“Stand up, Ms. Fordingham.” She pushed herself off the desk, adjusted her skirt, looked at his glowing eyes with her own which burned with equal intensity and only just matched the burning fire in her bottom.
“You acquitted yourself very well. None of the other interviewees got far: most ran at the first sight of the items we sell. But truthfully, it was no more than I expected. Your CV gave me every indication you would be right for this job.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gains.” She was ridiculously grateful, even more for his praise than for the job.
“We will be in touch with the details.”
Somehow she was out of the door clutching wet crumpled knickers which she thrust into her pocket. Somehow she was in that long corridor and then the elevator which felt as if it could house half of Wembley Stadium, somehow she was in Reception, looking dazed and shocked and surely rumpled, with smudged makeup and tousled hair. Not to mention some stray tears and an ache in her body from the burning stripes which did not want to fade, from the sore pussy which had been so roughly and yet so willingly taken.
Was this really the high-flying Robyn Fordingham, wanting to be a submissive little slave?
Indeed it was and the man she craved was up there, in the high-flying offices of the business which had just hired her. Stupidly, she missed him terribly, his voice, his touch, his power.
Already. The starting date for the job could not come soon enough.
The large clock on the Reception office wall read 2.50.
“Ms. Fordingham?” The cool sharp receptionist was standing in front of her, all red nails and unchipped professionalism. “I am so sorry, Ms. Fordingham, did you not get our letter saying the interview had to be cancelled?”
“Cancelled? I don’t...”
“You were to see Mr. Gains, were you not? He was killed last week on his way to the office. I am so sorry to tell you like this. It did come as an awful shock to us, as you might imagine.”
Robyn turned and stumbled out of the door, aware of her red burning cheeks, aware of the red framed calendar on the receptionist’s desk, the one which shouted 31st October.
“Whoever takes over will need a PA, Ms. Fordingham, we’ll be in touch with another appointment.” The cool voice floated after her, cool as the afternoon chill, cool as the air touching her burning quim and her burning heart.
Marshall Gains was dead.
Marshall Gains had been in the office, had watched her fuck herself with the company’s products, had beaten her with the company’s products and fucked her with his own equipment.
Marshall Gains had awakened her, awakened her need to submit, to give and go on giving. While he was dead.
On a whim she could not understand, Robyn turned back, saw that the Receptionist had disappeared for a moment from her vantage point and she raced for the elevators. She stabbed at the button for the fifth floor, willing the slow but efficient equipment to lift her up, away from what had become a dream state she could not quite comprehend.
The doors finally opened. The corridor stretched endlessly before her. Were his footprints impressed somewhere in this deep pile carpet which edged to the wall and cushioned the feet?
Was this the door he had opened with a hand as firm as the foundations, was this the acre of carpet she had crossed, was this the desk she had leaned over?
The office was empty. Cold and empty, with not a hint of occupation or use. The crystal glass of sherry should still be there, on the side table where she had left it, the vibrators should be there, on the desk, the chair should be pushed back, where he had strode round to confront her, equipment in hand.
Robyn sank to the floor, the thick pile carpet not quite thick enough to stop the quiver which went through her as her stripes were caressed by the tufts. Now the tears came and they could not be held back, tears for the pain she felt, physically and emotionally, at being so close to her heart’s desire and then to lose it.
Marshall Gains. Her lover. Her master.
The bells of recognition rang louder and she remembered. The tall lanky student with zits who arrived on her doorstep on Valentine’s Day clutching a card and a rose which he handed to her with a stammering, “I will always love you!” She had told everyone at school and they had laughed and pointed and sympathised with her for having such an unappealing suitor. Ten long years ago.
Who would have thought he would grow into such an impressive man with such good looks and such a powerful personality?
Who would have thought he would have gone on loving her, for surely he did, to come back from the grave to dominate and subdue her! Maybe it was a tiny bit of revenge, too—something she would never know.
What she did know was that she had found something magically sexual, extraordinarily fulfilling and wonderful. And to think it was all gone, dead and gone!
She got to her feet slowly, searching the office for a hint of the man who had had such a profound effect in such a short time.
There was nothing there.
Nothing but a hint of laughter riding on the air conditioning.
Nothing but the hint of her juices on the edge of the desk.
Afterglow...
If you’ve read from my book this far, well, thank you! But you may be wondering where the Fantasies of Josephine Scott bit comes in, as most of the stories appear designed to please the dominants among you.
The fantasy comes in my remembering things which really happened or wishing some of the things could happen; life, partners and family permitting. The fun has been in copying out the stories, wet knickers all over the place here...
Now I’ll go write some more books for you.
Josephine Scott
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Cream of the Crop Page 21
