not so much because he’s making me, as because what he’s just said has made me painfully aware that I can’t wait another minute. He takes my hand and brings it to the front of his jeans, and I hiss when I feel how hard he is.
‘Take it out, Jessie,’ he says, watching me fumble with his zipper and then peel down his black briefs to reveal an extremely large, long circumcised cock. I see the pre-come at the tip, and my insides tighten at the prospect of having him inside me. He kicks off his shoes, strips out of his shirt, jeans and boxers and lies down on the floor. ‘Get on top of me, Jessie,’ Colin orders me.
I’m on the floor straddling him in seconds, the clamps still working their magic. I take him inside me and for a moment it’s not the frantic frenzied version of flirting and fucking we’ve been doing. I’m not the girl stranded without any means of escape in this man’s kitchen office with his employees outside. I am simply a woman with a man’s glorious cock filling me up while I stare into his eyes. Yes, I have nipple and clit clamps attached to my body. Yes, it’s the first time, but in a way it doesn’t feel like it; it feels like I’ve known his cock before, like his cock and my pussy belong together. He smiles at me and all hints of power and control melt from his eyes. He holds me gently, his hands on my hips, and I tilt forward, my breasts bouncing.
Then I smile as I squeeze him and lean down to lick his lush lower lip. I kiss my way along his neck and focus on squeezing him as tightly as I can until I have to just let go. His hand shifts so he is stroking the rim of my anus, the tender puckered ridge, and I lose it. All the built-up excitement and fear and arousal and denial catch up with me and I have to lift my hand to bite my finger so I don’t scream again. The tears rush out of me unexpectedly; I didn’t cry before, but now, when I am not afraid but totally blissful, they are there to caress me, rewarding me for a job well done.
‘I’m almost there,’ Colin grunts out, and soon he’s pushing me off him, unclipping the clamps, and splashing my breasts with his come. I smile at him and bask in the warmth and the fact that he has so much of it for me. No sooner is he done than he’s grabbing for his phone to take a photo. ‘I promised Jake,’ he says, and a blush creeps over my face, warming me in a whole new way. They didn’t just talk about how I’d come to be in Colin’s office getting fucked, but exactly what would happen in it. It’s mortifying, but it makes me very, very wet, as I’m sure Jake knew it would.
Suddenly, Colin’s phone rings. He answers and I hear Jake’s voice: ‘Hi, Colin, it’s Jake. Is Jessie still there? I just realised I left her without any money.’
Colin smiles and passes me the phone, and I talk to my boyfriend, not caring that another man’s come is dripping down my body.
‘Honey, I’m coming back with my wallet to take care of the check. See you in ten.’
I hang up, pretty sure Jake’s going to let me know when the jig is up. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe Colin made that part of it up and Jake never intended me to fuck him. I’ll find out. One thing I’m certain of: Jake will find a way to make sure I know my place: wherever he wants me to be.
Late
Elizabeth Coldwell
You’ve been expecting me for the last twenty minutes, and I’m still no closer to arriving. Tell a lie, the train’s just started its slow, trundling progress along the stretch of track from Farringdon to Barbican. With nothing more in the way of hold-ups, I should be at the station within a couple of minutes. From there, it’ll be a hasty dash to your apartment. But there’s no way of covering up the fact I’m late.
I didn’t deliberately set out to disobey you; I’ve never been one of those bratty bottoms, forever seeking ways to provoke my master and earn a harsher punishment. When you sent the message this afternoon telling me to be with you by six, no later, I made sure to be away from my desk by quarter-past five. That should have given me plenty of time to make the journey to your apartment; I just didn’t count on a signal failure stranding me between stations.
Tense as I am, I can’t help my mind drifting to thoughts of what you’ll do when I finally arrive, stammering apologies and explaining why this delay really wasn’t my fault. Your punishments are never less than inventive; half the time they don’t even involve you laying a finger on me. I’ll never forget the time I arrived at your apartment with a bottle of Liebfraumilch, because the corner off-licence didn’t have the Riesling you’d asked me to bring. How was I to know you can’t abide the taste of sweet white wine? That evening, you made me walk the seventeen floors to your apartment, rather than taking the lift. By the time I reached you, my lungs were burning and my thighs tight and cramped, the pain more exquisite than if you’d taken a paddle to my backside. Though it taught me never to bring you the wrong wine again.
The train slows, comes to a stop, and I feel a sick lurch in my stomach in response. We’re so close to my destination, and now I’m going to be even later.
I’m not the only one who’s biting back a groan of frustration, or glancing anxiously at a wristwatch. Most of my fellow passengers have already fired off text messages to explain their late arrival at wherever their destination might be. You don’t allow me that luxury.
Could anyone in this carriage even begin to guess the reason why I’m so twitchy, so desperate to be off the train? Surely not the man in the pinstripe suit opposite me, head buried in his evening paper. Though maybe he appreciates exactly what I’m going through; serious and sober, good-looking in his sleek silver-fox way, he strikes me as the type who may very well visit a mistress from time to time, grovelling at her feet in nothing but a pair of skimpy, see-through women’s knickers and begging for the feel of her flogger on his bare, vulnerable arse.
Perhaps I’m reading him wrong, and he simply likes to watch. Would he get off on the sight of me bent over your whipping stool, panties yanked down round my knees and my wrists bound to the sturdy legs of the stool, so I can’t pull away or rub my sore flesh as your cruel, thin cane comes down again and again?
Before I can fully engross myself in a fantasy where you punish me before an audience of leering middle-aged businessmen, wanking the cocks that jut from their flies as you thrash me till I’m a panting, tearful mess, the train starts moving again. A recorded voice kicks in, announcing that the next station is Barbican, and it’s no illusion; we’re clattering over the points, the platform coming into view. Pushing my way through the knot of commuters clustered by the doors, I make sure I’m first off the train. Normally, I’d show more in the way of courtesy, but I’m all too aware you’re still waiting. My imagination can’t help but picture you pacing the floor of your apartment in your riding boots, tapping a crop against your jodhpured thigh, and my pussy quivers in anticipation.
Taking the steps two at a time, passing through the ticket barrier whose gate moves far too slowly for my liking, I’m out on the street. Rain falls, heavy enough to warrant me reaching for my umbrella, but that takes time I don’t have. For once, the traffic lights are kind, and I’m over the road, sprinting in the impractical heels I’d never have worn if I’d known I’d find myself racing to keep an appointment with you. But the point is I never know when you’re going to call; as you always say, you like to keep me on my toes, rather than falling into some cosy, regular arrangement that dulls the edge of our master/slave relationship.
No one is around to pay me any attention as I trot through the small courtyard leading to the looming towers of the Barbican Estate. I stab at the doorbell and hear your answer almost immediately. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, I’m sorry, I –’
‘In the lift, girl. Now.’ So it’s not to be torture by stair-climbing
