‘I’ll leave this for you,’ Helen murmured, gathering up the scarlet bustier and cramming it into his bottom drawer. ‘For your private pleasure, later,’ she added. ‘You can pretend to whip my naughty bottom with it and then come into the silk cups, mm?’
At the leather, his fingers splayed out like a speared starfish as the whispered words exploded softly in his swirling brain.
Out in the Christmas rush, Mr Faulkner was a nobody. In the bustling deli, where even the salami sausages were threaded with silvery tinsel, he waited in a long line before reaching the glass counter to ask for a chicken and salad roll. No mayo. The acne-troubled youth wearing a pair of glittering antlers and, given his skin condition, an unfortunate red Rudolph nose-cap, wasn’t listening. Outside of his realm, the king of the office often found it difficult to make his presence felt.
He got a turkey bap. With mayo. Out in the slush, he bit into the festive fare. He swore, knowing that the rich stuffing would trigger off his bloody heartburn. A sudden surge of shoppers edged him off the slippery pavement. A taxi horn exploded behind him. The cabbie cursed him roundly. Shaken, he dropped his turkey bap into the gutter and loped back to his lair.
Back in his office, he was king once more. Perched upon his leather throne, he rubbed his hands. Three-fifteen. His subject was due any moment. Soon the leggy blonde would be seeking an audience to pay full homage.
Susie was bare-legged when she entered. Mr Faulkner’s eyebrows rose. Anger and disappointment flickered across his eyes beneath. Susie held up a single black Fogal stocking in her clenched right hand. The eyebrows dropped. Below, the wolf licked its lips.
Mr Faulkner rose, paced around the desk and sat on it, his hands unbuckling his trousers and dragging them down to his knees. Susie, her blonde mane shining as it veiled her bowed head, sat beside him, her soft buttocks squashed into the leather. Her naked thigh nestled intimately against his.
‘I like Christmas stockings,’ he grunted, rubbing the black nylon between a pinched finger and thumbtip.
‘Good things come in stockings,’ she countered playfully, swallowing her resentful rage.
‘Stocking filler,’ he whispered as she stroked his cock slowly but firmly until it rose up, nodded and acknowledged her.
‘Will you fill my stocking, sir?’ Susie asked demurely, teasing his glans with a gentle brush of the wispy sheen.
Sir. It erased the ignomy of his turkey bap. Mr Faulkner eased himself up a fraction, peeling his heavy buttocks from the leather. Susie’s fingers played with his shaft, stroking it deftly as she whispered her pretended admiration for his potency. Capturing the throbbing erection carefully, she threaded the black nylon stocking over it until its bulging flesh filled the shiny mesh.
‘Will you fill my stocking, sir?’ Susie whispered, masturbating him slowly, skilfully, taking pains to rasp the glans.
He shuddered in his delicious anguish, pounding the leather with his naked buttocks. His hands gripped the edge of the desk as he thrust his hips forward. Pumping him with vicious assurance, Susie braced herself for his orgasm.
‘Talk to me,’ he ordered, his eyes screwed up tight. ‘Say those things you know I like to hear.’
Like a perverted nun at her dark catechism, Susie whispered the words he burned to hear, her shining red lips a warm breath away from his ear. Glossy. Fifteen denier. Self-support. Sheer. Ribbed seams.
‘Yes,’ he choked. ‘More.’
‘Cool nylons on warm thighs. Stretching up to the tight suspender above. The suspender’s bite into the dark stocking-top. Stockings,’ she tantalised, ‘tightly stretched and shining.’
Each phrase was expertly accompanied by a subtle double-jerk of her controlling circled fingers. The controlling fingers within which the sooty black nylon rasped his quivering shaft.
He came like a bull, snorting and pawing the carpet as he squirted his hot release. Susie did not hurry, letting him slump down on to the desk. She slowly unwound and then peeled off the sticky black nylon. Holding it aloft before his bleary eyes, she allowed him to watch the slow drip-drip of his seed silvering the dark sheen.
‘Where is the other one?’ he grunted, after recovering from his intense climax.
‘The other one, sir?’ Susie replied in a coy pretence of unknowing.
‘They come in pairs –’
‘What are you suggesting, sir?’ she bantered.
He loved it. He was almost dizzy with delight.
‘The other black stocking. Show me.’
‘Why, here it is, sir. I was keeping it warm for you,’ Susie whispered, plucking the second black Fogal from her cleavage with a teasing display of shy reluctance. ‘I thought you would like to see me use it on my wet pussy, sir.’
She was giving it all she’d got. The voice. The teasing words. The tongue-tip wetted lips. Driven by her desperation, Susie knew she had to make this Christmas present secure her uncertain future.
His sweating face distorted in a twisted grin of eager lust. He half choked, spluttering. Good, she thought. His response was all that she had calculated for.
‘Pussy,’ he grunted. ‘Do it,’ he almost shouted. ‘Put it on your pussy now.’
‘Sh,’ she cautioned, nodding briefly to the closed office door – and the busy girls beyond it. ‘Our little secret.’
Her last three words raked through his body. He crumpled at the knees, about to come violently. Susie dropped down to her knees instantly, her skirt riding her white hips, her panties stretched at her knees. Nimble fingers threaded the second black stocking up between her splayed thighs. The twisted skein of shiny nylon bit softly into the labia at her shaven pussy. Taut between her two clenched fists – one above her buttocks, the other level with her heaving breasts – the sliding stocking rasped her wet flesh.
His cock quivered and jerked. ‘Faster.’
Raking her sensitive flesh as she plied the Fogal expertly, Susie squeezed her cheeks together in response to the scald deep in her cleft. Faster. The command echoed in her brain. Her fists became a white blur. Her belly tightened. Slumped back against the desk, hips pumping the air frantically, he shot his load with a sweet curse, leaving her upturned face sticky and shining.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Blinking through the semen silvering her eyes, Susie twisted around in alarm to glimpse a red mini-skirted, black thigh-booted female Santa entering the office. Susie screamed softly, clenching her buttocks in a reflex of surprise, trapping the stocking in her hot cleft. Faulkner cried out angrily. Santa kicked the door closed with her jabbing black boot. Unshouldering her white sack and trailing it along behind her, she approached the boss and the kneeling blonde.
From behind her red domino eye mask, Jane took in the scene before her. It was just as her lover Annette had described it. Worse. Brutal lust and dominance. Female humiliation and abject submission. Jane’s grey eyes flashed dangerously as they drank in every detail. The kneeling blonde, her black stocking biting into her pussy and buried up between her swollen buttocks. The semen-splashed face. Submission and humiliation. Submission and humiliation which others – including Annette – had suffered repeatedly at the eyes and hands of Mr Faulkner.
‘Happy Christmas,’ she burbled, managing a light note. ‘I’m your Santa Stripper.’
Extracting a small sound system from the sack, she planted it on the carpet and clicked it on. The office was instantly flooded with the insistent boom of a turbocharged Jingle Bells.
Susie, wiping the semen from her face, scrambled to her feet and arranged her clothes.
‘Leave us,’ Santa commanded, jerking her thumb over her scarlet shoulder at the door. ‘And see that we are not disturbed.’
Susie scuttled out, ignored by her boss who ogled the nubile Santa, thrilling to her white fur-trimmed mini-skirt, black fishnets, sleek dark thigh-boots and pert little bobbled hat.
‘Who –?’ he started.
‘Special little treat for Christmas,’ Jane whispered.
A raunchy stri
p ensued, leaving Santa bare-breasted. Little red silk tassels quivered at her nipples as she dragged her palms slowly up the shining length of her black boots then rasped her fishnets with splayed fingernails. Slumped in his chair behind the desk, Faulkner sat transfixed. He grunted as Santa mounted his desk, swinging her sack down on to the leather. Kneeling, her thighs deliberately parted, she allowed him a peep of her white-pantied pubis.
Jingle Bells thumped out its relentless beat. Faulkner reached up with greedy fingers to play with the tassle dangling down over the curve of Santa’s left breast.
‘Not yet,’ Jane teased, flinching from the cruel thumb at her exposed nipple. ‘I’ve got some presents for you. Special toys,’ she whispered, ‘for a very special little boy.’ Her grey eyes shone behind the red domino mask.
‘Show me,’ he demanded.
She opened the white sack and spilled its contents down on to the leather surface of the desk. He picked each item up and nodded excitedly, jingling the handcuffs, swishing the supple sprig of mistletoe and rustling the packs of coloured condoms.
‘Party time,’ Jane whispered, peeling away the fur-trimmed mini-skirt from her thighs. She shook out a two-foot artificial silvered Christmas tree from the sack. Burying her hand in the farthest corner of the limp material, she extracted a fat, juicy orange.
Faulkner rattled the handcuffs impatiently but Santa merely drew them up to her glistening red lips, kissed the cold steel playfully, then placed them down on the leather. ‘Later,’ she whispered. ‘All in good time.’
As he writhed in his frustrated torment before her, Santa weighed the orange in her outstretched palm. Bringing the swollen fruit fleetingly up to his nostrils, she ordered him to sniff. Faulkner’s eyes widened in wonder then closed tightly. He dug his nose down into the gleaming rind.
‘Sniff,’ Santa commanded.
He obeyed, head bowed and nostrils flaring.
‘You like to sniff, don’t you?’
He nodded, digging his nose into the fruit. He parted his dry lips and attempted to lick. Santa glimpsed the white teeth of the office wolf.
‘Bite,’ she whispered, forcing the orange into his mouth.
As he sank his teeth in response to her command, she rammed the orange into his mouth. Faulkner opened his eyes in surprise. He tried to speak. Imprisoned by his deep bite, the orange filled his mouth, gagging and silencing him completely.
‘Good boy,’ Santa murmured. Skidding off the desk, her thigh-boots squeaking as they scuffed the leather, she was behind his chair in seconds, snapping the handcuffs into place.
Beyond the office door, all was quiet and in darkness. The abandoned phones remained silent. The late shift had gone. The call centre was now on a 48-hour Christmas shut-down.
In his office, Mr Faulkner knelt on the carpet, naked, gagged and handcuffed. A tight blindfold rendered his helplessness complete. Santa was erecting the small artificial Christmas tree on the leather desk top. Helen, Susie and Annette sipped red wine from the white plastic cups.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Helen mimed, raising her cup.
Susie and Annette raised their cups in response. Annette approached the desk and embraced Jane, crushing the tasselled breasts of Santa to her own. They kissed.
‘What are you going to do with him, Jane?’ Annette whispered, giggling as their tongues licked and probed slowly.
‘I’m here to make sure he gets his presents. Gets what’s coming to him. Santa has emptied her sack,’ she continued softly, ‘so that he can empty his.’
In his naked subjugation – Susie had him pinned down beneath the firm tread of her stockinged foot – Faulkner moaned through his gag. Behind his back, above his buttocks, his handcuffed wrists twisted in a frenzy of dread. Susie trod him down dominantly, then scrunched her stockinged toes up into the sac swinging between his thighs.
‘Security comes on site in four hours,’ she warned, gazing down at him pitilessly as she grazed his balls with her rasping nylon.
‘We’ll have to work faster than that,’ Santa replied, grinning mischievously. ‘I phoned the managing director earlier. Told him it would be worth his while coming in. Pay a little surprise visit.’
Faulkner twisted, straining to rise. Susie trod him down firmly.
‘Even on Christmas Eve?’ Helen asked in disbelief.
‘Even on Christmas Eve,’ Santa purred. ‘He’ll be here in time to find you three out there loyally processing applications and credit ratings while Faulkner entertains Santa.’
The three section leaders squealed their delight.
Santa became serious. ‘Helen,’ she said sternly. ‘It’s time you gave him his present.’
Helen, dressed from the waist down in a tight skirt, nylon stockings, panties and blue court shoes, wore only a cotton sports bra above. It fitted her breasts perfectly, cupping and controlling the warmth of their weight. Bending down and taloning his hair, she dragged him across the carpet towards a chair. His pinioned hands bounced helplessly above his naked buttocks as he shuffled behind her in painful obedience.
‘Get him across the chair for punishment,’ Santa advised. ‘Unless you want the naughty boy across your knee for a spanking.’
‘No spanking for him,’ Helen announced savagely, hauling him belly down across the seat of the chair. ‘He likes the feel of a bra,’ she continued, drawing her hands together behind her back to unclasp the sports bra. ‘Let’s see how he likes the feel of this.’
Her breasts bounced as the crisp cotton cups fell away. Helen wound the white stretchy strap twice around her right knuckled fist and dangled the bra down, deliberately skim-teasing the clenched buttocks below. With a soft snarl – remembering all the humiliation she had endured – she flicked her wrist and angled her elbow, whipping back the bra’s length over her right shoulder. Planting her feet slightly apart, she ground her blue court shoes firmly into the carpet and bent over her naked, quivering boss.
A soft whistle and sharp crack announced the first slicing stroke. The thin white band left a thinner scarlet line across the whipped cheeks. Faulkner grunted and spasmed in pain, sinking his teeth deeper into the orange that smothered his screams.
‘A dozen strokes,’ Santa said softly, fingering the feathery branches of the silver Christmas tree. ‘To begin with.’
The bare-breasted whipper traced the tip of the spindling bra across the naked buttocks of the whipped man helpless beneath her. ‘A dozen strokes –’ she nodded, bending to pin him down at the nape of his neck ‘– to begin with.’ She plied the lash with vicious willingness, a keen venom behind the administration of each and every searing stroke. Again and again, she lashed the twisted cotton bra down across his ravished flesh.
‘Wait,’ Santa hissed. ‘Christmas comes but once a year. Let’s make this one memorable.’ She positioned herself at the chair, parting her black shiny thigh-boots. Shuffling forward, she trapped his face between the polished hide, drawing her thighs tightly together. ‘Another dozen,’ she commanded, squeezing her boots into his sweating face.
The strokes blistered down, snapping across his reddening buttocks. Choking into the oozing orange, the whipped man writhed, grazing his face against the polished boots that gripped him fiercely.
Dropping down before him, brushing Santa aside, Helen smothered his spluttering face with her heavy breasts. Taloning his hair dominantly, she forced his face mercilessly, contemptuously into her swollen warmth. Santa skipped around and knelt at his whipped cheeks. Splaying her fingers wide, she dragged the scarlet nails slowly down across his burning cheeks.
‘Santa Claws,’ she whispered, raking his upturned buttocks viciously.
Helen dressed, tidied her hair and slipped out to the outer office, leaving Susie to the pleasure of administering revengeful pain.
‘Stockings?’ Santa murmured. ‘Nyloned torments for his Christmas box?’
‘Stockings.’ Susie nodded, dragging Faulkner down from the chair and roughly forcing him on to his knees.
&
nbsp; The naked man struggled but Susie was firm, tightly binding his veined shaft with one black stocking and fastening it with a butterfly bow before threading the second black stocking up between his whipped cheeks.
‘A perfect humiliation,’ Santa approved, stepping back a fraction to admire the kneeling wretch submitting to nyloned dominance.
Susie squatted down beside her boss. Grasping the two ends of the black stocking, she jerked its skein deep up into his soft cleft. Faulkner bit deeply into the orange. Susie dragged the nylon back and forth, burning and scalding the sensitive flesh of her captive. After six minutes, Faulkner, quivering in exquisite agony, buckled into complete surrender, his chin shining with dribble from the savaged orange between his teeth. The skimming nylon continued to punish his cleft with deep, probing tongues of flame but the orange wedged between his teeth quenched his screams. The black butterfly knot at the base of his belly fluttered as his bound shaft pulsed and twitched in its torment.
Forcing the black stocking up his anus with one, and then two fingers, until only a ribbon peeped from his burning sphincter, Susie stretched her hand out to his shaft. Playfully, she dabbled her fingertips on his glistening glans. Faulkner almost bit the orange in half as his erection strained for release. With a flourish, one hand at his stocking-bound erection and the other plucking at the stocking crammed up between his whipped cheeks, Susie pulled at both nylons. He came with an audible groan, shooting out his pent-up stream, pumping his hips helplessly as he emptied his agony into the air. As the nylon was ripped out of his anus, a second orgasm exploded almost immediately, churning his sac as he shuddered and jerked. Biting savagely into the orange, he soaked his chest, leaving it yellow and shining. On the carpet, unseen by his blindfolded eyes, the stains of his squirting seed slowly darkened.
With both Helen and Susie pretending to be busy outside, Jane and Annette shared the final humiliation and punishment of the office wolf. Slicing open the first of three packs of coloured condoms, Santa applied a red one to Faulkner.
Brought to Heel Page 10
