by Kay Jaybee
Becky stayed. I wasn’t sure she would turn up the following day; many before her hadn’t. However, as she sat at her desk her eyes weren’t cast down like her peers; they had a defiant glint to them that I feared could be dangerous. It wasn’t that much of a surprise to me when, two days later, Becky dropped a pile of recently sorted filing on the floor directly in front of the bosses’ door. ‘Nerves’ one of my colleagues whispered. I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t help wondering if she had done it deliberately, to see what might happen next.
Just as before the stool was positioned in the centre of the circle. This time however, Becky positioned herself, with no word of prompting, onto the hard surface. She revealed her own, still slightly bruised, rump and offered up her wrists to be bound.
The boss watched her with interest and shook his head. You never got what you wanted here. Becky was left, standing there, arse exposed, as the stool was put away again. Waiting. No one got the upper hand in this office.
He opened the cupboard and, without a word, beckoned her to approach. I held my breath; already turned on by the prospect of what was to come. To my eternal shame, it is why I stay here. This place had changed my tastes. There is no going back. I watched.
It is an unusual cupboard. From floor to ceiling in height, it has an increased depth hidden behind its grey metal doors. The shelves that surrounded the walls are set well back so that at least two people could occupy the remaining space with the doors closed. On every shelf there was a collection of instruments; canes, whips, paddles, nipple clamps. There was all the necessary material to keep a correction freak going for years; ribbons, ropes, cuffs, chains, gags. The more you looked the more your heart froze and your eyes widened. Becky looked. Her face revealed nothing.
Miss Harriet had silently come out of her office. Without a word she stood behind Becky and helped her off with her remaining clothes. She was so beautiful. I realised I hadn’t really looked at Becky properly before. I already wanted to touch; I began to imagine her beating my breasts with a short stick, before soothing them with her tongue.
I came back to reality. Such feelings must not be displayed here. Becky was now just inside the cupboard doors, facing her audience. She seemed to shine. How had she got to this point so quickly? It had taken me many beatings before I had learnt to enjoy it, and even after nearly eighteen months I could never be so open about it. I still have the shame. Maybe I need it.
Becky stared through us as she looked straight ahead. Miss Harriet had taken one of her slim wrists and was tying it to a conveniently placed hook on one of the shelves with a silk cord. Then the other wrist was secured, then the ankles, and finally, a thin silver collar was snapped securely around her neck, its long leather lead dangling provocatively between her breasts.
Miss Harriet stepped out of the cupboard and looked to her boss for approval. He nodded. I could clearly see, when I dared to glance, that his dick was straining against his suit trousers. They shut the doors of the cupboard and we all heard Becky gasp. She had expected pain, arousal. They had given her nothing.
No one could concentrate. Returning to our work was impossibly hard.
An hour after the doors had been closed our boss came out of his office; his slightly creased clothes revealing that Miss Harriet’s serves had been called upon once again. As he walked between our desks, the tension was intense. He wanted to punish someone. Any excuse would do.
He signalled to Miss Harriet, who bought the stool forward. ‘Congratulations’ he said, ‘Despite events’ he gestured to the cupboard, ‘You have all managed some work. Not much. But something.’ He paced around the stool, like a panther waiting to pounce. ‘Like me, I suspect you have all been rather turned on by recent events. Some of you’ (he looked straight at me) ‘will be literally wetting your knickers with anticipation. Just waiting for the crop to strike. Others are still torn between running and staying.’ He paused and surveyed his work force, ‘but you will all stay. Everyday I wonder who will fail to turn up for work, but each day you all come.’
No one dared speak. I could feel my breath scratching my throat as he continued, ‘It is not in my nature to give rewards, but in this case I think it would provide an apt lesson for our newest recruit.’ He again gestured to the cupboard. ‘Becky cannot hear us through those doors, although she can see around her. The light inside is sufficient for her to be able to examine at close quarters all the instruments that she so unwisely volunteered herself to experience.’
‘For one hour only she will be your slave. I will open the doors and she will be yours to do with as you like. Do not waste this experience it is very unlikely to ever happen again.’
My eyes must have lit up because he bestowed upon me one of his rare and rather unnerving smiles. ‘Yes, I thought you’d like that. But I am also sure that you would benefit from your own arse being warmed. I know I would enjoy performing the task for you.’
I glanced at the stool. Was I that obvious? I wasn’t like Becky. I could never have engineered a situation like this, but he was right, and I could feel my nipples harden at the thought of the tingling pain that would spread across my buttocks to my already damp pussy.
‘Strip.’ He ordered, and I obeyed. My hands shook slightly as I fumbled with my blouse buttons, and the slightly bent clasp of my bra. Finally naked, I cast my eyes down. Yes; I needed the shame. The wood felt cold beneath my skin as I offered up my arse, hands unbound, holding onto the stools sturdy legs. I could see the cupboard doors, now open, as I watched between my legs, my head hanging down. Becky’s legs were still bound, quivering slightly. Being shut in the cupboard for so long had obvious taken away some of her bravado. Doubt had had time to creep in, just as our boss had intended it to.
He was in the cupboard. Was he selecting a weapon for me or her? Would I be gagged this time? It appeared that I was to be trusted to be still, and would not be bound.
‘Becky.’ The boss was obviously talking to her, but was addressing the whole office at the same time. ‘As you can see, you are not the only one who has chosen to feel the sting today.’ He was standing behind me. There was something in his hand, but I couldn’t see what it was. How much pain? Was it a cane or a whip? My question was answered by the crack of a leather strap as it made contact with my tensed skin. Despite my determination not to, I automatically flinched and a shocked cry came from my lips, instantly resulting in a harder slap, then another, faster and faster.
I couldn’t keep still. Without the usual bonds, the desire to wriggle after each lash was incredibly strong and by the fifth hit I could feel two pairs of cold masculine hands on my inflamed flesh, holding me firmly in place. The result of their touch was almost enough to tip me over the edge.
Becky was beginning to whine. I opened my eyes and saw that she was receiving some attention of her own. I could just hear a faint smack over the crack of my own punishment. My head was full of pictures of Becky’s torment, which must have been doubled by the act of watching mine. I wanted her very badly.
It ended as quickly as if had begun. The extreme burn which had spread across my arse was tingling as my brain slowly registered that the pain had stopped. The hands which had been pressing into me slipped under my arms and pulled me upright. My head spun as my stiff body became accustomed to standing, and for a moment I rested heavily onto my capturers arms.
They bought me before Becky and I watched as the boss took over from Miss Harriet, who had clearly been driving her to distraction by alternatively slapping Becky’s distended tits and rubbing her nipples with a silk handkerchief. The tears which had been silently pouring from Becky’s face had dried on, and she collected herself for whatever was to follow. I wanted to remind her that she started this but all I could do was look at her.
The boss took one long hard swipe at her engorged nipples with the belt which he had so recently used on me. I couldn’t decide if the scream that left B
ecky’s lips was one of relief, sheer frustration or pain.
He released her feet and wrists, before taking the leather lead which hung across her chest, and pulling her out of the cupboard. He gave the lead to me, and said to us all, ‘She’s all yours. One hour only.’ He left then, grabbing a couple of chains before pushing Miss Harriet rather too roughly towards his office door.
I didn’t move. Becky and I were still naked, but no one else was. The silence lasted for about thirty seconds until the spell was broken and the men who had been holding me down snapped. Both ran to the open cupboard and grabbed what they wanted. Before I could think the biting claws of a pair of cruel silver nipple clamps were making Becky cry out in agony as her tortured breasts flushed in response. Her arms were held as the others watched, fascinated as canes, whips and paddles were grabbed from their relevant hooks. Becky’s eyes were wide as she began to suffer the assault which was obviously the result of months of pent up frustration from my fellow workers. Her breasts, arms, thighs and buttocks all took a simultaneous lashing as she stood there. She screamed and yelled, but her eyes clearly shouted ‘Don’t stop’, as she relished every stroke. Sticky liquid was seeping out of her wet snatch as I watched, transfixed by this amazing creature. She looked at me beseechingly and I could not deny her. I let go of the lead, pushed past one of my colleagues, who was pinching the underside of her swollen breasts, and kissed her. I had never kissed anyone like that. It was as if I was saving her, taking her beyond the agony of her deliciously pain racked body. Her anguish was silenced by my hungry lips and I moaned into her as the lashes began to crack across me as well.
An hour later I gently removed the clamps, kissing the damaged nipples better, as I slipped her crumpled blouse back over her warmed chest.
Then we all went back to our desks and worked.
There was never any question that I wouldn’t go home with her. How I didn’t come as we simply held hands on the walk to her flat I shall never know.
No sooner had we got through the door our clothes were in a heap and Becky pulled me into her bedroom. She lay me down on her soft coffee coloured duvet before pulling out a large battered suitcase from the corner of the room. It was full of every type of sex toy I had ever seen. Even our boss would have been envious of such a collection.
As I allowed myself to be gagged and bound by this pale beauty I finally understood why I had been unable to put her off applying for the job. This was what she had desired from the very beginning, and I will be eternally grateful.
The Bad Poet
‘You really are a terrible poet.’
‘You got my email then?’
‘First thing this morning.’
‘And?’
‘It was a very bad poem indeed, truly wicked.’
‘Got you here though didn’t it.’
‘True. Although I am wondering if I should leave.’
‘And miss the opportunity to find out?’
‘Find out?’
‘How bad a poet I really am.’
He’d lost count of how many times he’d read and re-read her email throughout the day. He knew it by heart. She was right; curiosity had brought him to her flat. He replayed the poem in his head as they sat silent, either side of her kitchen table, measuring each other up.
There are many things I long to do,
Tie you up before I screw.
Make you beg.
Make you whine.
Whip you till you scream you’re mine.
Cover your flesh in lashes red,
Rope you tightly to the bed.
Force a howl.
Force a groan.
Watch you helpless; squirm and moan.
Make you lick me long and slow.
Watch you suffer as I glow.
Your lust ignored,
Your want denied,
Whilst my pleasure, you provide.
Perhaps I free you for a while?
Maybe touch you; make you smile.
Probably though,
I’ll deny your need,
And just enjoy hearing you plead.
Confident that the poem would bring him here tonight, she had prepared carefully for his arrival. Black was the over-riding colour. Black basque, black shiny boots, sheer black stockings. More importantly, black rope, black whip, and a black ball gag. His eyes scanned the objects she’d laid out on the table next to her, fully aware that she was waiting for him to react.
He was reacting; she probably knew he was, although she couldn’t possibly have seen the growing bulge in his crouch from where she sat. His palms felt sticky as, once again, he ran through the poems words in his head. Did she really want to do all that? To him?
Her eyes twinkled as she broke the silence. ‘You’re wondering how I knew you’d come?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have servant written all over you. I’ve studied these things.’ She ran the whip through her hands provocatively as she spoke, ‘Also, you were intrigued by the last verse; would I give you pleasure..., or not?’
He shifted slightly and nodded in response. He could feel the balance of control tip in her direction as he watched her expert fingers manipulate the whip. In his mind he could already feel the sting.
The time to leave willingly with no come back had passed. He was there, the lines of her strange poem running around his brain. It was, he thought as he watched her move towards him, almost an ironic piece. She rhymed like a child, but the words, the sentiment, the meaning was pure hurt, anger, danger, selfish desire. Yet he WAS here.
‘Take off your jacket.’
He did what he was told.
‘And tie, shoes and socks.’
Again he obeyed, heaping his garments onto the battered chair next to him.
‘Shirt.’
His fingers began to fumble as the tension between them rose. The line ‘Make you beg before I screw’ echoed around his head, as he stood meekly, his erection now obvious beneath his boxers.
She picked up her toys and ran the tip of the whip across his encased bulge. Leaping at the leather’s touch, its silvery head poked out between his waist band and his stomach. ‘Follow me.’ She turned and walked away.
He goggled at the view for a moment. The thong she wore accentuated her firm buttocks, the basque, tied so tightly, highlighted her slim waist and hips, and the impossibly high heeled boots made him weak at the knees. He followed, every inch the submissive she had seen him to be. So far she’d done nothing, but he knew she was going to make him beg, and that knowledge, combined with the sight of her, was enough to stop him running for the door.
They entered a room dominated by a massive four- poster. His heartbeat quickened as she wordlessly pointed to it. He moved forward, more slowly now, until he stood between the end posts. She climbed onto the bed, and using the thin black rope, began to string up her willing prisoner, hands as high up as they would stretch, legs tied wide, star like. Satisfied, she climbed down, and taking a pair of scissors from her dressing table, cut off his boxers with two precise surgical snips, making him flinch as the cold metal grazed his skin.
She was back on the satin cover now, arranging her toys in a pattern before him. The waiting was agony, she’d tied him up, and now, according to the poem, she was going to whip him until he begged her to stop. Why didn’t she get on with it?
Taking her time, she turned to face him and, sitting tantalizingly close, undid the very top of her basque, pulling each lace slowly so that the round of her tanned breasts began to peek out of the top. His eyes bored into her as she freed each globe, passing the flat of her thumbs over each nipple. He could imagine how good her tits felt; he wanted to touch them, suck them. His cock strained towards her as she put a finger in her mouth and, pumping it in and out of her redden lips, caus
ed him to flush all over with anticipation. Why didn’t she just get on and punish him like the poem said? Even the pain would be better than having to watch her taunt him; having to wait.
She withdrew the wet finger and slid it down to between her stretched out legs, rubbing herself behind her thong until she sighed. Had he got it wrong? He ran the words through his head again. Of course. He had to beg first.
He didn’t hesitate. ‘Mistress, please Mistress, take pity. Touch me, I beg you.’
She smiled and withdrew her hand. He could see her finger tips glisten, she must be soaking. He marvelled at her self control, as he watched her rummage beneath the pillows for something. It was a black leather cock case. He drew a sharp breath at the sight of the previously undeclared item. Quickly she enclosed his thick hard shaft. It pinched against him, making him harder still. He didn’t speak as she picked up the whip and moved behind him; he already knew what was going to happen next.
The whip trailed softly down his spine, the backs of his legs, beneath his aching arms and around each tight buttock before sweeping lightly over his balls, forcing a gasp from his dry mouth. She stopped and waited just long enough for him to wonder if she still there, if she really was going to hit him, before aiming the first stroke across his back.
He screamed, winded by the strength behind the blow. Again, across his back, his legs, his arms, his arse. Again, and again and again. Tears sprang to his eyes as the burning sting coursed through him, his imprisoned cock leaping with each blow.
As she continued to create a pretty criss-cross of red lashes against his skin, he began to burble, he wanted her to stop. He wanted her to kiss the wounds, lick him better, free him. His mind raced, he knew what to say, what was it? The pain was addling his brain. He forced himself to concentrate, flicking lines from the poem through his head.
‘Mistress, I’ll do whatever you want. Please stop. I beg you Madam. I’m yours, just stop.’
