, she pulled away and began brushing the side of his face with her thumb. ‘You got a little something on your lip here, hon.’

He opened his mouth. But only a strangled little sound came out.

‘What were you eating, a doughnut or something?’ He almost passed out as she licked her thumb and wiped again.

As she walked out the door she called back over her shoulder, ‘See you in a bit! And darling, you really should rethink that shower. You smell a little funky.’

* * *

Just before 8.30 p.m. he sat unseeingly staring at some mindless TV show. He couldn’t help but intermittently and without thinking press down on his half-hard dick just to give it some sensation, something to combat – or perhaps spur on, he wasn’t sure – all of the longing he felt in his groin. Then his phone, set on silent and sitting on the end table, lit up. He flicked a glance at the screen. And his stomach lurched into his throat.

It was an email.

It was her.

He grabbed his phone, eyes darting around instinctively.

I HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A NICE EVENING! he started reading. He looked at the clock. His wife would be home any minute. He read on. AND THAT YOU’VE BEEN A GOOD LITTLE BOY AND BORNE YOUR PUNISHMENT. ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO YOUR SHOWER IN THE MORNING? JUST TO GET CLEANED UP? OR IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE? BECAUSE I CAN TELL, YOU’RE A LITTLE SHOWER WANKER, AREN’T YOU? WELL, YOU’RE A LITTLE WANKER FULL STOP. ARE YOU BEATING IT RIGHT NOW, LOVE? He looked down at his hand on his groin. Blushed. OR ARE YOU WAITING UNTIL TOMORROW? MAYBE BOTH!

WELL, YOU RUB IT IN THE SHOWER IF YOU WANT, SWEETIE. BUT REALLY, TRY AND HOLD BACK THIS TIME, OK? AND IF IT ONLY TAKES YOU TWO MINUTES AGAIN, LIKE THE PATHETIC DISPLAY I SAW TODAY, THEN IT WOULD SEEM YOU HAVE A LITTLE PROBLEM. DO YOU, LITTLE BOY? BECAUSE I KNOW TWO WORDS THAT WOULD DESCRIBE WHAT I SAW IN MY OFFICE TODAY, ONE THAT STARTS WITH P AND THE OTHER WITH E

There was more. Dear lord, it went on. But he heard the front door open just then, his wife’s footsteps coming into the foyer. Quickly he clicked off his phone as she walked into the room.

‘Hon, you’re absolutely beet red!’ she gasped when she saw him. ‘You’re sick. I knew it!’ She put her things down and came over to feel his face. ‘Yes, hot, hot, hot.’ She clicked off the TV. ‘Up you go and get some sleep! If you don’t rest up you’ll be no good for work tomorrow.’

He read the rest of her email in bed, listening to his wife bustle around downstairs, one hand holding his phone, the other holding his rock-hard shaft. He couldn’t even wait until tomorrow morning in the shower. He tried to hold back, like she said, but his mind was abuzz, his body felt greedy. Even as he tried to deny the truth of what she was saying, his body betrayed him. He didn’t even get to the end of her email before his demanding cock was spent.

She had instructions. Instructions for what to do if he wanted help for his, his problem.

It started with arriving at her office the next morning.

Chapter 3

As instructed, he knelt on the floor of her office in front of her. At her feet.

He’d barely caught a glimpse of her before he prostrated himself. His position did, though, afford him the ability to look closely at her choice of footwear. Heels again. Perhaps she always wore heels to work. Today they were a houndstooth pattern with black spiked heels, again open-toed, with a little black bow across the top, underlining the very small opening. God, the way he could see just the tiniest bit of two toes drove him crazy! He imagined himself on his hands and knees, cramming his tongue into that tiny space. His cock shifted in his trousers.

She pulled out a box from her desk drawer. It was about the size of his fist and it was gift-wrapped. Automatically he reached up to take it but she pulled it back a little

‘Ah, ah, ahh,’ she said. ‘Not quite so fast. If you read my email thoroughly, I believe you have something to say first?’

Suddenly it was hard to breathe. It was hot. He knew what he had to say, what she wanted him to say. And yet it seemed impossible to say it. He could barely form the words in his mind, much less have them pass over his lips.

‘Aw, are you having a hard time, love?’ she said. ‘How about I help you along. Why are you here?’

He swallowed. ‘You, um, said you would help me.’

‘I did say that, yes. And now, what is it again you need help with?’

Oh, God. She knew what. He knew what. He knew she knew. Why was she making him say it?

‘I uh, I sometimes have a little trouble … lasting.’ He paused. ‘You know, sexually.’

She stared at him a moment. Blinked. ‘Sweetie, I hope you’re not intentionally being obtuse. Or maybe you just didn’t read my email carefully enough. Which is also disappointing because I put a lot of care into my correspondence and I expect close attention to the details in return. If you want me to work with you on fixing this then I am going to need more willing cooperation going forward. Do we understand each other?’

His pulse was racing. Was she chastising him? She was. He was at her feet, she was lecturing him, his heart was slamming in his chest and it was making his cock so hard. His brain was a jumble. Fuck.

‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’

She sighed. ‘No, I don’t think so. That answer alone proves otherwise.’ She walked over to her desk, put the gift-wrapped box on top of it and turned to him, crossing her arms delicately over her ample chest. ‘I am going to help you out and remind you of a few things this time, because I understand that you are learning. But for next time just keep in mind that I am not normally so lenient.’ She paused and walked back over to where he knelt. ‘You are to address me as Mistress or Miss or Ma’am.’

He did remember that. Her use of those words combined with how she addressed him – sweetie, love – could not help but call to mind the portion of her presentation that he knew she would be doing this very afternoon at X Architects on how the use of diminutive names in a workplace setting can offend or humiliate an employee. Did he feel offended? Definitely not. Humiliated? Yes. God, yes. In the best way, yes.

However, when he first heard what she wanted him to call her he just felt ridiculous actually saying it. But now there were her eyes. One look into the depths of those fiery, dazzling eyes and somehow it seemed anything but ridiculous. Somehow it seemed totally and completely right.

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Better. Now I told you specifically what words to use to describe your problem.’ A beat. ‘Didn’t I?’

He looked down. ‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Look at me.’ He obeyed. ‘I know this is hard for you. But this is your one chance.’ She bent down and put her face close to his. ‘You need to say it. And you need to say it now. And if you can’t –’ she looked at him so hard right then, so hard he felt it all the way through him, felt her glare zinging through his body, making it pulse and almost vibrate ‘– then you can just get up off my floor, turn around and go back to your self-imposed prison.’

Oh. Oh! She understood. If there was any doubt before, there was none now. This was it. She was right. He had to. He had to say it.

‘I –’ he started, and he didn’t think he could. But her eyes. Again, her eyes. They were not stern now. They were compelling, willing him to speak.

‘I suffer from … premature ejaculation.’ The last two words spilled out of him, like a sigh, like a waterfall, like an exhalation. He waited for something horrible to happen now that it was out there. In the room. In the world.

But, of course, there was nothing. Nothing like that.

What there was, was her.

‘Well, sweetie,’ she said, placing a slim finger under his chin and raising his gaze to meet hers. ‘That was well done.’ She smiled lovingly at him. ‘There’s just one last thing. If you want my help you need to agree to obey me. To submit to me. Always. Do you agree?’

He hesitated a moment. Only a moment, while he thought of words like inappropriate, vulgar, reprisal, lawsuit. But he cast those aside. Cast them all aside because all he could think of now was what she said about his self-imposed prison. And how he couldn’t go back to it.

‘I do.’

And he was rewarded with another one of those heart-crushingly sexy smiles.

She walked back to her desk, picked up the box and handed it to him. ‘Let’s move to the couch while you open your present, shall we?’

His heart hammered in his chest as he sat beside her. She was giving him a gift! What could it possibly be?

He opened it and immediately was puzzled. What at first glance appeared to be a watch, he could see after a second, was not.

‘I know it doesn’t seem so, but it was actually very expensive. It’s vintage, you know. They don’t seem to make them any more.’

He continued staring. The numbers around the edge going up to 60. The two hands, one bigger and red, the other smaller and black. The two silver buttons on the side.

It was a small stopwatch. With a wrist strap.

His heart pounded harder, although he still wasn’t quite sure why. He looked up at her, not knowing what to say.

‘Aw, you’re confused, aren’t you, darling? Well, don’t worry. I’ll explain it to you.’ As she spoke she took the gift out of the box, took off his own regular watch and began strapping this new one on his left wrist. ‘This is your collar. It has two purposes. One is as a visual reminder. Your cock belongs to me. When you see your watch throughout the day, I want you to repeat that in your head. My cock belongs to Mistress. Say it now.’

‘My, my … cock belongs to Mistress,’ he stammered as she finished strapping on the watch. She turned his wrist over and they both stared at it.

‘And since your cock belongs to me, I get to say when you come.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I have the feeling you come way too often.’ The last three words came out like daggers, each one landing – thwack! – right into him, making him burn bright with shame. ‘Am I right? Was I right in my email when I said you like to jerk it in the shower? Did you do it in the shower this morning, love? Be a good boy. Be honest.’

‘Yes, Mistress,’ he said. Then, a little shakily, ‘And in bed last night.’

She turned her face into a pantomime of horror. ‘Why, you horny little wanking pervert! In my office, in bed at night, in the shower this morning. God, you really need to learn to control yourself.’ He winced and squirmed. Her chastising words burrowed their way into his humiliated heart. ‘And since it seems perfectly obvious that you can’t, then I will.’ Oh no. No, no. ‘Your first rule of submission to me is this: no coming unless I expressly allow it.’ Shit. ‘Do you understand?’

It’s no big deal, he told himself. Except, oh, God, he enjoyed it. He wriggled and squirmed at the realisation of how much. He needed it. Frankly, to not have that release scared the fuck out of him. And yet. He nodded.

‘And I don’t see my allowing it as happening any time in the foreseeable future.’ Oh, good God, what had he gotten into? ‘OK, sweetie?’ Her smile returned.

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Very good,’ she said. ‘The second purpose of your gift is with regard to time. Time is your issue, isn’t it? Or, rather, timing. So this stopwatch is perfect. Because your submission will be a lot about timing. As in, timing you.’ She pressed the top button. Tiny ticking noises burst from his wrist as the red hand glided smoothly around the dial.

Oh, God. GOD! His face burned bright, the hottest it had ever felt. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her and he couldn’t stop his mind racing to picture himself doing – God knows what! – while that ticking measured his performance. Or lack thereof.

She chuckled as she watched the realisation dawning on his face. ‘Oh, sweetie, your face is priceless. Honestly!’ She sat back on the couch and smiled. ‘Well, enough about that for now. I imagine you need to get back to the office.’

He glanced automatically at his watch, saw the stopwatch instead and immediately felt a twinge of heat. My cock belongs to Mistress. God, already. He looked at her face. Knowing was plastered all over it.

‘Yes, I, uh,’ he swallowed. ‘Canavan actually texted me on my way here. He wants to discuss something.’

‘Oh, yes, I know. We spoke earlier.’ Oh, shit. His head whipped around to stare at her, his eyes bulging.

‘Your first act of submission to me is this: when Mr Canavan asks you what he’s going to ask you I want you say, “Yes, Ed. I did say that was a good idea.”’

That’s when he knew he was fucked.

* * *

He was sweaty again by the time he returned to his office.

This time it was not an embarrassed but horny sweat, though. This was an all-out panic, I’ll lose my job, my wife’s going to leave me, my life is over kind of sweat. He spent the car ride imagining what question it was Canavan was going to ask him. Ms Halliwell said you wanted to give her a foot massage. Or, Ms Halliwell said you wanted to be treated like a dog. Or perhaps, Ms Halliwell said you had the idea to fornicate with her foot!

Yes, Ed. I did say that was a good idea.

He almost didn’t go back to the office. What for? To be brought before the committee of which he was chair? To be hauled in to HR? Oh, and then he’d be home early. He’d have to face Anne. He could never explain it to her. He barely understood it himself.

Yes, Ed. I did say that was a good idea.

When did he ever say any of this was a good idea? It was most unequivocally evident that it had all been a very, very bad idea. A very bad idea indeed. If only he could take it all back. If only he could go back just one day, to yesterday when she first walked in the room. And do it all over. This time like a proper man. Instead of a humping dog. Oh, God. He would stop all of it, take it all back right this second, if only he could just have everything go back to normal.

That is why, when he found himself standing in front of Ed Canavan’s desk, with Ed Canavan speaking words he could barely hear – such was the clatter going on in his head – he was floored when what Ed Canavan actually said was: ‘Ms Halliwell tells me there’s an International Coalition Against Sexual Harassment Conference going on in Washington next month. Said you thought it might be a good idea to go. Did you say that?’

He blinked.

‘Yes, Ed. I did say that was a good idea.’

‘Well, that’s great! Shows great dedication to the committee.’ Canavan came around his desk and put a conspiratorial hand on his shoulder. ‘Look, I feel like you understand how important it is that we get all our Is dotted and Ts crossed on this harassment stuff. I want all our policies to be as up-to-date and airtight as we can make them. We just can’t afford to have another incident like last year, with Jarvis.’

‘I –, I –’ He let out a quick breath and collected himself. ‘No, I understand perfectly well, Ed,’ he said as his racing pulse started returning to normal. ‘I’ll make sure everything’s rock solid.’ Like his cock at the thought of being at a conference with her. That is what this was, right?

‘Good man,’ Canavan said, clapping his shoulder and walking back behind his desk. ‘I’ll make sure your clients are taken care of and that you’re compensated. I don’t want you to worry about that. I appreciate you taking this on for us.’

He had turned to walk out when Ed said, ‘Damn, my watch stopped. Do you have the time?’

Automatically he looked at his wrist.

Stopwatch.

My cock belongs to Mistress.

‘I actually –’ he floundered. Ed stared at him. Then at the obvious fact that he did have what appeared to be a watch on his wrist. ‘Huh, funny thing, mine’s not working either! How’d ya like that?’

He backed out the door. And fled.

* * *

Did he know when his phone rang as soon as he returned to his office that it would be her? Not then. But he would become accustomed to her almost spooky ability to predict his actions.

‘Hi, sweetie. Did you have a good meeting with Mr Canavan?’ Her voice coming through the phone was like ribbons of silk weaving around his body.

‘I did,’ he said.

‘I did, what?’ she demanded.

‘Uh, sorry! I did, Mistress.’

‘The next time you forget, we’ll have to do something drastic to make sure you remember. You don’t want that, do you, sweetie?’

‘Er, no, Mistress,’ he said, although he wasn’t altogether sure.

‘Good. We have two weeks until the conference. We should take this time to get to know each other better. I don’t like to travel with strangers.’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘So I have some questions,’ she said, and then he could hear her, in crisp neat tones to someone in the room with her, presumably her assistant, requesting coffee and some statistic reports. ‘You have time, don’t you, sweetie? For me?’

He glanced down at his full calendar.

‘Of course, Mistress.’

She chuckled. ‘Good!’ He heard her assistant come back with coffee. Then the sound of the door closing. He heard her take a sip. ‘So, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Ed tells me you’re married …’

* * *

So many questions. They kept coming, more and more. And yes, there were questions like what books did he read, what TV shows did he watch, who was he going to vote for in the upcoming primaries. But then came questions that could have been filed under the title ‘Inappropriate Questions That Are Surely Sexual Harassment’. Questions about habits with his wife. Oh, he thought about Anne, his dainty little Anne with her fair skin and pale-blonde hair, her petite, almost boy-like figure that he had always adored. The things Mistress asked, her giggling tone, the almost belittling way she spoke of his beloved wife. God, part of him wanted to gasp in horror, slam the phone down, run home and throw his arms around Anne, cover her body up with his like a shield. Why, oh, why then did he do nothing of the sort? Why did he not only submit to her questions, but also feel himself getting hard over them, as though divulging the most intimate details of his relationship with his wife, such a depraved and disloyal act, were in fact the most intoxicating aphrodisiac? Mistress’s desire to learn about him was voracious, like she was eating him alive. He felt that. Or that in answering her he was ripping himself open and laying his insides out for her to casually peruse and then choose something to examine.

He dutifully responded to everything.

And then she named him. His name was not Paul. But she named him SubPaul. He could not help but wonder if it was because it sounded like ‘sub par’.

Chapter 4

‘We’ve got a lot of time to kill here,’ Mistress said. ‘Let’s play twenty questions!’ Mischief and cheekiness radiated from her beautiful face like warmth from the glow of a fire. ‘Tell me how you feel about spanking.’

Sitting next to her, he could barely endure the sweet torturous mixture of arousal and struggle he always felt in her presence. In combination these two polarising impulses seemed to converge, conflict and compel the feelings to multiply in a seemingly never-ending vortex of lust and desperation.

‘What’s the matter, sweetie? You’re so quiet! Are you not excited about our trip?’ she chirped, opening a blanket and spreading it over them. He was by the window, she the aisle. She lifted the arm-rest between them and snuggled demurely into his side, making his heart-rate elevate as he simultaneously caught a faint whiff of her gloriously unique feminine scent and a flash of cleavage from her low-cut dress. Following his gaze she giggled and whispered, ‘I never wear a bra on a long flight. Too uncomfortable. Especially on a red-eye like this.’ He smiled wanly. Well endowed as she was, he had never seen her go bra-less in public. But the dress she wore was tight and seemed to hold her in. The effect was mind-blowing and now he understood why his eyes had been drawn to her as if by magnets. He’d been even more mesmerised than usual by her figure, her breasts, as he’d watched her while they were waiting in the terminal. No bra. No bra lines. Nothing between his arm, which her chest now pressed against, and those exquisite mounds of flesh he so coveted; nothing but the soft fabric of her royal-blue dress. She often wore green; it was probably her best colour, contrasting so strikingly with her crimson hair. But today it was blue and it gave her a lovely quality of the elements: fire and water.

‘Anyway, I asked you a question, love. Do you like to be spanked?’ she asked, a little too loudly.

‘No, Mistress,’ he murmured, eyeing the other passengers. ‘I never really understood the appeal.’

‘Is that right?’ she said. And smiled. The way she smiled melted him down. A smile that made his heart keen and his cock drip. It was a smile that said she could see all the way into his psyche, back to his lonely childhood, down to his core, a smile that made him feel small and helpless and cared for, all at the same time. A smile that made him, above all, desperate to please her.

‘Well, we’ll just see, won’t we?’ And she arched one gorgeously manicured eyebrow.

Laughter across the aisle drew their attention. They both glanced back to the centre seats one row behind, which were a mass of giggling, hair and perfume that wafted over to where they sat. An entranced young male flight attendant stood in the aisle proffering bottles of wine and little bags of snacks like sacrifices to the goddesses of cool. ‘I am predicting we might have trouble getting any attention on our side of the aisle tonight,’ Mistress said. ‘Then again –’ she leaned back over to him, giving him another peek down her dress ‘– you might like it better if less people see what we get up to,’ she purred into his ear.

His prick had been growing steadily since she first pressed her soft curves against him. Now heat warmed his face as it continued to grow. His mind, like the needle on a skipping record, could not fit in a groove to play out what plans she might have in store for him on this five-hour flight. He couldn’t seem to form any thoughts; his brain just spun and spun on the sights she flashed him, the words she fed into his brain. He could only swallow and sit in patient torment.

Watching him try to work things out, she reached over and rumpled his hair. ‘Sweetie, you’re so cute when you’re horny and petrified!’ She drew her hand down the side of his face, gazing into his brown eyes with her jade-green ones. God, she was beautiful. His heart stuttered in his chest and he suddenly had to gasp for breath. ‘Goodness, my darling, what’s the matter? You’re working yourself into a lather!’

But she knew. He knew she could see his brain wildly trying to imagine all the torturously awful and wonderful things she could do. She read him like the proverbial book, or Penthouse Forum letter, remembering what came before. Dear Penthouse, I’ve never written a letter like this but I have a Mistress who likes to control me. God. She could make him want something almost more than life, but then force him not to want it, to struggle against it with everything he had. She was always weaving her precise words around him, securing him just as she wanted.

More giggling drew their attention again. Noticing the flight attendant and his growing obsession, Mistress remarked, ‘I know you’re a talented architect, my sweetie, but I can’t help but think how much you would enjoy working in the service industry. I know it hardly pays the big bucks but we know how you like to serve.’ Her eyes fell on him at the last word and he blushed hard. He jumped a bit as she slid her hand beneath the blanket and squeezed his ever-stiffening prick over the loose trousers she’d instructed him to wear. ‘Aw, one of those darling little things has her shoes off and her feet stretched out. You’d like bringing her and her friends drinks, now, wouldn’t you?’ she said. She squeezed his now fully erect cock. ‘Well, my goodness! I have barely done anything and your tiny stick is practically bursting out of your pants! What’s gotten you all excited, horny boy?’ He stammered and, seeing that no answer was forthcoming, she went on. ‘I mean, if you’re horny over serving them, massaging their feet, I could probably arrange it. They might like that! And I know you would. Shall I ask them for you, darling?’ she said.

‘Oh, God, no, Mistress!’ he protested and she squeezed his shaft harder. You, only you, he thought, as he remembered her slender, succulent foot in his lap as he caressed it, her shoe in his hands as he knelt at her feet to slip it on. He did like to serve, but serve her, because to be used by her, to be her tool, her plaything, her slave, was his bliss. She could lean over and ask those girls; it would not be out of character for her to actually do it. Oh, God! The shame. She mustn’t! ‘Please, Mistress! I only ever want to serve you.’

‘Aw, that’s sweet.’ She patted his knee. ‘OK, love, calm down. I won’t ask them.’ She giggled and began stroking him over his trousers. ‘Now, my darling, how does that feel? Do you like that?’

Did he like it? There were no words.

He squirmed in his seat as he remembered her humiliating lecture, two weeks before, when she’d made him establish a ‘baseline’. As he stood in front of her with his trousers around his ankles, she made him start his watch and stroke for as long as he could without coming. Of course, with her watching, teasing him all the while, his performance was even more pathetic than usual. He’d only managed a minute and forty seconds the first time and she laughed hysterically while he hung his head in shame, his loins burning with lust. She made him do it over and over, each time getting shorter and shorter. By the time she was done with him he was as horny, frustrated and submissive as he’d ever thought it was possible to feel.

‘Your job as a husband, sweetie, is to always please your wife. Do you do that? Aw, no, you don’t, do you? You always fail. You’re always too eager, like a horny teenager, spurting your little messes. You never allow little wifey the chance to orgasm before you. Is that a loving, caring husband? No. That’s a greedy, horny, slutty little boy. That’s why you need me, isn’t it, love? Mistress is happy to patiently explain these facts to you, to help improve your endurance and train you to be a real man. So. In two weeks we’re going on our trip. Until then you need to practise holding your come in your balls. You will edge for me twice in the morning, twice during the day and twice at night. Stroke your little dick to the edge. Get yourself there. And don’t come. If the little wifey wants sex, you will oblige. But you will not come. Understand, little boy? It’s not difficult. Don’t come.’

And when he went home that evening, as luck would have it, Anne did want sex. Oh, God. Shame came rolling in on thunderous waves as she kissed him in their bed and he remembered the baseline with Mistress, that shame enveloping him while making his prick ache. So many edges. No release. Anne whispered to him how she loved him, how she wanted him. He just managed to get his desperately sensitive dick inside her but then – panic! He couldn’t continue without losing it. But if he pulled out, just that action threatened to push him over. He had stopped there motionless with his rock-hard rod throbbing in his wife’s tight wet folds, had practically cried with the torture of it. How badly he wanted to just slam in and out, release all the built-up pressure. It was right there. Right there for the taking and it would feel so good. But he didn’t. He didn’t.

‘So what did you do, sweetie?’ Mistress had asked, her face alight with pure joy and amusement.

‘Ma’am, I pretended to come,’ he admitted. ‘I was pretty convincing. I was shaking and sweating and gasping. Then I waited a few minutes, pretending to catch my breath. Really it was so I could calm down enough to pull out. And then I did.’

She laughed out loud, laughed really hard. ‘You didn’t even do one stroke? Not even one? You just put it in? You realise that’s only half a stroke, right, sweetie? Oh, my God! That’s so funny!’ There in her office, his cheeks hot coals, there was that shame that wanted to swallow him whole. Oh, God, how she could make him feel so small! He wanted to bow down before her. He wanted to lie at her feet, lie under them, wanted to crouch on all fours and be her footstool. Her five-legged footstool.

And now she sat beside him on the plane with her hand stroking slowly, asking so politely how it felt to have his Mistress’s hand caress him after the struggles and daily edging and short-lived sex of the last two weeks, all with no release. How did it feel? Like heaven. Like a symphony. Like a thousand angels strumming the harp strings of his sexual ecstasy – oh, God, how to describe how it felt?

‘It feels so good, Mistress.’ Pathetic. Even his words.

Then quickly, ‘But you have to stop very soon.’

‘What? Why would I stop, darling? I’m enjoying playing with my tiny little toy. And if you like it too, why would I stop?’

Her strokes came a little faster and he started to panic. Pressure rose in his balls and his cock ached with unspent come.

‘Because, Mistress!’ he gasped. ‘I can’t hold it. You have to stop!’

‘You can’t hold it, little boy? You better hold it! I haven’t given you permission! Not to mention we have a five-hour flight ahead of us and you didn’t bring a change of trousers.’ She giggled and sighed. ‘Am I actually going to have to start carrying a change of clothing around for you because you can’t control yourself? Like a diaper bag!’ More laughter.

He couldn’t hear. There was no sound over the bubbling pressure of his seed. He knew better than to grab her hand away. That would be cause for serious punishment. He could only sit helplessly in his chair and beg in a hoarse whisper. ‘Please stop, Mistress, please. I can’t hold it. You have to stop. PLEASE!’