Stripping swiftly, I peel off my smart suit, my blouse, my underwear and my stockings, and then let the snowy gown slither down over my vulnerable nudity. Dashing quickly into the en-suite I look in the mirror and use cotton wool to remove my eye make-up, rubbing away the subtle paint with trembling fingers and a little cleanser from amongst the toiletries I keep here. I didn't used to wear suits and high heels and "power makeup" to the office, but since I first met Sebastian, you could say I've bettered myself. I've progressed far and fast in the company hierarchy. Bending my will to his has given me the strength to conquer others. Talking with him in the long, happy hours when we meet as equals has given me new perspectives, new confidence, new self-belief. His encouragement has made me able to soar.
But now it's time to lie down, and abandon all thoughts of forgettable, everyday trivia, and office nonsense. I have no exalted status here in this room, no authority, no clout; I'm simply Sebastian's willing plaything, a submissive subject of the darkling prince of punishment.
The venue for much delicious pleasure, this bed I call ours now is inviting and comfortable, spread with a soft, pristine throw of high-end white chenille. Settling carefully onto my front, I rest my cheek on one bent arm, and then reach down behind me to pull up my cloudy night dress. Sebastian's preference at these times is for a bare, untrammeled bottom... because exposure makes me penitent and humble.
What must I look like now, I wonder? I try to imagine the sight that would meet any casual intruder, and that
will
meet my prince.
The vision presented to the visitor is that of a moderately pretty girl lying on face-down on a bed, with her legs and her buttocks completely naked. He'd see that her hair is short and blonde and cut in a stylish layered bob, and that her skin, though normally pale, is slightly flushed. He might be quite taken with the contrast between the billowing white primness of her saintly cotton night-dress and the shocking nudity of her bare, unsheltered buttocks. My buttocks are well-rounded and a little bit plump, and divided by a deep and rosy groove, but I like them that way now. I feel good about my body these days, when once, I didn't. My thighs are sleek and firm, but also curvy, just how Sebastian likes them for the ruler. Something I might well get for being such a hussy and wickedly eager with my sex all lewd and unruly and glistening. I'm as wet as if he'd touched me already, in fact as if he'd stroked me long and lovingly. The way he does...
From where I lie I can easily see the clock. The yellow afternoon sunlight slants across it like a baleful slash, and shows my first five minutes are up.
Bang on time, the door opens and closes and Sebastian steps lightly into the room, filling it with the odor if his delicious cologne. I'm facing the window, so he can't see me smile, thinking of him freshening up for me just as I have for him.
He pauses in silence for a moment, piling on the pressure. I bet he's smiling. He might even be touching himself. I try to imagine what he's going to say, and recall similar situations, similar moments. All this waiting is no more than an eye's blink in the grand and cosmic scheme of things, but with his hand, or his belt, or some other well-chosen implement, Sebastian could transform it into an eternity of torment. Only last week he said, "I'm going to cane you for fifteen minutes... and after that I'm going to play with you for five." I can almost feel the rod from just thinking about its hardness; almost taste its bite as it lands upon my flesh. Sebastian didn't stop until those fifteen minutes were finished, despite the fact that I carried on and struggled like a weak-willed ninny. I didn't really deserve what happened in the subsequent five, but I got it all the same and he was equally, if not more resolute. He kept on caressing me no matter how many times I came, and my flesh was incredibly sensitive afterwards.
But that didn't stop me coming again when he kissed it better.
Time... There are so many ways he uses it to tantalize me. Like now... when will he speak? When will he speak?
The leather of the old armchair in the corner of the room creaks as he sits down, and he takes in a long breath. Tiny sounds tell me he's getting comfortable. It takes a second or two. Is he uncomfortable? Has he got an erection? Will he punish me harder because that's my fault?
"So, it's time. What shall we talk about?"
His voice is calm, serene, very soft and low. It flows over me, imparting calmness to me too.
"I don't know. My mind is blank. I've been trying to meditate."
It's pert, and very cheeky of me to answer like that, but he likes me that way. He prefers a bit of "resistance", something to play off, rather than a perfect, bland submission.
He laughs. "Oh, I'm sure you have. Meditating, my arse... I'll bet you've been lying here having filthy fantasies."
I haven't, really, but if that's what he wants, that's what he shall have. I lick my lips, out of his sight, summoning some up.
"It... it wasn't so much fantasies as memories. I was thinking about some of the stuff we've done."
"Stuff? Our arrangements are 'stuff' to you?"
"You know what I mean."
He heaves a sigh. "Go on."
The way he says that makes me quiver. There's power in two little words.
"I was thinking about the time you ordered me to arrive at midday, and you thrashed me once straight away, then again, every hour, on the hour, when the clock chimed.
God, I was sore that day.
"And did you enjoy that game?" There's another rustle as he moves slightly. Is he wearing his silk dressing gown, I wonder. He sometimes does for our little sessions. I'd love to turn my head and look his way, but I know I can't.
"Bits of it... The bits that happened on the half hour... They were very nice."
"Indeed."
On the half hour, he'd been just as kind as he'd been cruel on the hour, stroking me to at least one towering orgasm, if not more.
"And what else do you like? What other happy times do you like to fantasize about? What other little tricks? Do tell me more."
I have to shuffle a bit on the bed. I'm really excited now. I know I shouldn't rub my pussy against the beautiful chenille, but I can't help myself. I just can't help myself. He's made me ache without even laying a finger on me.
"I like it when you ring me while I'm at work and tell me to stop what I'm doing and go to the cloakroom to play with myself."
Oh, that's a good one. I love that. It's a perfect counterpoint to being the perfect example of rising management material that
he's
helped me to be; a luscious secret to spice up the daily routine. I excuse myself, speed to the ladies' room, and when I'm there, I have to stand in a cubicle for five minutes, with my skirt pulled up to my waist and my panties around my ankles, fantasizing about a pre-decreed image while I stroke my pussy.
"Really? I'm so glad you enjoy that. Tell me... what are your favorite images? What are the ones that are most likely get you off in five minutes?"
Most likely? Hell, I
always
get off. There hasn't been a single time, when, knowing I'm masturbating to his order, I haven't had to bite my lips to contain my moans of pleasure while a workmate or two pee or powder their noses, only feet away.
"Sometimes I think about you whipping me with a riding crop, while I'm bound across the trestle... without any clothes on." He doesn't make a sound, but in my mind I hear a grunt of satisfaction or even the little exhalation of breath when he lands such a blow. "Or I imagine myself draped across the back of the big armchair, and you're spanking me with one of your leather soled Persian slippers. And no matter how much I cry, you won't stop. You keep on going until your arm is really tired and then you get your cock out and you-"
"Yes, yes, that's quite enough of that. Go on... more about the punishments, if you don't mind."
I can't see him, but I can see the clock. I seem to have been talking for hours, but it's only a few minutes. Barely any time at all, he hasn't laid a finger on me, and there's already a little damp patch beneath me, where I've got sticky and aroused and seeped through the cotton of my nightgown and onto the perfect surface of the throw.
I can't help but think about other ideas he's seeded in my mind. Just remembering them makes my sex ache even more.
"Sometimes I imagine being at a party... not like the one we met at. It's more of a 'special' party where I'm the star attraction and you punish me in front of an audience, or let other people punish me while you watch them."
"Sounds interesting. Kindly expatiate."
I don't laugh but I want to. He uses big words sometimes where smaller ones would do. He's a very educated man... as well as supreme master.
"Well, it's all men, and me. And each one of them has fifteen minutes to do what they want with me... under your supervision, of course." He'll like that, more "time" involved.
"The first one is a teacher or something and he makes me bend over as if I'm at school and clasp my ankles. Then he takes my skirt and slip, and pins them up securely. To... to... expose me."
"Completely?"
"Um... no. He lashes me with a rubber 'slapper', but he lets me keep my panties on, the white lace ones you really like. Those ones we bought in Paris, you know?"
"I do know." He sounds stern, but I know he's only faking it. He puts on this very rigorous voice, but I know him. I can hear the laughter, beneath. He's just loving all this. "I just can't believe you'd show your very best knickers, that I bought for us alone, to some stranger, some teacher you barely know."
"I'm sorry."
"You'd better be. Pray go one."
"It hurts a lot, and I nearly fall over, and I cry a lot and it feels as if my bottom's all swollen. Then afterwards he makes me drop my knickers to show everybody there how red I am." Oh God, it's nearly killing me that I can't touch myself. I'm going crazy. Frustration plagues me far harder than any spanking. "And they all laugh because my knickers' crotch is so sticky and they know how turned on I am."
"Well, that's hardly surprising. You have no self-control whatsoever." It's not the truth. I actually have loads of self-control, thanks to Sebastian, but I know he's only teasing me. "What next?"
I hesitate a moment. I wish he'd let me look at him, but I've got to remain as still as I can, with my face towards the window and the chest of drawers with the little clock on the top of it. In my mind's eye though, I see Sebastian, lounging in his chair, looking wonderful and so handsome he's almost edible, with his dark hair, his lean strong body and his long elegant hands. In a private act of defiance, I picture him naked, his skin pale, but his cock rosy, and also long and elegant.
"Megan?" he prompts, and it's a slip, a personal touch. My inner turmoil increases, but in my heart now, not just my body.
"The next man has a go at me, and amazingly, it's that man off the television that I fancy. You know the one, the guy in the cop show who used to be a fake psychic? I don't know how he's at the party, but it's him and he's into BDSM, even though you wouldn't think it from looking at him on the box..."
"And moving on to the real point, please?" He's not cross. He doesn't really make any effort to hide his amusement. My crush on the television guy is a running joke between us.
"He was really strict, and he made me walk around the room with my knickers at half mast, to shame me. Everybody was looking at me, getting off on my embarrassment and the awkward way I had to walk. Especially you..." I'll probably suffer for that, but what the hell. "Then he took me across his knee and spanked me very hard for quite a long time. My bum felt like it was in flames, because of the rubber slapper. He covered every inch. I knew my cheeks were bright red. It was frightful. I thought he was a nice guy until then, but he was a real tartar."
"And did this treatment turn you on? Did you feel randy because it was your hero?"
"I was turned on because you were watching." It comes out without pause for any thought. It's the truth.
"I'm touched. Continue."
"There was only one more man who wanted a turn. He was older, and some sort of aristocrat, with silver hair and weird blank eyes... very cruel, even more than the others. His voice was very cold and he sounded weary and a bit bored with it all. He ordered me to remove all my clothing then made me climb up on the table, and then he thrashed me with a switch."
Sebastian says nothing, but I can almost hear him thinking, fantasizing just like me. I hear a rustling. I'm almost certain he's touching himself now, almost certain he's got his beautiful penis out. Oh, if only I could
see
!
When he still says nothing, I go on. "He's a consummate disciplinarian, very cruel. He lined up his cuts with almost mechanical precision, and then kept going back to the sorest places, just to make things worse. I was whining and complaining by the time he eventually finished with me, but my pussy was dripping, dying to be touched."
"Oh dear God..."
It's a gasp, almost a sigh of desperation. I've reached his limit, and my own. Defying his strictures, I roll onto my back just as he strides towards me. His cock is out, high and hard, bouncing wickedly as he lunges at me. Within a heartbeat, he's kneeling at my side, and he pushes me back onto my front, holding me down with one powerful hand on the small of my back, while he pumps himself, looming over me.