Sheila nearly jumped from her skin. “Hi, Johnny,” she managed a smile for the young, athletic junior executive, Johnny Tremaine, who had been trying to get her to go out with him the past two weeks.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said. “I was just going up to see you. I have two tickets for the symphony on Saturday. I know you told me you enjoyed classical music.”
Sheila felt a small lump in her throat. Johnny was such a nice guy, and he had been trying to hard to win her affections. He was certainly likable and attractive, but he just didn’t do it for her. And the nicer and more deferential he was, the more repulsion she felt.
“I—I’m sorry, Johnny, I have other plans,” she blurted.
He looked unconvinced. “Just tell me,” he shrugged in his handsome blue shirt and tie. “What the magic words are. There must be some way to make you want to go with me?”
You could order me to, she thought. Tell me to stop being such an evasive, lying bitch or face the consequences.
“It’s not you.” She looked at his hands, big and capable. He had played football in college. A man like that ought to be able to handle a woman, especially a small, shapely one like her. “It’s me.”
“That’s what all women say,” he smiled sadly, “when they want to let a man down easy.”
“I have to go, Johnny.” She quickly poured the coffee. “Mr. Stone is expecting me.”
“Sorry.” He stepped out of her way as though he were the female.
Such a waste, she thought as she hurried to do her boss’ bidding, bringing him fresh coffee.
She hoped it was fresh enough and that she hadn’t taken too long. She wanted him to be happy; she wanted to be praised. More than likely, he would be fine with her effort and that was a good thing. A part of her braining was burning, though, just as he’d predicted, with the what if’s. What if it wasn’t good enough? What if she fell short of his expectations?
Was she really ready for that eventuality?
She had a feeling dinner tonight might go a long way to answering that question.
***
Sheila’s outfit arrived at her apartment shortly after six pm in a black garment bag delivered by a tall, slender man with a neatly trimmed gray mustache. He was wearing a chauffeur’s uniform with black gloves. Sheila had no choice but to come to the door of her small, tasteful apartment just as she was, freshly cleaned, wearing her robe after a hot shower. Her hair was wrapped under a towel. Her feet were bare. She covered one foot with the other, embarrassed in case he should look down at her painted toes.
She had washed her body for Mr. Stone, to clean away the day’s sweat and female moisture that had accumulated from doing his bidding at work...and fantasizing. It was important to be pleasing to him. To be fresh.
Sheila offered the man a tip, but he told her everything was being covered by Mr. Stone. He seemed so business-like. Did he know what was in the bag? She wondered. Did he make such deliveries often?
He certainly seemed unfazed by her appearance, almost bored. Were improperly dressed young women that common a sight for him? She thanked him, smiling shyly, unable to make eye contact.
“Mr. Stone will be here to fetch you at eight,” he said simply.
She flushed head to toe. The tone, the word ‘fetch’, and the cool expression all added to a feeling of vast, understated power in the face of which she could do nothing but yield.
“I’ll be ready,” she promised; her voice barely audible and trembling.
The man did not acknowledge as he turned and walked away. Her response, it seemed, had meant nothing. It was not a question or an option.
It was a command.
Sheila took the mysterious garment bag to her bedroom. She kept it simply decorated, in soft, feminine colors, lavender and lilac and as many other shades of purple and pink as she could find. The bag made a stark contrast. It was so dark, and the thick plastic was so hard and crinkly. Unzipping it, she felt a wanton chill, like she was entering a forbidden world.
Inside, she could almost smell the money and elegance. She gasped at the sight of the dress, slinky, black and made of a rich, satiny material. It had a low cut bodice with spaghetti straps and slits up both sides. There were matching heels, open-toed with wispy ankle straps. The underwear was even racier. She laid the articles out on her bed. A shiver went down her spine as she examined the black demi-bra and tiny black panties, sheer silk.
There was nothing besides. No slip to give a modest barrier between the dress and her skin, and no stockings to give cover to her legs.
Surely there had been some mistake? This is the sort of outfit a man put his mistress in, arrogantly dressing her according to his personal preferences and erotic whims. This wasn’t an ensemble for a man’s secretary...unless he intended to take her to bed and make her his own.
Sheila thought of calling Mr. Stone to cancel the dinner, but she was too afraid. What would she say to the man? He would see through any excuse or lie she might offer, she was sure of it. She would end up stuttering and red-faced.
Besides, he hadn’t exactly asked her to accompany him, he had told her. She was given the option to sue but not to refuse him. All afternoon she’d been wet and ready, just thinking of the possible implications—ones which were only reinforced in her mind by her encounter with the masterful, commanding chauffer. Was her boss going to make a pass at her? Would she be expected to spend the night at the penthouse he kept in the city?
Sheila could not imagine a woman trifling with a man like Jeremy Stone, especially not a female like herself, who was in every way his inferior, financially, socially, intellectually. And an employee to boot.
Every day across the business world, women like her were made to submit to sexual activities to keep their jobs. And many of them were far stronger and more assertive, too. By any account, Sheila Hall was a weak-willed woman. All her life, she’d been under male authority. First her father, and then her uncle, following Daddy and Mommy’s death in the airplane accident.
After Uncle Hugo tricked her into signing over all her wealth prior to skipping the country for the Caribbean, Sheila was forced to go to work. She struggled through secretarial school and began her career as an executive secretary, at the beck and call of powerful men like her father.
Jeremy was the latest, the most charismatic and the most stunningly gorgeous, too. The fact that he was showing her attention of a personal nature, wanting to dress and wine and dine her only added to her incredible, delicious vulnerability.
He’d bought her a dress and risqué underwear. He wanted to see her in them and maybe to see her take them off, too. Stripping herself bare, Sheila lifted the panties from the bed. Light as gossamer. A scandalous covering. Her pussy tingled in anticipation. She was wet again; the time spent in the shower carefully cleaning herself now amounted to nothing.
The panties screamed sex. A woman wore such a covering for only one purpose, to arouse a male, to advertise her desirability, to remind him of all the things she was good for. Light caresses to make her sigh, stinging smacks to the ass, hard hits with a paddle to make her cry, and of course, penetration to make her moan, the material pulled aside, lowered or torn to allow access to his cock, in whichever of her two orifices he might wish to claim.
Buying some time, hoping the whole thing might prove to be one of her naughty fantasies, Sheila went to dry her hair. Hot air, blowing across her auburn curls, to bring her to her senses. She avoided eye contact with herself in the mirror.
This isn’t real, she told herself. Soon, quite soon, I will have a laugh about it. A part of her didn’t want to wake up, though, and that was the most frightening feeling of all.
Her knees went weak as she returned to the bedroom. The clothes were still on the bed. It was all right, and now, she must put them on. Feeling utterly helpless, completely in over her head, Sheila shed the robe.
The air tickled her body, making her skin prickle. She had never felt this way in her room. A million times
she had stood here unclothed but never like this. Never raw and exposed.
Not nude, but naked.
She prayed the clothes would make her feel a little more secure, but she feared dressing in Jeremy’s outfit would be like jumping from the frying pan into the fire.
Bending her calves one at a time, Sheila pulled the wispy panties up her legs and thighs. The silk brushed her skin, like a foreign touch, like a man’s touch. Like Jeremy’s touch. She was dripping now, pathetically ready and easy. She was going to soak through the underwear. The underwear he had given her to use. Would that make her a bad girl? Would it bring punishment?
She put on the bra next, covering her swollen nipples, binding her aching breasts, putting some semblance of restraint upon them. She would rather it was a man’s hands gripping her. Better yet, a man doing things to them, cold and nasty things. Abusive things. Things to make her pay for being such a little slut and soaking the panties through like she was now.
It would begin with her being forced to beg. The ultimate humiliation, to have to seek out her own torture.
Please, Sir, abuse your girl’s tits. Make her sorry for being so bad.
Sheila sighed, deep jagged shudders passing down her spine. She massaged her breasts. She wanted to stop and play with herself, to make herself come hard and nasty, but she couldn’t afford to waste any time. Jeremy...Mr. Stone...would be here, and she must be ready for him.
Clasping the bra behind her back, Sheila reached for the dress. It slid so sensuously between her fingers. How was she supposed to wear this against her skin all night, against her back, her belly, without thinking constantly of sex? Or was that the whole idea?
Sheila had to lift her arms over her head to put it on. For a split second, it was like having them bound that way. She could imagine ropes of silk, magically holding and taming her, leaving her body open and ready for any predations Mr. Stone might have in mind. As the dress slipped down, she felt cocooned by it, snug, contained. Owned.
The word gave her delicious, erotically damp chills deep inside. It was absurd to think such a thing, and yet, there was no denying her feelings.
The dress was his property...so why not her?
Sheila smoothed the dress and sat down on the edge of the bed to put on the shoes. These were a whole world of sensation unto themselves. The smooth bottom pressing her bare instep, the straps fitting about her ankles, daintily buckled, like restraints. She could almost imagine a tiny padlock, keeping the buckle in place, insuring that the shoes did not come off, insuring that she would know her place at all times while wearing them.
Standing up again, she went into the bathroom to tend to her hair and makeup. She considered several styles but finally opted to sweep it up in as elegant fashion as she could manage on such short notice. A pearl clip held it in place. She had no clue about the perfume. Should she smell soft and virginal, or rich and womanly? What was he expecting?
To be on the safe side, she went with something in the middle, a lilac spray with the subtlest bouquet. She went light on makeup, too. Sheila had never seen him with a girlfriend, and he had no wife, so she couldn’t guess at his preferences.
It was a dangerous game, because if she pleased him too much, she might end up in a sexual situation she was completely unequipped to handle. She would have to take her chances. The last thing was jewelry. On a whim, she selected a very fine gold ankle chain. Her breath quickened just a little as she closed the tiny clasp.
There was no mistaking the symbolism. Metal on a woman’s body, encircling links. Was she asking to be chained? Is that what she wanted? She couldn’t know the answer to that because she had never been chained and trying it out with a man like Jeremy did seem the wisest way to learn.
She put on a gold chain to match and simple gold hoop earrings. She had never felt so jazzed up. Even her ear piercings felt sexy tonight. Was there time to masturbate? It was only seven fifteen. She could easily take care of herself, give herself a few orgasms to take the tension off.
No. She stopped her hand before she could dig under the dress and panties. It wasn’t right somehow. The next step, whatever that might be, had to be left up to him. Her pussy burned all the hotter for her admission. Frustration was her lot now, unsatisfied burning until Jeremy Stone made his claim upon her.
What should she do with her time? Forty-five minutes. She couldn’t possibly sit and read or watch television. She decided to stand in the lobby of her building. Holding her purse, watching the street for Jeremy’s car. It arrived promptly at eight, a long, black limousine with tinted windows.
To her surprise, the man himself was not in it.
“Mr. Stone was detained on business,” the chauffer opened the back door for her. “He will meet you at the restaurant.”
Sheila got in, seating herself on the black, creamy seats. The smell of leather tickled her nostrils and made her think of naughty things, like wrist bands and bridles and whips.
“Sit in the middle,” he said, “and fasten your seatbelt. Don’t touch anything in the bar. It’s not for females.”
The door clicked close. Metal on metal. Chilling, exciting. She found the belt, interlocking the opposite sides. Her fingers were so weak. Sheila licked her dry lips and leaned back against the seat.
She felt light headed. The way he had said the word female made it sound so very scandalous and erotic, something sensual but less than fully human. What exactly was happening here? What was she getting herself into? It wasn’t just dinner she was going into, she feared, but some alternate world where the normal rules did not apply.
I’m not ready, she thought to herself as the limo pulled away from the curb. Not even close.
But it didn’t matter now. It was going to happen. Just as Mr. Stone wanted it to. By his fiat. His dinner, his dress, and his car. With the well-stocked bar, full of liquor bottles and glasses and cigars.
None of which were allowed her because of her sex.
Clamping her thighs, she gave in to the overwhelming, shameful waves. She was coming, in spite of herself, in spite of resisting the urge to actually touch. It was too much, she couldn’t help it. Teeth gritted, eyes closed, she willed it to pass quickly and quietly, compressed waves of ecstasy, hastily broken on the rocky shore of her perilous reality.
She thought she must have gotten away with it, but when she opened her eyes again, she saw the partition window was down. The chauffer was watching through the rear view. His face calm and expressionless.
She buried her eyes in her lap, hands folded.
Would the man punish her? Did he have that authority? Sheila was on pins and needles the whole way, scarcely able to breathe again until they pulled up in front of the crowded restaurant. A valet opened the door for her. “May I escort you inside, Miss?”
“Yes,” she smiled, putting on her best front. She was free of the chauffer. Now the real test was going to begin.
CHAPTER TWO
Jeremy watched her walk to the table. Like a jungle cat, silently studying its prey, savoring the kill. He had planned it this way, of course, fabricating an excuse about a business meeting so that he could arrive ahead of her, establishing possession and territory.
She would come to him off base. On his ground. Dressed to meet his whims. He could see the way she moved, the color in her cheeks. She was a fruit, ripe for the plucking. A natural submissive, a born slave. The sort of woman who fit perfectly his own sadistic tendencies.
He would enjoy making her moan, making her laugh and making her cry. “Good evening, Sheila,” he rose smoothly to his feet.
“Good evening, Mr. Stone...Sir.”
She fumbled with the name, looking for some sort of guidance. He gave her none. If she expected to be calling him by his first name soon, she had another thing coming. Their relationship was going to change, but not in the way the young woman imagined.
“You’re wearing the dress,” he noted. “Do you have on the undergarments as well?”
“Yes,” she
lowered her eyes.
The show of modesty made him smile. Debasing her would be a distinct pleasure. And when he was through, he would cast her away, squeezing what was left. If he did his job carefully and slowly, he could even make her love him first, thereby multiplying her anguish a hundred fold.
“They are a good fit?” he asked, dragging out her shame. “The bra cups are neither too big nor too small?”
“No. They are fine.”
“The panties...they are fine, too?”
“Yes.”
He could imagine how wet she was. They all were by this time. He knew her type so well. Sheila had been hired to be a sex toy, though she didn’t know it. She no doubt imagined it was a matter of her secretarial skills, but it was all about her passionate, barely hidden sexual submissiveness and her fine body. It was these two qualities in combination, mixed under a lovely veneer of innocence which had made her a perfect candidate to be his next victim.
“Good,” he nodded. “Everything is in order. Except for your hair. The sort of style you are wearing is for princesses and executives. Are you that sort of high ranking woman, Sheila?”
“No, Sir,” her voice grew meeker even as his became more stern.
“Are you presuming to be my equal, Sheila, or my superior?”
Her eyes widened. “Mr. Stone, no, Sir, I didn’t mean that at all.”
“What are you then, Sheila?”
“I’m your secretary, Sir,” her voice cracked.
“Secretaries are service girls,” he lectured. “And pretty service girls, like yourself, wear their hair down, Sheila,” he lectured. “Please dismiss yourself to the rest room and attend to the matter.”
“Yes, Mr. Stone.” Tears dotted her eyes. He felt a tightening in his pants. His humiliation games had officially begun.
“And don’t be long about it,” he added. “Dinner will be coming quickly.”
Sheila hastened away, her ass swaying in the dress. She was wearing the special panties underneath, the same ones many of her predecessors had worn for him on their own first dates. Dinners, just like this one, which would mark the beginning of their journeys into slavery.
Punish Me, Please Page 2
