by S. May
He knocked and entered, shutting the door behind him. He had noticed, ten minutes ago, when she had fully drawn and closed the venetian blinds that gave her privacy from the open-plan area. Inside, it made the room feel more enclosed, smaller, even though light still streamed in through the real windows in her two external walls. She looked up from her desk. He was hungry again. He hoped she would remember, so he wouldn’t have to ask.
She tossed his report down on the desk, and looked up at him as he stood in front of her. She seemed flushed and excited.
“Simon, this is pathetic. You know that, don’t you?”
He swallowed, pale. “Yes, Christine.”
“Well, I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I have another job for you. You don’t really have time for housework today, do you?”
“No, Christine.”
“So we’ll have to find some other way for you to earn your rations.” A faint smile appeared on her face; she pushed her chair back from her desk, and stood up. “Come here.”
Puzzled, but compliant, he went round the desk to her.
“Now kneel, facing me, and put your arms in there.”
After the humiliation of his dinner on Saturday, he didn’t seem to have any pride left: dully, he did as he was told. He deserved to be treated like an inferior. He was incompetent and stupid. The desk had drawers down to the floor on either side and a central footwell that was closed by a modesty panel at the front. High up under the desk, on either side of the footwell, he could now see the open ends of two steel tubes, about six inches in diameter, and three feet long, that ran towards the front of the desk. They were each free to swivel horizontally around a very solid vertical steel pin at the far end - a hinge in effect - that projected from a chunky steel plate bolted to the side of the footwell, an inch under the desktop, just behind the modesty panel.
Whining quietly in his throat, in self-pity, he faced her, put his arms up horizontally behind him, and inserted his hands into the tubes, backing himself into position until his arms were in, all the way to his shoulders. His fingertips brushed the pins at the end; the pivoting of the tubes meant that the arrangement automatically adjusted to his shoulder width.
Elegantly, without the use of any chains or ropes, he was now fixed in a kneeling position, entirely under the desk, except for his head, which hung forward. That meant he was staring at Christine’s knees, which looked immensely desirable, as she stood in front of him in sheer black stockings. He craned his neck to look up at her. Today, she was wearing a double-breasted jacket with a close black and white check, so fine that it gave an impression of light grey from a distance. The hem of her matching skirt was six inches above the knee, which was level with Simon’s eyes.
The steel tubes effectively had him in a double arm-lock: he could barely move from side to side or up and down. He was only free to shuffle forwards, but Christine sat, and pulled her chair in, blocking off any possibility of extricating himself.
He could only just look up far enough to see her face, but she looked enormously pleased with herself. She pulled up her skirt at the front, revealing that she was wearing no panties. She deliberately slumped slightly in her chair, presenting her groin to him. She gripped him by the hair with both hands, pushing him backwards, to lock him more firmly into the desk. Her chair had no castors, and she hitched it forward as far as possible, still holding his head in place, so that her groin was pressed tight against his mouth, the dead weight of the chair on the carpet holding the position.
“Please me,” she commanded. Her thighs closed around his ears, and she rearranged the front of her skirt. Nothing would be visible from the far side of the desk. For Simon, the world was now dark and muffled; his nose was buried in her pubic hair. He was surrounded by the warmth and smell of her: a combination of her perfume and her musky scent. Her knees pressed against his ribs. He was helpless; he couldn’t do anything but obey. He set to licking her as best he knew, running his tongue over her outer lips and over her nub, thrusting it as deep inside her as he could reach, which was not very far. He was getting a crick in his neck. His chin slipped smoothly over the nylon lining of the back of her skirt, as it lay on the seat beneath her thighs.
After five minutes, she slapped the back of his head.
“Slower,” she ordered. “There’s two hours until lunch. I want nice, gentle, pleasure, until then.” Her thighs squeezed his head.
Simon was dismayed. It hadn’t remotely occurred to him that he would be here that long. And it sounded like he wasn’t even the centre of her attention. He could feel her moving, and hear the rustling of paper, and the tapping of a keyboard, suggesting that she was working, using him just as a background amusement. He did as he was told, working to please her. Despite himself, he felt a stirring in his own groin: Christine was lovely, still.
There was no escape, his jaw ached, and his tongue was tired, and his neck hurt. He lost track of time. As she worked, turning from the screen to pick up a paper document, or write a note with a ball-point pen, the pressures on his head changed, and he found that he could detect what she was doing, by the way her thighs shifted. He felt the movement as she reached out to the phone and made a call.
“Susan? I did it. I really did it. Yes, he is, right now.” As her right hand held the phone, her left hand came and gripped his hair, urging him to work harder. “You were right. Oh, like a lamb. Born to it.” She chuckled. “See you later.”
When she released him at lunchtime, she still had not come, and didn’t seem to want to. She just pushed back her chair, retrieved her panties from her handbag and put them on.
“You can come out, now,” she told him.
He blinked at the daylight. He was red-faced both from the warmth of her thighs, and from his humiliation. He shuffled forwards until his arms were free. They trembled from the strain of being behind his back, and hung awkwardly as he staggered to his feet.
“You’ll be wanting something to eat, I suppose?”
“Yes, please, Christine,” he whispered. He’d had no breakfast. He swung his arms, banging his hands together, trying to get some feeling back into them. The pins and needles that resulted as the circulation began to recover made him wince and almost cry out. He couldn’t bear it, so he just let them hang again, for a while.
Christine produced a bag. There was a picture on it that took Simon a moment to make out: was that a dog? Yes it was: in fact the bag was a packet of dog biscuits.
“Arms not working yet?” she asked, her sympathetic tone belied by her gleeful smile. “You’ll have to eat from my hand then, won’t you? Kneel.”
He obeyed her, meekly. She held out a large biscuit to him, holding it in her fingers. He bent his head to it and carefully took it with his teeth, manoeuvring it into his mouth with difficulty because of its size, crunching it, struggling to prevent any piece from falling out of his mouth. It didn’t taste great, but it was food, so it was wonderful. He swallowed, and took the next one neatly from her fingers.
Chapter Fourteen
Katherine Watson sat in her study after dinner, Susan Denton beside her, reviewing the day’s video recordings from Sallis and Company, through the computer monitor on her desk. The camera in Christine’s office wasn’t so much unobtrusive, as definitely hidden, and Katherine knew Christine hadn’t spotted it.
“Oh, that’s great,” she said. “That woman - Christine, is it? - is a natural.”
Susan nodded. “Yes. I guided her towards the idea of putting the boy under the desk, but the dog biscuits were nothing to do with me at all; she’s taking what we’re giving and running with it. If you’d met her before you wouldn’t have believed it: meek as a church mouse, but, wow, how she’s changed! She almost deserves to be one of us.”
“Now, Susan. We agreed that this is an experiment: we want to see what we can achieve without inviting anyone in for the full
treatment.”
“Oh, sure. I was only saying.” Susan paused. “Any problems with complaints?”
“Nothing to speak of. Five males have separately gone to the union rep, but have been persuaded that there’s nothing that can be done, and no laws are being broken. Three of those have subsequently quit the company.”
Katherine paused and took a moment to think things over.
“Well, everything seems satisfactory. There’s still, what, six weeks before Patricia’s review meeting?”
The review meeting required a gathering of ladies. There were five of them now, and Patricia had decreed as a matter of policy that they shouldn’t come together unnecessarily; so this would be the first time that Katherine and Susan would meet the other two women.
“I think we’ll be able to report good results.” Susan seemed confident.
“Looks like it. But we do need to stay alert, and stay cautious. Let’s not push things too far, or there could be a backlash.”
“Okay, I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.” Susan sounded a bit complacent, but in truth she had reason to be satisfied: she had done sterling work in her undercover role. She had got close enough to influence key women in virtually every department.
Katherine nodded, acknowledging the trust that Susan had earned. It was only ten o’clock, but she yawned.
“I think I’ll have an early night,” she said.
Katherine got out her remote control, and pressed several buttons. She knew that down in the kitchen area of the mansion, her three slaves, Hubert, Thomas, and James, would each receive four little shocks in quick succession to the control device locked to their groin. The signal told them to be in their sleeping boxes and connected to the charging leads there within ten minutes, or suffer serious pain.
They would be dropping what they were doing, maybe leaving Harry, Susan’s slave, to finish off the washing up or other chores, and running to get ready. Katherine stood, and headed upstairs. It would take her at least ten minutes to prepare for bed herself, so the boys would be in place before her.
Her room was softly lighted by cosy table lamps that were all controlled by the bedside switch. As Katherine entered, the great red velvet curtains were on her right, drawn against the autumn night over the windows that stretched away from her for almost thirty feet. On her left, the door through which she had entered was in one end of the equally long facing wall, and the head of her four-poster bed stood against the middle of it. The ceiling was decorated with intricate plaster mouldings; the rich effect of the bas relief was heightened by the deep shadows that the low lighting created.
Behind her, the door to her ensuite bathroom was in the twenty-foot end wall, in the half nearer the windows. Set in the other ten feet of the end wall, away from the windows, were three polished wood panels with handles. They were side by side, at floor level, resembling the fronts of giant filing cabinet drawers, twenty-eight inches wide and twenty inches high.
Katherine moved past her bed, to the wardrobe, and started to undress as she considered what she was in the mood for this evening. Not the rocking horse; something more peaceful and relaxing; in fact, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to climax at all. She slipped on her silk dressing gown and went into her ensuite.
When she emerged, she knew it had been long enough. She turned round to face the end wall from which she had just come, and considered the three wood panels set into it. Katherine wasn’t sure which to choose, so she selected all three on her remote control. Almost silently, the three drawers glided forwards, driven by small electric motors, until they extended seven feet into the room. The lid of each box was tough, transparent, polycarbonate, so Katherine could look at the naked slave lying, awake and alert, in each one. Actually, the top wasn’t simply transparent: it was half reflective, underneath a dark-tinted layer. Underneath, powerfully bright light was piped into the box from concealed halogen lights in the wall, that switched on as the drawer opened. The result was that, for Katherine, each slave was comfortably illuminated, the bright light cut down by the darkened cover, but the slave was dazzled by the light which reflected from the cover - in fact, all three were squinting - and this light swamped any dim view of the room that might have made it through the tinted layer. She could make her selection in complete privacy. She strolled between the boxes, looking down at her property.
Eventually, she chose James. The two other drawers retreated into the wall. There was just time to catch the look of disappointment on the faces of the other two males, before the internal lights in all three boxes flicked off, leaving them dark and impenetrable. She pressed a button, and a catch released.
James pressed against the lid and it swung open on hinges. His body seemed to unfold as he got to his feet and stepped out of the box, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the low lighting. He was, in Katherine’s opinion, a picture of male beauty. He detached himself from the automatically deactivated charging lead at his groin. He stood with his head bowed, facing her. There was an air of animation about him; obviously he was overjoyed to be chosen.
“Yes, mistress?” he said. He had changed in the months he had been here. Now, like the others, a metal control device encircled his genitals, like a bent oval, from a piercing just behind his scrotum, to another on his belly just above the base of his penis. He looked fitter, more muscular, the result of endless hours of agonisingly intense workouts that she had prescribed for him. He was still not as bulky as Hubert: he just didn’t have that body type; but there would have been little interest for Katherine in getting a duplicate of her bodyguard: she preferred some variety. James’s deference before her no longer looked awkward, but natural, habitual. His phallus was stiffening at the prospect that he would touch his goddess, even though he knew very well that any relief for himself was extremely unlikely.
Katherine smiled at him. “I feel like a massage,” she told him. “Come here.” She led him to the bed, and pulled back the covers. Underneath the pretty counterpane and bed-linen, the sprung mattress sat on a fixed layer that was also sprung, effectively a second mattress that was permanently attached to the bed frame. In this sub-mattress, about three feet down from the head of the bed, there was a hole the size of a large fist, and set into it was a curved metal ring.
James hadn’t used this before, so Katherine herself took a clean plastic bag from a bedside drawer and inserted it into the hole, fastening the edges of the bag underneath the metal ring. Beyond the ring, the hole was squeezed shut from all sides by the foam rubber of the sub-mattress, so she just put her hand in the bag and stuffed it in roughly with her fingers. She made her slave kneel on the floor and insert his genitals into the hole, right up to his control ring, which clicked and locked to the identically shaped ring on the sub-mattress. He could not now withdraw: his whole scrotum and his rapidly hardening shaft were now swallowed within the bed, and he could do nothing but kneel with his pelvis pressed against the frame. She knew that the foam rubber of the sub-mattress would be pressing in on his shaft from all sides, the plastic bag protecting the upholstery from being soiled.
Now that he was secured, she took her time about disrobing, removing her dressing gown and kicking off her slippers. Her slave faced forward, his head bowed and body motionless, not following her movements, a delightful image of owned male flesh. She sat down on the edge of the bed, with the pillows on her left, and James, kneeling on the floor, on her right.
As she sat, he gasped loudly, and she smiled at his reaction. By design, her weight on the mattress was bending and squeezing the sub-mattress, and so pulling and pressing on his member. It wasn’t painful: far from it. She swung her feet up, past him, and lay down, naked, on her front, the bed covers pulled well back. James was about level with the small of her back: her new movement elicited a little sob of desire from him. Her head was turned to one side, her cheek against the pillow.
“Massage,” she commanded, an
d her slave rubbed his hands together to warm them. He put his hands out to her, but she stopped him immediately.
“No, no. Use the oil.” With a languid gesture she indicated the jar of fragrant massage oil on the bedside table. James stretched out his hand - he could just reach - and took it. He coated his hands, and tried again.
He started with her shoulders, easing her tension, squeezing and pulling. Every small movement she made, and every small pressure that he applied even more so, communicated itself down to the sub-mattress. It was as if massaging her was simultaneously pleasuring himself. But the sensation was dulled and smoothed out, and his duty was to work for her pleasure, not his own. She could feel his hands tremble as he fought to remain obedient, to remain gentle and smooth for her, not to apply the force and speed that he wanted, that he needed.
He moved down to her back, rubbing in long slow strokes up and down either side of her spine. She sighed in contentment. He was her slave, her intimate, and there were no boundaries here. He moved down to the rise of her pale, smooth, buttocks, and with one hand on each began to work them in counter-rotating circles, up and down, in and out. He gave a tiny squeak in the misery of his frustration.
After fifteen minutes, she turned over, every part of her movement sending shivers through James’s body. He started on her front. Now with her eyes closed, she told him to use his lips as well as his hands. He kissed her collar bones, and moved down to her breasts, while his hands stroked her sides, feeling her ribs just above her waist. Still not fully attuned to her moods, even after these months, he concentrated on her nipples too much, but she lifted a lazy hand, gripped his head by the hair, and redirected him to the valley between her breasts. He kissed her skin, and she pulled his head down, so that his hair caressed the rise of her breasts on either side. She pushed him lower, and he kissed her stomach, feeling the faint ridge and valley of good muscle tone. His mouth reached the soft hair above her sex. His hands were now on her haunches: from his position, kneeling to the side, that meant that his left hand was stretched over her body, while his right was cramped under his own torso. He kissed her just above her lower lips.