Master Me

by Lisabet Sarai, Trina Lane, Elizabeth Coldwell, Charlotte Stein, Jane Davitt, Justine Elyot

  She deleted the words, and tried again.

  Is this James Walsh?

  That seemed more fitting. Or at least, it seemed more like something he could definitely accept or deny. Or would it just be silence, silence that she could then take as a yes or no? She didn’t know, but sent it anyway.

  Then waited. And waited. She waited for what seemed like longer than her slow crawl towards an orgasm had been. It felt as if the end of time came and went. Three clients called and asked her questions she could only just remember how to answer. She responded to other, less interesting emails about nothing.

  Then finally, finally.

  I think I’m definitely going to have to punish you, Molly. Yes. I think that’s what I’m going to have to do.

  Chapter Two

  There were many ways he could choose to punish her. He’d already done a lot of them—maddening sex toys, those cool, teasing words, making her do naughty things like taking dirty trips to the bathroom. Playing with her limits, throughout.

  But she still couldn’t guess what he might have in store, next. While staring up at her bedroom ceiling, she imagined some of her newest favourites—being tied up, being spanked, being told ridiculously filthy things as he fucked her.

  Unfortunately, all of them invariably included him, revealing who he was. And somehow, she just couldn’t push her fantasies to something as wild as that. He hadn’t responded to the accusation of James Walsh, which more or less solidified him as said person in her mind, and that definitely meant he wasn’t yet ready for any kind of reveal.

  It even suggested the dreaded—he might never be. He might never want to reveal himself, and instead, leave her perpetually in the dark. Maybe one day he’d even stop replying altogether. Just fade away as though he’d never existed at all.

  She almost didn’t dare switch on her computer. And it was an embarrassing relief, to find his name amongst the various other items in her inbox. Or at least, it was a relief until she remembered what he’d said the day before.

  Then her mind went right back to punishment, again. And oh, this was a doozy.

  I’ve arranged something for you, my lovely little Molly. But don’t think of it as a punishment, oh no. It’s not a punishment, really. It’s a gift, I think, like everything I want to give to you.

  Such a romantic. Except, you know, while being an anonymous pervert who sent her dirty emails. It made her giggle with nervous delight that he kept her on the edge of her seat no matter what.

  Your mission, should you choose to accept it—and oh, I know you will, my luscious partner in deviant pleasure—is to remain at your desk until six-thirty. Later, if there are still people in the office. And yes, I know I told you that I’d like nothing better than to see you exposing yourself to strangers and colleagues alike, but this is different. This is very specific, indeed.

  When the office is empty, I want you to go to the second floor—to the office where Paul Sanderson used to work. The one that’s now empty. Once there, you mustn’t speak. If you do, I’ll know you have—you’ll understand how when you get there.

  Then I want you to follow the instructions I’ve left for you on the cards I’ve placed on the desk where Paul Sanderson used to sit every day. Do you understand, and accept?

  Several things went through her mind, all at once. That he was possibly crazy, truly crazy. That he had to be someone in the office, now, and not just the sandwich boy or a passing client or some other crazy thing, like a window cleaner. And finally, that she was probably crazy too, because she knew right down to her bones that she was definitely going to obey. It probably meant being laughed at by a gang of office assholes who’d been stringing her on all along, but what the hell.

  In for a crazy penny, in for an insane pound.

  Plus, she wasn’t stupid. She had her pepper spray, in case things turned out horrible and hideous. She had a panicked text message ready, for Mavis—who was always the last to leave the office, and so would be the first one to make it back and save her from maniacs and assholes and whatever else was lurking beneath Ever’s surface.

  Even if she didn’t really believe that anything was. She believed in him, even before he sent her a second message, unprompted and eerily as if he’d read her mind.

  If at any time you want to stop anything, the safe word is delicious. And if you’re worried about anything else, the office is right next door to Gregson’s. He’ll be in there until six-forty-five, in a meeting with Benjamin Everett. You can leave upon seeing whatever’s in the room, if you so choose.

  She wanted to be sarcastic about the message—say something like, you’re such a kind sort, or similar—but couldn’t. It sent a warm feeling through her that she could neither laugh at, nor deny.

  * * * *

  It took some almighty patience, to get to six-thirty. The time simply didn’t want to come. Not even picturing what could possibly be in that secret, empty office made the minutes fly by, and oh, she did a lot of picturing. Mostly with Walsh as the star, and all kinds of frightening apparatus as his guest.

  She looked up a good deal of bondage and domination sites, and they didn’t paint an easy and comfortable picture. Did people really attach themselves to racks and frames, and wait for someone to prod them with things? Not to mention all the outfits, and hoods, and things to put in people’s mouths!

  He didn’t seem to be that kind of dominant, and she didn’t feel as if she was that kind of submissive—if those terms did, in fact, apply to both of them—but who knew, really? The whole thing was obviously going to end up in the land of minor discomfort and sweating inside latex.

  She was sweating now, and latex wasn’t even involved. She had to go to the bathroom at six-fifteen and clean herself up. If he was going to strip her clothes off and fondle her all over, she wanted to at least smell nice for him. Somehow she imagined him being scrupulously clean and tidy, and, indeed, James often looked that way, so he deserved something as good, in return.

  Which included the underwear she’d started wearing, just for him. Just in case today should be the day. Everything was matching, and everything was cream silk. And though she’d usually think herself too fat for it, or too pale for it, or some other nonsense thought that strayed into her mind even at the best of times…now? Now her mind never went to those places, and not because he’d assured her otherwise.

  Just because. Because all the things she’d never known about herself were now firmly in the awareness column. Because as much as it was him in control, she felt as if something was in her grasp, something powerful.

  Her heart pounded, but never-the-less she strode to that office door.

  Along the way she heard Gregson in his office, just as Ever had said he’d be. The IT guy, Benjamin, coming through loud and clear, too—he had a distinctive, ever so slightly flat voice that always made her think of the slim, corner-less line of his mouth.

  Though she thought of nothing at all, when she finally got to the door. Sanderson’s name still in brass on the door, daring her to open it. She got the overwhelming urge to press her ear to it, just to see if she could hear, first. Hear his breathing, or maybe the breathing of a second person, or the sound of some bizarre torture device that she hadn’t been able to find on ThingsUpMyBum.com.

  But there was nothing. No breathing, no whirring. Goddamn it, maybe there wasn’t even anybody in there! Until she pushed down on the handle and opened the door, and found that there was. Of course there was. It had been him all along.

  James Walsh.

  Even so, it didn’t make knowing what to do any easier. If anything, it made it worse. He’d told her not to speak, but all she had were a million questions bunching together at the end of her tongue. For a start, she wanted to know why he wasn’t turning around. Mainly because there couldn’t be any doubt that it was him.

  He had on the same too-tight blue trousers she’d seen him filling out in the elevator earlier on. No jacket, and her view of his firm, round ass was completely unfe
ttered and delightful. And that hair! That blond, almost too long hair. A person couldn’t mistake James Walsh, from either the front, or the back.

  They could, however, wonder why he had his hands tied behind said back. Yeah, they could probably wonder about that.

  Again, the urge to ask a million questions welled up inside her. She wasn’t quite sure what held her back, either. Was it really the fact that he’d told her not to speak? Did he have that much power over her, already?

  Probably. Almost definitely, in fact. After all, she had done that thing with the knickers, and the stockings, and the sex toy, and now she was walking over to the desk he stood in front of, to retrieve the instructions he’d promised he’d leave.

  Why he couldn’t just tell her, she didn’t know, but she glanced at the side of his face as she collected the little stack of cards, looking for some sort of clue. He seemed fixed and resolute, mouth set into a firm line, gaze forward on nothing but the wall. He didn’t even flinch when she leant around him a little bit, trying to catch his eye.

  Whatever this was, he was good at it. Plus, he’d done a great job of tying his own hands behind his back. In fact, he was so good at this, she was starting to suspect…

  She glanced at the cards. They were neat and uniform—the kinds of things people used for presentations—and on each one was a section of typed words. They looked as if they’d been done with a typewriter, too, which gave her a little frisson of excitement that she couldn’t quite understand.

  It was probably due to the time he’d taken. The care. The almost filthy looking state of the near wobbly letters. Only careful perverts used typewriters, she was sure, and apparently they typed things like…

  You should have known it wasn’t James Walsh.

  Making her want to faint, standing up.

  The weirdest thing was, however, she had known. As soon as she’d seen the words in black and white, she’d known. James Walsh could never in a million years have been this inventive, this sly, this able to use a typewriter. James Walsh was too big and handsome and…conventional.

  Although apparently not so conventional that he was beyond having his hands tied behind his back, by an anonymous benefactor.

  She glanced back at the card, searching for further explanations, anything, even some more of that mocking tone would do. Thankfully, he had it in spades.

  Our buddy James here is in to something far, far different than the things you think I’m in to. He likes being tied up, and punished for being a bad boy, and I all I had to do was say—hey, go in this room at this time, and someone will come in and give it to you.

  What do you say, Molly? Do you think you’re up to the task?

  She thought of all the ways she was not up to the task. They included, but were not limited to—her newly discovered liking for the opposite of this, the fact that this was James Walsh, who she’d have to see every day after probably humiliating him roundly, and finally, God, where was Ever? Where was the real Ever? Did he even exist?

  She was starting to think she’d developed a split personality, and one of them was him. She fell asleep, and he woke up and wrote emails and typed on cards—like in Fight Club, only with less punching and more sexual desires she couldn’t admit to.

  She flicked to the next card, and it was even worse than the first.

  Unbutton his trousers and push them down. Do it slowly. A submissive always enjoys the tease.

  Oh God, he was mad. He was absolutely right, but that didn’t make him any less mad. Or her any less inclined to do what he said. She desperately wanted to say to James, “is it okay if I do this?” but oh, inside herself she knew that was the wrong thing to do. He didn’t want okay. She didn’t want okay. She just wanted to do it and then see Ever’s face—just once.

  James didn’t move when she reached around him, and fumbled for the buttons on his pants. All those fantasies featuring him and his blond hair and his big, bulky body, and here she was excited because of the orders on a piece of card, instead of the way he looked and smelt and probably tasted.

  She didn’t even want to taste him. Unless Ever told her to.

  But the next card just said…

  Now his underwear.

  Every part of her screamed to ask him if it was okay, if he was bothered by this, if he wanted to be naked, or not. But all she could see was herself reflected in him, and knew the answer without saying a word.

  Of course he wanted to be naked. Of course he wanted what was on the card after that.

  Now stroke his bare ass, as though you’re going to be nice. Listen and feel for his responses—if he trembles, just give him a hint of your nails. Like a promise, almost, like you want him to know where this is leading.

  She couldn’t even think about where this was leading. More than likely towards making her very, very wet. She could feel it already, soaking through the knickers she was glad she’d worn. If she hadn’t, James Walsh would probably be able to smell her arousal, now, and know how turned on this was making her—even if he couldn’t see the hard peaks of her nipples through her shirt, or the heat that had spread over her cheeks and down her throat.

  She wanted to rub herself against him, but settled for doing as she’d been told. Just a hand on his bare ass, every nerve in her prickling to feel it. He had a slight sprinkling of hair, but it felt largely smooth and good, and oh Ever was right. When she stroked, he trembled all over as though struck.

  So she dug in her nails. Just a little. Just like he’d said—a hint.

  Then she watched him squirm and squirm. She thought about herself, wriggling in her seat, so impatient. It made her want to both race to the next card, and hold off until it made him insane. Though in the end, she went with the sweetest, kindest option.

  After a while, when he’s nice and unprepared, bring the palm of your hand down on his ass, really hard. Don’t hold back. Don’t cup your hand. Straight from the shoulder—a good, firm whack.

  This time her mind went to what Ever must have been feeling, when writing all of this stuff. Had he jerked off afterwards, thinking about her cracking someone’s ass in the same way he probably would, if he got his hands on her? She thought so. It must have been the case. She wanted to masturbate right now, and all she’d done was read the damned stuff.

  Then she smacked, just like he asked her to.

  Her palm stung briefly, once the deed was done. And true enough, the sting threaded its way through her body, tweaking her nipples as it went, stroking over her plump sex on the journey down. But it was more the sound he made, that affected her—such a guttural, desperate groan. The sound made her aware of her clit, and the sharp tingles she could produce if she mashed her thighs together.

  God she wanted to echo that sound.

  She held it in, however, and smacked him again and again, just like the cards told her to. The air grew muggy and thick and tight with a weird kind of tension, but she kept on because the cards said to do so. The cards said…

  Don’t stop, not even if he begs you to. Go steadily faster and faster, and harder and harder, and wait for him to bend over the desk—he will do.

  Which only made her think that Ever had done this before. Not just to some random woman, but to this exact person standing here in front of her. He’d spanked and spanked James Walsh until he groaned almost continually, thighs trembling as though they didn’t want to hold him up, a tumble of words mixed amongst the panting breaths.

  She felt sure he was saying please, please, but all she could think was, did you say that to Ever? Did it make it worse that it was a man spanking you, telling you how bad you were, did you think—God, is he going to fuck me after this?

  She didn’t know whether he had or not, but it made her clit jump and slickness run down the inside of her thigh, to think on it. She almost didn’t stop when James collapsed over the desk, she was thinking on it so hard.

  But then she managed to gather herself, and take a shaking step back. Just enough to regain her senses and press the no
w heated palm to various parts of herself—oh, the feel of it. Red hot and perfect. And James calling out to her, unable to control himself now.

  “Please don’t stop,” he said. “Please, please, I need it. I need to come.”

  The word sounded so much filthier than anything they’d been doing. She’d been spanking him and obeying orders and getting wet, so wet, but that one word…come. And so quickly followed by the bittersweet permission of Ever’s final card.

  You can touch yourself now, Molly. Don’t worry about him. Just give yourself that orgasm I know you’re dying for, then leave the room.

  Unless you still want to fuck James Walsh, that is.

  Man, he was a bastard. Such a perfect bastard. He knew everything so exactly, every unknown, unearthed part of everything—in what sort of world could she possibly have disobeyed?

  Instead she shoved her skirt up roughly, almost brutally, and pushed her hand into her knickers. It was awkward with the cards still gripped in her fist, but then the whole thing had been awkward while trying to hold onto them and read them and let all of their shiver-inducing words sink in.

  Now she had a brief moment of freedom, and it felt as good as the obedience. It felt good to find her swollen clit with just the tip of her finger—anything more and it would be too much—and touch herself to the sound of James Walsh trying to hump the desk. Big, bold, Captain of Industry James Walsh, sobbing with frustrated pleasure, the handprints on his ass so red and glorious, right in front of her.

  She couldn’t help gasping. She couldn’t help calling a name that wasn’t James Walsh’s. Her clit felt huge and her wetness seemed to have spread just about everywhere, all over her arousal-plumped lips and through her soaking slit. Just a few short strokes, and she was there.