Free from her tights, Susie, naked from the waist down, buried her silvered fingernails into a small side pocket of her red sweater. Extracting a golden pubic coil, she stretched across to the desk. Her thighs parted, revealing the yawn of her darker flesh-lips at the base of her belly. She placed the sleek wisp down upon the glinting leather. ‘I saved one for you, sir.’
He craned forward and, licking his thumbtip, jabbed it down. Bringing the golden coil of pubic hair up before his narrowed eyes, he smiled. Trapping the fragile hair between a cruel finger and thumbtip pincer, he rubbed it. It rustled faintly as he held it to his left ear, judging it as he would a delicate cigar. ‘Put the stockings on, girl.’
Susie bowed her head, instantly curtaining her blushes behind a cascade of tumbling blonde hair. Elbows angled, she drew the rolled-up stockings one by one over her feet up to her ankles. Squashing her soft buttocks firmly into the leather chair, she raised each knee in turn as she slowly, seductively palmed the nylons up towards the supple sheen of her thighs. The hem of her red sweater hung an inch and a half above the golden tan of the stocking-tops, affording a provocatively tantalising glimpse of her milk-white naked flesh. Faulkner choked slightly as his tongue thickened and his throat tightened with mounting excitement.
‘Do they please you, sir?’ Susie murmured, splaying out her silvered nails along the dark bands of the taut nylons.
‘Stand.’
She obeyed, her bare buttocks joggling enticingly beneath the loose cloth of her red sweater. She twisted away from him, submitting her new nylons for his inspection. She drew her legs smartly together. Again, her naked cheeks wobbled above the shining nylon-sheathed thighs just below. A faint crackle of whispering static broke the loud silence as her stockinged thighs briefly kissed.
His fingertips drummed the leather desk top. ‘The left seam,’ he barked. ‘Not straight. Not perfectly straight.’
Lips parted a fraction, Susie twisted her face around to peer at the swell of her left calf. She rose up on tiptoe, then balanced on one foot as she flexed her knee. Her left heel rose up, deeply dimpling the hollow behind her left knee, as she strained to inspect the offending seam.
‘Leave it, girl. I’ll fix it.’
This was the moment Susie hated. Actual physical contact. Being touched. She hated the sound of his chair being pushed back away from his desk. She tensed and stiffened at the soft menace of his approaching footsteps. She shuddered at his heavy gasp as he sank down on to his knees immediately behind her.
‘Absolutely still, girl, while I straighten your seam.’
‘Yes, sir.’
She sensed the heat of his excited breath through the fabric of her red sweater stretched across her bottom. Then, the dominance of his controlling fingertips busy at her left seam.
After pinching the seam straight, he palmed the entire length of her nyloned leg with brutal tenderness, muttering softly to himself. He wiped his sweating forehead against the hem of her sweater, butting her cheek gently, then eased back to examine the ribbed seam.
‘Must be perfect,’ she heard him murmur.
His thumbs returned to her sheathed flesh, centering the seam to his satisfaction. Susie, despite her shame and humiliation, felt her wet heat juicing her labial folds. Soon she would be perfuming the office with her reluctant arousal.
His hands fell away from her captive flesh. ‘Lovely,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘Lovely.’
Susie gasped and clenched her hands as his wet tongue rasped at her nyloned flesh, tracing with its quivering tip the entire length of the thick seam. As he strained to lap at the darker bands of each stocking-top, once more his forehead butted her rounded buttocks. Soon, the stocking-tops were soaking. He kissed them feverishly and started to suck. Susie felt his fierce erection, pulsing through his trousers, rake her flesh as he twisted on his knees behind her. Her belly tightened as his nose penetrated her clamped thighs. She heard him sniffing deeply.
‘Fishnets next time.’ His lips mumbled the words into the shrine of her trembling legs. ‘With a black suspender. Understand?’
‘Mm.’
‘Say it, girl.’
Susie repeated the instruction, deliberately prolonging the vowels. She dropped her voice to a husky whisper when announcing the words black suspender belt. His erection jerked against her. He groaned, burying his face into her thighs.
‘Still behind with your rent, girl?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You need not worry. As long as you make sure the fishnets are tarty. Tarty and cheap. OK?’
‘Tarty and cheap fishnets, sir, with a black suspender belt.’
His grunt became a prolonged moan. Susie flinched as the spurt of his orgasm soaked through his trousers on to her shining legs.
The calendar on the wall showed a cute little brunette squashing snowballs into her bare breasts. Above the cupping hands, her red lips formed a perfect circle of coquettish surprise. Below, fine powdered snow dusted the nude’s dark bush between her splayed thighs. Debbie Does December. Mr Faulkner’s office was one of the remaining few where such a calendar could be openly displayed.
Christmas was almost about to break out. Outside, the pavements were congealing with shoppers and ungritted slush. He liked Christmas. It was, Mr Faulkner thought happily, a time for giving. He liked presents. What would he be getting from his three section leaders? he wondered. Obedience. It did not matter how they wrapped, then unwrapped it – as long as they offered him their obedience and submission. In satin basques, in half-cupped lace bras, in satin panties or in glossy nylon stockings. No, it didn’t matter how they gift-wrapped their surrender to him. Half-dressed, then naked before him, subject to his slightest whim, it was his thoughts that counted. His fantasies made flesh.
Annette closed the door gently. He glanced up, his eyes raking her wolfishly. He grinned, revealing his white teeth. The office wolf’s tail thickened and grew erect as the lamb approached his desk.
Annette worked hard to pay for her singing lessons. With good looks and a great figure, all she needed was another six months’ voice tuition. Then she would be ready, her agent promised, for her career launch. But not for another six months.
Mr Faulkner liked having Annette in his thrall. A cool, upper-crust brunette with a private education, she had at first been both a threat and a challenge. Her clipped vowels and perfectly modulated tone had made him acutely aware of his estuary vowels and coarse glottal stops. He had at first never risked anything tricky – like naming a French cheese or wine – in front of her, dreading her contemptuous disdain for his clumsy pretensions. Then he had found out her weak spot and pounced. She needed her job desperately for the tuition fees. In his thrall, she became tender meat for the hungry wolf.
‘What are you going to sing for me, eh?’
Annette fingered the edge of the dark leather desk top, avoiding his direct gaze.
‘What are you studying these days?’
‘French chansons,’ she whispered, jabbing her straightened index finger into the leather sulkily.
‘Chansons,’ he echoed, mangling the pronunciation.
Annette winced, but masked her contempt carefully.
‘Offenbach. I’m studying his Tombal-Cazar –’
‘Sounds like a Kraut name to me. Sing some.’
Her hands drew together at her belly. Moistening her lips with a darting tongue tip, she raised her head a fraction up from its dejection and started to sing. Her tone was sweet, each cadence perfectly captured.
Mr Faulkner raised up his hands and executed a crude attempt at conducting her. A gathering tear sparkled in her eye.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he interrupted bluntly.
Annette blushed, turned slowly and, without missing a single note, presented her bottom to his greedy gaze. An inch at a time, she raised the hem of her skirt up until her pantied buttocks were fully exposed.
‘Keep singing, girl. Nice little tune.’
Annette obeyed,
but the shame of her humiliation brought a tremble to her voice.
He gripped the edge of his desk. ‘Now bend over.’
The song became more ragged, more discordant, as Annette bowed to his wishes. Her brunette curls tumbled to curtain her tear-stained cheeks as her hands, fingers splayed, touched the shining black toes of her kitten-heeled court shoes. Facing the desk, and the man sitting behind it, her rounded buttocks burgeoned within the stretch of their taut white cotton panties.
‘Good,’ he murmured, rising up from his chair. Striding around the desk, he approached the exposed, pantied bottom of the bending girl. ‘Nice white panties. Posh. Clean, white cotton. I like that. I like that very much. Upper-drawer drawers.’ He chuckled at his own cruel humour, his quivering forefinger tracing the outer curves of each swollen cheek with increasing dominance.
‘Tell me again about the uniform they made you wear at that snooty boarding school.’
She told him. He thumbed the engorged head of his erection through his trousers as Annette detailed the vests, navy knickers, ankle socks, pleated skirts, crisp shirt-blouses and striped blue-and-silver ties of her uniformed boarding school days.
‘No bras?’
Annette told him that, when they entered the Lower Sixth, Matron would measure the pubescent bosoms and send away for cotton bras which the girls could wear instead of the tight vests. Knuckling himself frantically, he ordered Annette to repeat it all over again.
‘Now continue singing,’ he grunted.
Squeezing the tears from her eyes as she squeezed her thighs tightly together, she resumed her piece from Tombal-Cazar.
‘Now I want to see it.’
Annette sobbed slightly but kept her thighs pressed together.
‘Open up, girl, or you’ll have to sing somewhere else for your supper.’
Her cleft became a thin crease as she clenched her cheeks protectively.
‘Now,’ he hissed savagely, seething with impatient lust.
The thighs, sleek and soft, parted, revealing the soft shadow of her cleft deep between the pantied cheeks.
‘Wider,’ he thundered, choking on his arousal. ‘I want to see it.’
She sobbed. Obedient to his whim, she continued singing as she positioned her bulging buttocks for his intimate inspection and prolonged perusal.
‘Excellent.’ She heard him giggle as he inched his face down against her swollen curves. His parted lips fleetingly brushed against the white cotton sheathing her buttocks. Her belly churned and she missed her note. Faltering, she struggled to resume the chanson.
Mr Faulkner started to come. His bulging Y-fronts caught most of his warm seed, soaking them and his trousers. The dark stain spread as he whispered sweet obscenities into the tight panties. He glanced down. His eyes widened as they saw the tiny stray wisp of dark pubic hair trapped by the white cotton trim. His shaft pulsed, the wet glans raked upwards and dribbled more glutinous semen. His eyes darted to the contoured swell of her pubic plum undulating beneath the stretch of soft fabric.
‘Hands,’ he ordered in a voice neither of them recognised.
Slowly, reluctantly, her clear-varnished fingernails appeared across the swell of each cheek, almost but not quite touching at the dip of her cleft. Slowly, reluctantly, she started to drag her cheeks apart. She sensed him bending closer, felt his hot breath. Already, her nostrils flared in repugnance at the sharp tang of his orgasm.
‘Perfect,’ he pronounced, peering at the small dark circle of her shrivelled sphincter. ‘Perfect,’ he repeated, probing its soft warmth with his index finger pressing through the white cotton panties.
As his fingertip grazed her sensitive anal whorl, Annette gasped – and hit a shrill A sharp Offenbach never scored.
Annette toyed with her pudding, prodding the apple crumble and cream listlessly with a sulky spoon.
‘Not struggling with another diet?’ her lover, Jane, asked with ironic concern.
Annette placed her spoon down and, forcing a smile, shook her head.
‘Come to bed,’ Jane decided firmly. ‘You need cheering up.’
Naked, bosom to bosom, belly to belly, they cuddled and embraced beneath the duvet. Jane, maturer and gently dominant, rode the nude below, sweeping her hips from side to side to rasp her pubis across Annette’s fluffy nest. But tonight, there were no sharp little squeaks of response. Soon, speech was impossible as their mouths met and pressed fiercely together. Jane, as usual, took the upper hand, probing Annette’s mouth with her thickening tongue. Again, the nude in her embrace remained mutely passive. Driven by both panic and impatience, Jane slid her left hand down to cup and squeeze Annette’s buttocks. Bridling at the continuing lack of response, she taloned the left cheek savagely then slipped her finger deep into Annette’s rectum. The cheeks tightened, signalling resistance and resentment. Jane sensed no welcome in their warmth.
Dragging her prinked nipples across those of the submissive nude beneath her controlling body, Jane eased herself up on her elbows, sighed and rolled over on to her back. They lay, thighs just touching, in the silence of the darkened room.
‘Is there someone else?’ Jane whispered softly. ‘I think you should –’
Her anxious voice was drowned by a loud sob. Jane scrambled to snap on the bedside light and returned to her naked lover, cradling the weeping girl.
Annette refused to explain at first, but Jane coaxed her gently. Soon the shame and humiliation experienced under the predatory boss was laid bare.
Later. ‘Drink this,’ Jane murmured.
They sipped brandy alternatively from the same glass, each girl carefully placing her lips where the other’s had been.
‘I’m sorry –’ Annette sniffled.
‘You’re sorry?’ Jane gasped, her face pale with fury.
‘I just couldn’t say no –’
‘Leave it all with me, darling,’ Jane soothed. Her grey eyes were as cold and as hard as pressed steel. ‘Just leave your Mr Faulkner to me.’
Three days before Christmas Eve. Party time. For all the girls busy at their terminals, this meant two mince pies on a paper plate and a free can of fizzy drink each. Some had softened the harsh neon-lit sterility of their work place with festive decorations. For most, it was just another busy shift.
Inside his office, Mr Faulkner almost trembled with excitement. Soon he would be receiving his presents from the three section leaders.
Helen brought her gift in to him just after eleven-thirty. Eyes lowered, her hands fluttering nervously, she approached his desk. Faltering slightly, she steadied herself, both palms spread down upon the leather. Her bending posture offered him a generous glimpse of her bulging breasts and the deep cleavage between. His eyes accepted, feasting greedily.
‘What little Christmas treat am I in for?’ he chuckled, stretching up his curled finger and hooking it into her blouse just beneath her bosom’s swell.
Helen squirmed free and stood up, blushing furiously before the desk. Shame fuelled her reddening cheeks, as did the double vodka she had tossed back neat moments before plucking up the courage to enter the wolf’s lair.
‘Come here and give it to me,’ she heard him bark. He sounded like some monstrous little spoiled brat.
She skirted his desk and approached his chair, kneeling down on the carpet submissively before him. Her hands unbuttoned her blouse slowly, her fingers clumsy with both vodka and shame. They plucked at the buttons, working upwards from her lower belly to her throat.
‘Faster,’ he half shouted, half whimpered.
Shrugging her pale green blouse free, she revealed the scarlet bustier within which her swollen breasts bulged in strict bondage. In one fluid motion, as graceful as it was sensuous, her fingers found his zip and, seconds later, fished out his lengthening shaft. It pulsed expectantly within her curved, cradling grasp then seemed to fill her fist of fingers with its urgent heat. Shuffling closer, her knees now positioned between his feet, she drew his hot cock to the cool curves of her proffered bosom
.
‘Yes,’ he moaned, grasping the sides of his chair. He inched his buttocks up from the leather seat so that his glistening snout could kiss her soft flesh. It left a thin snail slick of pre-come across the bunched breasts’ outer curves.
Helen, head bowed, teased his foreskin back with a trembling thumbtip. The gesture rocketed him into a juddering ecstasy. Behind her back, just below her shoulders, her fingers worked blindly to release the bustier’s clasp. It gave. She sensed the weight of her loosening breasts burgeon. Peeling away the cups from her heavy flesh mounds, she let the scarlet bustier slither down to her thighs. In their freedom, her rounded breasts, nipples thickening, bobbed gently. She heard him curse as she raked his gleaming glans across each stubby nipple.
‘Kiss it,’ he choked.
Bowing down in utter submission, her dark hair spilling over her eyes, Helen tongue-tipped the hot snout of his shaft then pressed her lips upon it.
Witch, he screamed softly. Or was it bitch?
‘Suck.’ She heard that clearly enough.
He jerked his hips, thrusting two and a half inches of his shaft into her mouth, spearing the flesh of her throat. Inching back a little to accommodate it, she closed her lips around the cock and sucked hard.
‘Santa’s coming,’ he warned, twisting in ecstasy.
Helen quickly drew her head away and guided the engorged cock swiftly down into the warmth of her cleavage between her breasts. The jerking action milked him into a searing release. As he splattered her, she cupped her breasts, trapping the spurting shaft, and squeezed hard. He groaned sweetly in response as she rocked back and forth, her buttocks bouncing on her heels. The groan deepened into a prolonged howl of delight as the office wolf emptied himself over her, the thick gobbets splashing her chin, neck and left shoulder.
‘Happy Christmas,’ Helen whispered, shuffling away from the chair. As she did so, her wet breasts bounced. Droplets of semen gathered at her stiff nipples splashed down to scald her thighs with shame. Behind her dark tumble of hair, her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.
Mr Faulkner, his erection still exposed, sank back into his chair. Twisting around, he lowered his sweating face down on to the leather of his desk top.
Brought to Heel Page 9
