On the 57th floor of One Penn Plaza the hive is abuzz with activity. Employees hustle from one end of the massive level to the other, making sure their West coast business is well underway before leaving for lunch. Few people ever recognize me arrive with my cart in tow in spite of my heels clicking along the shiny floors. To them I’m just one more drone adding to the honey pot.
But I’m not the bee they think me.
Through recessed speakers Mozart’s Symphony Number 40 softly scores the scene.
Shoulders back, stride purposeful I march toward Richard’s private office, which is guarded by his right-hand woman Susan, a crotchety being who could greatly benefit from a ticket to a show like mine. She’s been Richard’s executive assistant for the duration of our three-year relationship. She’s also never liked me.
It’s of little consequence.
Some days I get by without having to interact with her if she’s already off to lunch.
Today is not one of them.
Ordinarily I’d arrive on time to assure Richard collects me immediately.
Today I’m a little early.
Mozart’s movement shifts tempo to allegro assai—fast enough. Calculated, I’d say.
As though sensing my presence Susan lifts her head, sees me approaching. Her eyes shoot daggers and I’m barely within earshot when she confirms what I already know. “Mr. Galloway is still in a meeting.” Two passing bees turn her voice lukewarm. I’m sure had we been alone it would hold its usually frigid tone.
Without a break in stride, I continue directly to Richard’s door—an unprecedented move—and turn the knob. “I’ll wait inside.”
She protests, rises from her seat as I enter. “You cannot go in there, Miss….” She says this last with blatant contempt as though she thinks the term far too ladylike for me. Susan is wrong on both accounts: I am every bit a lady, and already in the office.
Leaving my cart near the door I proceed to the mahogany desk. It’s a spotless surface. Three elegant pens capped and placed in a round holder. A small leather ledger is open with a note scribed neatly upon it. Phone perfectly parallel to the desk’s edge. Everything neat, controlled.
I sink into the King’s buttery leather executive chair and prop my heels up on the tabletop, hands clasped in my lap, legs crossed at the ankles. By the darkening shade of vermillion on her face and neck Susan is utterly appalled and preparing to raise “bloody ‘ell”, as Lizzy would say, when Richard glides in behind her.
“What seems to be the problem, Susan?” His deep voice is flat for the benefit of his assistant.
Susan spins, flustered. “M-Mr. Galloway, this…th-this…woman just marched into your personal office without—”
Richard pauses her rant with a raised palm. “Susan, I appreciate your concern, however Miss Hayes and I have a standing appointment. No harm done.”
She doesn’t budge, turns to glare at me with beady black eyes that sit crowded in her pinched and pitted face. She’s very aware of our weekly meeting, and I’m convinced she knows precisely in what ways Richard and I meet. Susan’s the listen-at-the-door type. I imagine she sits at her desk just long enough for the fun to begin before she hops from her seat and presses her ear to the wood, wet with envy.
She wants the King; it’s been apparent since the first day we…encountered one another. The introduction was never formal. But Susan’s not one of the sexy secretaries displayed at the posts of some of Richard’s underlings, lithe bodies meant to disarm clients with saccharine smiles, muddle men’s thoughts with the heave of breasts scantily covered by shirts just squeaking by the bar for office-appropriate. And that’s why, in prim slacks, drab, mock-neck blouse and tweed blazer, Susan has been charged with protecting the King, perhaps from would-be assassins as much as from himself.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Richard says, gently reminding the woman of her place.
I don’t believe she’ll listen today. A shame, really. It’s sure to be a stellar performance. From my position on the King’s throne I wiggle my fingers at her. In return to the dismissive gesture Susan narrows those two black holes at me and then leaves with only the smallest huff.
Richard’s eyes harden.
He’s upset that I’ve caused a scene.
The King does not like scenes.
He recently fired three new drones after only an hour into their internships when one stumbled and spilled coffee on an important client, and the other two snickered. He demands perfection from his workers; does not tolerate slacking in his kingdom. None would dare upset the King.
I do not work for Richard.
The door has barely closed when I demand, “Clothes off. Now.” I push back from the desk and drop my feet to the floor.
“You’re ear—”
“You’re late,” I interrupt, push myself to standing.
“Roz, you can’t just—”
“Shut up.” I round the desk and stop before him, gripping his Hermès tie. A hard tug on the grenadine silk levels his stunned face with mine. “I do what I want, when I want. I ordered you to strip.”
Confusion clouds his face before he complies, perhaps remembering our last discussion. I release the fabric and he begins there, taking his time to unknot the expensive, albeit now wrinkled, cloth.
“Too slow.” Hand hooked firmly in his dress shirt I yank; try not to let my disappointment show when my intents fail to the tight weave of white Prada. A smug snort from the King redoubles my effort, the more focused pull garnering the desired effect of sending costly bits of plastic buttons flying. “Get your goddamn clothes off this instant, Rich.”
The smirk leaves his face at the tone of my voice and he moves faster, fumbles with his belt, steps from Italian loafers. The white undershirt comes over his head and he shucks the steel suit trousers and gray briefs. At forty-four, the man is nicely built: strong back, lean abs, firm butt, and quite the package. His brown hair is just beginning to streak through with gray, and usually pale skin is kissed golden from a recent trip to Florida.
“To the desk. Face the window.”
Naked save black dress socks, Richard does as he’s told while I cross the room and secure the lock on the door; lift the remaining box from the bin. It’s much larger than Lizzy’s. More props. I carry it over; place it on the floor behind him.
“Rich…”
Inference understood, he unfastens the hasp of his necklace, a thin gold chain with a key dangling from it. The charm slides from the links and lands in his palm. He fingers it a moment, considering; angles to look me in the eyes, presses it firmly into my hand.
Two latches on the box release the top, and I pull out everything I need, setting it up so it’s within arm’s reach. Taking a moment to remove my skirt and blouse, I step into the leather strap-on harness, careful not to put a run in my stockings, shifting to get it positioned comfortably around my thighs and waist. The dildo’s left near the box.
Rounding the desk I set a twelve-by-twelve mirror directly in Richard’s line of sight, adjusting it for optimal viewing with the same precision every other item on the desk is set.
“Hands where I can see them.”
Rich places his hands on the tabletop, back ramrod straight adding a few more centimeters to his six-one frame; nervously anticipating what he thinks is coming. Behind him again, I fasten a leather bondage cuff to each wrist, leaving the connector bar detached.
“What’s—”
“Session’s begun, Rich. You know the rules. No speaking unless I allow it, and I did not allow it.” I reach for the heart-shaped slapper. “I’ll have to punish—”
“I didn’t—” he starts to protest, even turns to look at me. The nerve!
Swat! Swat! Two quick slaps to his right butt cheek to get his attention.
He gasps, quickly faces the New York skyline again.
“That is for calling me by name. Twice. Think you remember your place, or do you need another reminder?”
His breathing quickens, palms p
ress harder into the table. He doesn’t answer.
I drag the paddle lightly up his inner thigh, teasing. “Do you?”
“I remember, Mistress.” His voice is a rough whisper.
“Better.”
Swat!
He groans, squirms where he stands. The muscles of his back tense and he drops his head.
“That is for speaking out of turn.”
Swat!
“For your tardiness.”
Swat, swat, swat, swat! I sprinkle his ass with a hail of smacks, each hit harder than the one before.
His moans seep through clenched teeth, body torn, half turning to move away from the flurry, half bending to accept more.
“And that’s for the vile troll you keep at your door.”
A chuckle slips through his labored breathing; he flinches when my bare hand gently caresses his smarting ass and then slides over his hip toward his turgid cock. I hold it lightly, stroke the velvety skin with my fingertips. That soft touch is enough to make him push forward, trying to get more.
“Be still.” He stops moving. Paddle still in hand, I retrieve the key from where I’d placed it when unloading the box. “Turn around.”
He does. Cock pointing skyward and bobbing proudly before him, a bead of precum resting precariously in the slit, Rich reaches for the leather strap sitting next to a tiny lock. I smack his hand.
“Apologies, Mistress.” He drops his gaze to the floor, stands stock still so he doesn’t upset me again.
I take up the strap and hand it to him. “Put it on.”
He wraps the leather under his balls and around his shaft, fastening it like a belt, and then returns to his rigid military posture.
Analysis begins at the shoulders, and I carefully move the leather switch over the toned flesh of his chest, down contoured abs. His eyes slip closed at the feathering touch and I continue lower on his hardened body. With the slapper I lift his cock, inspecting his work. Moving it slowly, it tickles his length; abs clench and hands ball to fists. Teasing him delights me, so I continue a little longer, thoroughly studying the strap. It’s too loose for my liking.
“Tighter.”
He strains to do so, but manages to slip the hook through the next eye of the belt. Satisfied, I affix the little lock. The skeptical look on his face tells me he believes it matches the key.
Perfect.
“Turn.” I lean over the desk and set the key within reach, directly in his line of sight. I return to the box and remove a thick wooden paddle, position myself behind him again.
“Your hands will not move from that table, understand?”
He nods.
“Say it, Rich,” I whisper, drag my fingertips lightly down his back, raising a trail of goosebumps on his skin. “I like to hear the words.”
“I understand, Mistress.”
I pause, catch his gaze in the mirror, and then say off-handedly, “No, I don‘t believe you do. But you will.” I flash a wicked grin. “Tell me your dick is mine.”
“My dick is yours,” he says, reciting the line emptily as if this is some quick read through of the script to prove he knows it.
The paddle descends on his backside with a solid whap!
Richard’s legs buckle at the knee but he steadies himself. “My dick is yours, Mistress,” he amends quickly and with the vigor I’m looking for.
“And since it’s mine, I decide when you’ll be allowed to come, correct?”
He nods, thinks better of it and answers, “Yes, Mistress,” voice laced with anger and desire.
I push his back downward, angling him better over the desk. The anticipation in his face is reflected in the mirror. He doesn’t say anything, grinds his teeth hard enough to make the muscles of his jaw jerk, obviously vacillating between regaining the control he’s so accustomed to and surrendering to the experience. The arm with the paddle draws back then whooshes through the air as I bring it down again on his ass and hold it there. He grimaces, inhales, “Husssss...” A crimson rectangle forms across the cheeks.
My hand caresses his sore bottom, slides along the cleft, fingers trailing the depths. Rich hums delightedly, tries to push back but I move away and walk to the other side of the table.
His face is red; lids low. Humiliation and arousal. No one else will get to see him in this vulnerable state but me.
Power.
When we started up, these sessions took place at his home, and what began as simply fucking has segued into role-playing. Adaptation is easy for an actress of my skill-set. I’ve been slave to his Master, nurse to his doctor, the French maid, the student, and many of the other usual situations. Lunchtime sex in his office was a major turn on for him, so we started playing boss and secretary six months back. He’d strap me to his leather chair and fuck me for all he was worth. Then I’d slide my skirt down and be on my way, file folders in hand. But much like his everyday life, he was always in the position of power.
Deep down Rich has an interest in submitting, but the Type A personality gets in the way of him letting go. Since he’s not ready to relinquish control, it’s left to me to take it.
Moving back to my props, I insert the thin, flesh-toned dildo into the ring of the harness and sheath it with a condom. Finger cots are next before I coat my digits in thick lube. I thoroughly massage his puckered hole, letting a finger slip inside to the first knuckle.
“Ohhh,” Rich moans. His hole responds instinctively, tightens around the foreign object before he rocks back experimentally against my hand. I stop moving and he whimpers. “Please…Mistress.”
My finger slips in further then withdraws. Back in. Back out. Building a rhythm. A second finger joins the action, and Rich spreads his legs, bending his knees for more. He’s an eager first-timer, and a very quick study. I scissor my digits, making room for the cock I’m going to replace them with.
The height of my heels puts my hips level with his ass. Removing my fingers, I place the dildo between his cheeks and slide it over his stimulated anus as I lean to press tight against his back.
“You want this dick?”
Rich gasps, the muscles of his shoulders tense from forcing his hands flat in front of him.
I move a little faster, letting the friction increase. “Do you?”
He nods, voice thick with uncertainty. “Y-yes…yes, Roz.”
I smack his ass with my hand and he lurches, corrects himself. “Yes, Mistress.”
My hips stop moving, and I guide the head of the rubber cock to his back entrance. My other hand grips his hip, and he lowers more, stretching his back. He hisses when I push inside, past the ring of tight muscles, inching in slowly until I have it almost completely seated.
I spread his cheeks wide, watching the hole expand to take the girth. His breathing is labored, and his hand comes off the table, clenches into a fist when I shove in to the root. I smack his ass, and he pitches forward, flattening his stomach against the desk; the dick I’m connected to taking me with him.
“Gaaahh!” His back tenses and arcs, fist bangs the table hard enough to send his perfect circle of pens dancing off the edge, rocks the phone and mirror askew. I’ll have to remember he really enjoys the spankings.
On wobbly heels I regain my balance and slowly draw almost completely out of him.
“If you want to tap out, grab that key.”
He nods impatiently, begs for more. “Please, Mistress. Please.”
I give in, plunge deep. In and out, in and out, over and over. I reach around and fist his swollen dick, stroking in rhythm with my thrusts.
Rich groans, pushes back against me eagerly, that puckered little rosebud tightening around the shaft inside him. His cock throbs in my hand, a thick, pulsing mass of meat.
“So close.” His voice is strained, muscles clenching. The skin over his cheeks is pulled taut, his eyes shut hard against the mounting orgasm.
“Look at me,” I demand, watching his lids flutter open in the mirror’s reflection. The desire is clear. “That dic
k’s mine, right?”
Rich nods slightly, but I can tell it takes all of his strength not to reach for the key. He drops his head to the table, fighting the urge to come.
I’m in control.
My hand stops stroking his dick, palms moving to his waist slowing the pace and increasing the depth of my thrusts.
Sweat slicks his skin, a soft sheen of perspiration carrying with it the musky scent of his arousal. I bend forward and lick up his spine, my breasts and stomach pressed to his back. His body trembles at the contact. My hand follows, palm travelling north, smoothing firmly up his skin until my fingers curl in the thick brown hair at his nape.
With a firm grip I yank his head back so quickly he cries out. His eyes are wide now, not expecting this. I stare coolly at his reflection. Lips near his ear I ask “Do. You. Want. The. Key?” Each word is a measured puff of air, deep and husky, punctuated by little jabs of my hips. I push all the way into him again and stop, giving him one last chance to end this delicious agony.
At this angle, Rich’s throat is exposed, the strong muscles of his neck working to eke out a response. “N-no…M-mis-stress.”
I release him gently, his head again resting on the desk as I slide my hand to his arm, tugging it down and behind his back. I repeat the process on the other side and fasten each end of the metal connector to a ring on both cuffs. Hands secured behind him, I reach around Rich and, working blind, find the quick release button on the lock.
It’s a prop. The key’s a prop. Both magic store trinkets, illusions working in concert to affirm the bondage, dependent on each other in only that way.
The fixture comes off, but the strap is still in place. With the rubber dick still buried deep in his ass, I know every slight shift I make is felt like an explosion.
I toss the lock aside, one hand gripping the connector bar on the cuffs, the other on Rich’s hip.
“Head up. Don’t move.”
Pleasure-lidded eyes come again to the mirror. He won’t last long, I know, but I want to see when the King gets toppled.
Using the bar I push his hands up, his shoulders straining in the sockets as I pull out of his anus and drive back in. My hips find a steady cadence and his gaze locks on mine in the reflection. He pleads with me in that look: Let me move. Please, let me come.
The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts Page 3
