“I know you don’t know this,” says Carrie. “But with the monitoring system this company has in place, I can see everything you’re doing on your computer. I’ve seen how much company time you devote to your extracurricular activities.”
The tears brim over my eyes, and I try not to sniffle.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“No, I don’t think you are sorry. I think if I give you half a chance to get away with it, you’ll keep looking at these filthy websites on company time. Juliette, you seem like a nice girl. You even have a fiancé, you told me. What attracts you to this kind of filth?”
Now I can’t stop them, the tears rolling out of my eyes, the sobs coming quickly. I try to suppress them as I say: “I don’t know, Carrie. I just . . . can’t stop myself.”
“From looking at them on company time, I know. But do you look at them at home, too?”
The answer is too humiliating: I don’t have to. Brent looks at them all the time, the raunchiest of the spanking sites – Spanked Sluts in particular. He finds the best images, bookmarks them, and sends them to my web-based email address, Spanked-Slut69.
And when I get home later, he does everything I’ve seen on the screen to me, and more. He draws pictures about it later, my face rendered in a cartoon frame based on the pictures he’s bookmarked, my face twisted in pain and dismay as I writhe over the laps of faceless men and women.
“Yes,” I finally tell her. “I look at them at home.”
“Does your fiancé know?”
“Yes,” I say meekly.
“And he likes it.”
“He . . . he started it.”
“Did he? So none of this is your fault, then?”
I search for the words. How can I tell her? How can I admit that Brent is the one who gives me the command to look at these sites while I am at work, that every morning he puts me over his lap, spanks me, slips his hands between my legs, fingers me until I’m right on the edge of an intense orgasm and then leaves me, panting and sweaty with my clit throbbing, and sends me off to work on trembling legs? That throughout the day I receive emails from him with links he orders me to look at – and that an order from my fiancé is an order I can’t refuse? That by the time I get home each night, I’m so frenzied that I’ll do anything – anything – he demands if he’ll just put me over his lap, spank me again, and finger me until I come, sobbing with pleasure?
And that each night I do anything – anything – he orders me to, just to get him to do that?
“It’s my fault,” I say. “I know it’s my fault.”
“I see. Do you see yourself as the spanked or the spankee?” Her lips are curled with contempt, as if she already knows the answer. I know that she does: sometimes I feel like people can see it in my eyes. How could anyone look at me and not know what I want?
My voice is shaking.
“I’m . . . I’m submissive,” I blurt out, surprised to hear myself say the words.
“That’s what I thought.” She glances over to the computer. “I see you like to be spanked by men,” she says. “But also women. Many of these are lesbian sites,” she says. “Girls punishing other girls.”
I nod, my head spinning.
“What’s your fiancé’s name?”
“Brent,” I say. “Brent Martinsen. He’s an artist.”
“Yes,” says Carrie brusquely. “I know all about Brent Martinsen’s filthy art. Is Brent your Master, or does he just spank you? Or do you just do everything he says?”
“He’s – I–I do everything he says.”
“So it’s just that he thinks women should be bossed around and disciplined by men, is that right?”
“Um,” I say. “He . . . he thinks I should.”
“But some women boss other women around, don’t they?” says Carrie icily.
Perhaps she can see me shiver; maybe she sees the flicker in my eyes, the heat that pulses between my legs.
“Yes,” I say. “Some women are . . . some women are bosses.”
“And some women discipline other women, don’t they?”
My head is swimming, my thoughts disordered.
“Yes,” I say softly.
“And what do you think about that?”
I’m so turned on I can barely speak. I was already turned on from the porn sites, but being forced to confess my lifestyle to my boss is more than I can take. My nipples are very hard. They show right through my silk top. I have to push my thighs together to prevent myself from dripping on Carrie’s chair, especially since Brent doesn’t allow me to wear panties.
“Yes,” I say. “Sometimes women punish other women.”
Carrie looks satisfied.
“I think what you did on company time certainly merits punishment, doesn’t it?” Her eyes narrow. “It warrants disciplinary action.”
I look up at her, the humiliation washing over me.
“Yes,” I tell her.
She leans back in her chair. “Why don’t you lock the door.”
My eyes are wide; this can’t be happening. I’ve only been here for three weeks.
I get up and do it, locking the door to Carrie’s office and turning back to her, standing nervously on my high-heeled shoes. I’ve never gotten the hang of wearing the shoes that Brent insists on; I like the way I look, but I’m always stumbling and tripping like an idiot.
Carrie makes a gesture with her hand.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Take them off.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“Your clothes,” she says. “All of them.”
“I–I can’t do that,” I says. “He —”
“Do you want me to call his cell phone?” asks Carrie. “And tell him you’re about to lose your job if you don’t take all your clothes off right now?”
My heart pounds. I can’t believe this is happening. It’s like a dream; maybe that’s why I’m able to do it. I unbutton my shirt and slip it off, ashamed of the way my large breasts are peaked by hard nipples that show my arousal right through the transparent mesh bra. My nipples are dark circles, aching against the thin mesh.
My hands hang limp at my sides.
“All of them,” she says.
I drape my blouse over the arm of the chair and unclasp my bra. My breasts feel sweaty, cooling in the breeze from the air conditioner. Again, I hesitate.
“I said all of them,” growls Carrie.
My hands shaking, I unzip my short skirt. I slide it down my legs and it pools on the floor around my ankles. I step out of it, tottering more uncomfortably than ever on my four-inch heels now that I’m otherwise naked.
Carrie leans forward and peers at my body.
“Come around,” she says, leaning back.
My face goes red hot. She’s seen it. I am so humiliated I can barely walk. But I manage to come around the side of Carrie’s desk and stand there while she inspects me, her eyes focusing on the place just above my sex, where my pubic hair would be if I wasn’t shaved.
“You lied to me,” she says sternly.
“I – I know.”
“He’s your Master, isn’t he?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You should have told me straight off,” says Carrie. “Now that we’ve gone this far, you’re going to be in quite a bit of trouble if I spank you, aren’t you?”
I take a deep breath. “I – I don’t know.”
Carrie leans forward a bit more, her finger coming to rest on the tattoo just above my sex. She traces the single word there, in ornate script: SLAVE.
“Well, that’s not my concern,” says Carrie. She leans back again, pushing the chair forward so that her legs, smooth with nude-colored stockings, brush against mine. “Get over my knee.”
Fear strikes me. Brent would never allow me to be spanked by another woman – to play with another woman, it’s called euphemistically enough – without his permission. I can’t let Carrie take me over her knee. I just can’t.
“Please,” I blurt out, but Ca
rrie snaps her fingers.
“I have the power to fire you right now, Juliette,” she says. “Would you rather I do that?”
I shake my head, then nervously drape myself over Carrie’s lap. Her office chair is a big leather one, with arms, so I have to perch myself precariously to maintain the position. It feels suddenly comfortable, familiar – I’ve draped myself over Brent’s lap in this position, anticipating this same result. Many times – almost every night.
Her hand comes to rest on my bare bottom, her long fingernails scratching it gently. I shiver and whimper a little.
“Does he spank you often enough?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “Usually.”
“But a girl like you,” sighs Carrie, “can always be spanked a lot more than she is. You could be spanked 24/7 and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”
I squirm in her lap.
“No, Ma’am,” I moan.
“Your ass is very pink,” she says. “Did he spank you last night?”
“This morning,” I tell her, breathless. “Just before work.”
Her hand slides between my slightly spread legs. Her fingers stroke my pussy, and I let out a plaintive cry of humiliation.
“Fingered you too while he was at it, it would seem. You’re nice and wet. Or is that just from the pictures?”
“He fingered me,” I bleat miserably.
“Does he always finger you when he spanks you?”
“Usually,” I whimper. “Unless he’s very angry with me.”
“I’m very angry with you, Juliette.”
“I know,” I moan softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Spread your legs wider,” says Carrie.
I fall into the command, reacting exactly as I would if Brent had given it. It does not feel strange; I have submitted to many men before Brent. Never a woman, though, and that frightens me.
She touches my sex with a firmer pressure. I let out a tortured moan as her thumb finds my clit. She grasps my hair with her free hand. The feeling of pressure sends a surge of excitement through me. Brent always pulls my hair when he wants to get me going. I can feel my nipples, which are so very hard against the wool of her business suit. They feel only a little different than they feel against Brent’s jeans when he spanks me. But what feels totally different is that there’s no lump in her crotch, nothing pushing against my body to tell me that I’m pleasing her.
Her hand comes away from my sex, flicking droplets of my juice over my thighs. She spanks me, hard, making me yelp. I feel a rush of shame – the walls are paper-thin around here. People in the hall can surely hear.
Her hand comes down again, hard, and my naked body shudders as the blow meets my cheeks. With Carrie, there is no warm-up, no gentle spanks to get me started – much as with Brent. She spanks me again, and again, faster and faster as I writhe in her lap. My arousal mounts as the pain increases. The blows send hard thudding sensations into my cunt – I know I can come if I can just bring my thighs together a little bit. . . .
“Spread them!” she snaps. “Spread them wide!”
“Y – yes,” I gasp. “Yes, um . . .”
“Don’t call me Mistress,” she barks. “You’ve already got a Master. I’m not his fucking girlfriend.”
“Yes, Carrie,” I whimper.
Her hand comes down fast, this time, harder than before. But she is not spanking my ass now – her open palm connects with my cunt, again, again, again, and the stinging blow wrenches great moans out of me. The pain makes me rise up on my hands and knees, makes me perch over her precariously in a vain attempt to get away. She puts her hand on my ass and shoves me down into her lap, hard, then begins spanking my cunt in earnest. I moan wildly, no longer caring if people outside Carrie’s office can hear. I moan wildly because I’m going to come.
She knows it, too – she spanks my sex harder so that it hurts, and hurts bad, when I finally reach the peak and climax uncontrollably.
White-hot waves of pleasure course through my naked body. I want to say “I’m sorry” – Brent always makes me ask before I come, and I’m punished if I don’t. But Carrie doesn’t give a damn. And she doesn’t stop spanking my cunt – not until long after I’ve come, when my sensitive pussy is so pained I can feel it swelling with the force of her blows. It’s hot, now, and I know I won’t be able to sit still for days.
I’m sobbing when she’s finally satisfied. She tips herself up slightly, dumping me painfully onto the floor.
I curl into a ball, my body still pulsing with the sensations of orgasm. My sobs slowly dwindle as I look up at her through eyes blurry with tears. Carrie has lifted her prim pencil-skirt, tucking it under her ass.
She’s not wearing panties underneath. Her sex is naked, framed by the angled lines of her garters between her spread legs. She’s tucked her ass forward so that it’s on the edge of the chair, and her trimmed pussy is open, glistening in the fluorescent lights.
“Well?” she says.
It hurts for me to move. My ass and cunt are so sore I can barely get myself onto my hands and knees again. Looking up at her, I nervously lower my face between her thighs. I am so used to giving head that the position feels perfectly right, but the scent is unfamiliar. And when I touch my mouth to her close-cropped sex, the taste is even more exotic.
“That’s a good girl,” she sighs as I let my tongue laze out and begin to lick her clit. “Get all of it, dear. The lips. The hole. I want you to taste it. I’m sure Brent wants you to taste it, too.”
Carrie is so wet that her juices flow onto my tongue as I lick between her lips, swirling the tip of my tongue around her entrance. The flavor is tangy, musky, salty and a little bit sweet. I feel my pained cunt responding as I service her. Her thighs close slightly around my head, as if to hold me in place. Her breath comes quickly.
“Now back to the clit,” she murmurs.
I return my attentions to her clit. I begin to tongue her rhythmically, the way I liked it when men used to go down on me. Before I was the one always doing the servicing. Before I became a slave.
“Very good. A little more pressure, Juliette. Just a little more.”
Carrie’s voice is rich with arousal. Her hand drifts to my head; first one hand, then both hands tangle in my hair. She begins to grind her hips against the chair in time with the thrusts of my tongue. She’s getting close, I can tell. That knowledge makes me lick her more firmly, my own sex responding in kind, moisture dripping down my inner thighs.
“Don’t stop!” she growls, and then she comes. I continue licking her as her body bucks and pumps against me, driving her clit more powerfully onto my tongue. She grips my hair hard now, pulling it, shoving my face between her legs.
Then, an instant later, she is finished. With both hands still gripping my hair, she yanks my head from her crotch and shoves me back. I spill backwards and land on my tortured ass, gasping as the sore mounds reach the rough industrial carpet. I sit there looking up at her, my cheeks stained with tears, Carrie’s juices running down my chin.
Carrie lifts her ass off the chair, pulls down her skirt, and returns her attention to her computer.
“I’ll be sending you some websites,” says Carrie. “Please be sure that you only look at them when the phones are slow. Don’t forget to put your clothes on, Juliette. And you might want to fix your makeup.”
I take a great shuddering gasp of relief and rise painfully to my feet. I put my clothes on with shaking hands, glancing over to see if Carrie is watching me.
She is not; I have been disregarded.
As I button my blouse, I blurt out: “Thank you, C—!”
I stop. The name sounds wrong on my lips, still covered with the juices of Carrie’s pussy.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I say.
“What will happen when you tell your Master about this?” asks Carrie, without looking up from the computer.
I feel a wave of dread.
“He’ll spank me,” I say. “For . . . for letting you do this.”
“Good,” she tells me. “He’ll be spanking you a lot more for that in the future.”
I take a deep breath. “Yes, Ma’am,” I say softly.
“You missed a button,” she says, without looking up.
I look down at my blouse; it is buttoned unevenly. I fix it quickly and unlock the door.
I pause with my hand on the knob.
“Thank you for not firing me,” I say. “Ma’am.”
“Don’t be sure I won’t,” Carrie says. “You’ll still have to convince me.”
I nod. “Yes, Ma’am,” I say, and leave her office.
Nothing But This
Kristina Lloyd
I call him the Boy although he isn’t. He’s skinny enough, it’s true – as skinny as the kids who do backflips in the square – and there’s not a single hair on his flat brown chest. But his age is in his eyes, eyes as green as a cat’s, and when I look right at him, though we’re meant to be ignoring him, I see eyes that might be a thousand years old.
He’s been following us for half an hour, weaving among the crowds, his flip-flops slap-slapping in the dust of the souk. “Hey, mister! Hey, lady!” he keeps calling. “You wanna buy carpet? Teapot? Saffron? You wanna buy incense? Come, come! Come to meet my uncle.”
His urge to “come, come” sounds grubby and erotic and the refrain pulses in my head like some dark drumbeat, weird enough for me to wonder if it’s going to bring on one of my migraines.
“Lady, you wanna buy handbag? Real leather! The best! Hey, mister, nice wallet for you! Look this way! You are my guest. Come!” The Boy averts his eyes, head down and spinning, and the whole song and dance routine seems a pastiche of the real hustlers, an empty act he can turn off at will. No wonder he can’t look at us: we’d see right through him.
“I feel like David bloody Niven,” mutters Tom.
Tom’s posh as fuck, so self-assured and confident you don’t even notice it. He’s relaxed and ironic. A bit on the prim side, it has to be said, but I adore every hot salty inch of him. I like to draw him, standing, sitting, lying, sprawling, my futile bid to capture him in charcoal and pencils. In evening class, I learnt to draw not just the object but the space around it. I learnt to see absence. “What’s not there is as important as what is,” said our tutor, although personally I’d contest that with Tom. I’m quite a fan of what’s there. Naked, he’s pale and softly muscled with strong swimmer’s shoulders and thighs like hams. Sometimes I sketch his cock, big and randy or just lolling on his thigh, framed in dark curls, and when I show him the end result he’ll invariably wince. “Oh God,” he drawls, looking away and sounding slightly camp. “You’re so vulgar.” But he can’t help smiling and I know deep down he likes it.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7 Page 28
