Bought by the Boss

by Valentine, Layla

  Maybe—

  My musings are cut short by the sound of the office door, swinging open. Whoever it is hasn’t bothered to knock.

  My head whips up, and my eyes meet Hunter’s.

  Chapter 9

  Hunter

  There it is, that delicious deer-in-headlights look again.

  She looks downright terrified.

  I grin as the feeling of power starts flowing through my veins. This is what I wanted. This is what I am paying for.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” I ask.

  “I was—I was thinking about going home,” she says meekly.

  “You were?”

  “You haven’t been here all day. I thought maybe—”

  “You thought wrong,” I say, a little more sharply than I mean to. “This way.” I beckon for her to follow me as I turn and walk toward the doorway. I hear her gathering her things before she stands and follows me. Her heels click against the floor as I lead her down the hallway to my office.

  Once we’re inside, I lock the door.

  Maria glances at my hand as it turns the lock, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I’m sure she wants our evening activities to be as private as possible.

  I lift my briefcase and set it down on the desk. One by one, I flip the clasps along the seam open. Maria is standing by the door. There are several chairs available, but she doesn’t sit. It confirms my earlier reading of her: she’s a natural.

  I reach inside my case and pull out the outfit I’ve just purchased. Handing it to her, I say, “Put this on.”

  She looks down at it in confusion. “What’s wrong with…?” She looks again at the material now in her hand, and then down at her own outfit.

  “Nothing, baby,” I say, stepping nearer to her. I cup her face in my hand. “You look beautiful. But remember: you are my plaything now. And I want you to wear this.” I finger the material, and then motion toward a door near the back of my expansive office. “The bathroom is through there.”

  Without another word of protest, she does as I’ve asked.

  I sit behind my desk, in my big, wingback chair. My feet tap against the ground, not with nerves, but with excitement.

  I can’t wait to see her.

  When she steps out of the restroom, she looks slightly embarrassed.

  She has no reason to be.

  She looks gorgeous. Divine. Sexy as hell.

  But I know why she looks ashamed. Most women aren’t used to expressing their sexuality. Maria is wound up so tightly.

  I’m going to help her unwind. I’m going to help her discover parts of herself that she didn’t know existed.

  She’s going to thank me.

  Many women have, in the past.

  I’ll help her push her own boundaries. Explore. For right now, I need to go easy on her. This is clearly new to her.

  “Let me look at you,” I say gently as if I’m talking to a frightened animal.

  She steps forward, out into the room.

  Her heels go perfectly with the small, barely-there skirt I’ve asked her to wear. The black material of the miniskirt has a cut out along one side. I can see her flesh, up the side of her thigh. The white, sleeveless blouse is see-through. Beneath it, the outline of a red bra is clearly visible. Her breasts swell against the lingerie’s binding fit.

  “You put on the bra,” I say approvingly. “The thong, too?”

  She nods.

  “Good. Good.” I can’t pull my eyes from her. She’s perfect.

  “You’re beautiful, you know that?” I say.

  She blushes but doesn’t smile. She’s still uncomfortable.

  “Absolutely stunning,” I add. “I want to look at you. I want to do more than look at you, Maria.”

  “What can I—what can I do for you?” she asks, her voice wavering with hesitation.

  “You can start by dusting the desk,” I say.

  I watch her look around the office until her eyes land on a feather duster on one end of a table. She walks over to it, and I enjoy watching her round ass cheeks move up and down as she moves. The skirt barely comes to the edges of her ass cheeks—I have the perfect view.

  When she turns and begins walking toward me, I feel myself harden more. I lower my hand down to my crotch and stroke myself twice. Her eyes track with my hand; I see her watching me.

  I stop moving my hand and lift it so that it’s above the desk. I place both elbows on the desk and tap my fingertips together. Maria begins dusting, rhythmically.

  “Good,” I say. “Good job. You’re going to be good at this. This office needs a lot of cleaning, tonight. There are some files to put away as well.”

  “How late will I…be here?”

  “As late as I say.”

  She stops dusting, for a moment, but then continues. My words have surprised her.

  It’s time to set down some rules.

  “Maria, our arrangement probably isn’t like anything you’ve ever experienced before,” I begin.

  “That’s safe to say,” Maria says.

  “But you want to do this, correct? You’ve agreed that I own you, for the next two weeks?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Good. I’ll deposit money into your account at the end of our two weeks. Fifty thousand. If you hold up your end of the bargain, you can count on the money.”

  “What—what exactly is my end of the bargain?” Her tone is thick with worry.

  I chuckle. “You’re doing so well already,” I say. “You have no need to worry. You’re going to enjoy this, Maria. Have you ever been someone’s sub before?”

  She’s so naturally submissive. Some people are. I’m naturally dominant. I’ve come to think of submission and dominance as traits we’re born with.

  I see that the term “sub” has confused her.

  “Substitute?” she asks. “You mean, I’m taking the place of another woman who usually does this for you?” She looks hurt and slightly annoyed. There’s that jealous streak again.

  “No, baby,” I say gently. “No. Sub. Submissive. You’re going to be my plaything over the next two weeks. I’m your dominant.”

  Chapter 10

  Maria

  I feel my eyes widen.

  Submissive? Dominant? What the hell is he talking about?

  I feel myself backing away from the desk. Suddenly, I’m scared.

  “Don’t worry,” Hunter says, his voice as smooth as molasses. “You’re going to like it. I know you are—we already started playing with it, when you came home with me. Didn’t you notice our power dynamic?”

  It takes me a moment to speak. “You mean, the way you were controlling me?” I ask.

  Hunter nods. He’s in another stylish soft-blazer-and-T-shirt combination. He looks just as handsome as he did on the night I met him. Despite my repulsion over the topic of conversation, I can’t help but notice how sexy he is.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “What does a submissive have to do?”

  “Follow orders,” Hunter says, without hesitation. “You must do everything I say.”

  I can see how Hunter has succeeded in business. His voice is so smooth, so convincing and full of authority. It is almost hypnotic. But I’m still nervous as hell.

  “How does this work? Being a—what did you call it?”

  “Sub,” Hunter says, and then laughs. “Think of it as role-playing,” he says.

  “Just a game?”

  “Not ‘just’ a game, Maria. A game, yes, but saying ‘just’ makes it sound like it’s unimportant. This game is important to me. I want it done right.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “You’ll do as I say. A vital part of BDSM play is talking about what occurred after the scenario is played out.”

  I feel my heart flutter nervously when he says the phrase “BDSM.” Visions of bondage scenes in Hollywood movies float to mind. What am I getting into?

  Hunter continues. “Talking about the scenario is somewhat like debriefing—it allows both par
tners to process what happened.”

  “Okay.” I say slowly.

  “That’s fine. I’ve done that plenty of times. It’s helpful, especially for people who are new to this practice. But with you, Maria, I want to do things differently.”

  “How so?”

  “Our scenario is going to last for the full two weeks. Every hour of every day, you are my sub. And when the two weeks are over, we can break out of our roles. I’m paying for an extended experience. Do you see that?”

  I nod. “Have you done this before? With other women?”

  “Never for more than a night,” he says. “This is entirely new. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, but the opportunity has never presented itself so precisely to me before. So cleanly. It was too good to pass up. You’re too good to pass up.”

  Even under these bizarre, foreign conditions—locked in this office, in an outfit I would never dream of wearing, discussing BDSM, of all things—his compliment makes me feel happy.

  He keeps talking. “We’re going to push the limits of your conditioning, Maria. I want to know that you’re up for it—physically, psychologically, emotionally.”

  I take a moment to think. How can I know if I’m ready for what is going to happen between us? He’s staying that we will do things that are new to me. If I’ve never done them before, how can I know I’ll be okay?

  Fifty thousand dollars, a little voice inside of me says. That’s how. Your media naranja—better half—Camila.

  “I think I can,” I say. “I hope…”

  “After the two weeks are up, we’ll discuss what happened. Not you and I, per se, but I’ll give you access to a psychologist that I keep on staff. It can be helpful to talk. I see her at least once a month.”

  His words hang in the air. I turn them over in my mind, carefully.

  A psychologist.

  I’ve never gone to one. Is this “agreement” with Hunter going to make me so insane that I’ll need to be fixed by a shrink afterward?

  Fifty thousand dollars, I remind myself.

  I have one last question, and I ask it now.

  “Will it hurt?”

  “It might,” he answers.

  I feel myself cringe as the fear licks at my insides. At the same time, the flames feel strangely welcome.

  “A lot?” I ask.

  “Never more than you can handle,” Hunter says. “If at any point things get too much for you, and you don't want me to continue, you can use the safe word. We’ll decide on that together, now.”

  Safe word. My mind begins reeling again.

  “What would you like the safe word to be?” Hunter asks casually, as though he’s asking me what I had for breakfast.

  “Fifty,” I blurt out.

  I think it’s a good choice. Thinking of this word will remind me of my motivation—the fifty thousand dollars Hunter is dangling at the end of our two weeks, like a carrot at the end of a string.

  It’s just two weeks. I can do anything for two weeks—right? It will be over before I know it.

  “Fifty,” he repeats. “Good. That’s fine. Are you ready to begin?”

  I nod.

  “Keep dusting,” he says.

  I’ve stopped moving the duster, but now I begin sweeping it back and forth over the already sparkling clean desk. I see Hunter’s hand move to his crotch again. He strokes himself several times, lightly, over his pants. The sight of him holding his erection makes me remember the way he looked, rolling a condom over his dick before he gave me the best sex of my life.

  The fire that’s begun to simmer in the pit of my stomach flickers and grows stronger.

  I lean over the desk slightly, giving him an eyeful of my cleavage as I reach the duster farther toward the opposite end of the mahogany expanse.

  He doesn’t speak.

  I find that I want his encouragement. Maybe he’s right—I am a natural submissive.

  “Is this good?” I ask, seeking approval.

  He doesn’t speak. His eyes seem to harden. Just as I’m sliding naturally into my role as his sub, he seems to be finding his natural groove of dominating.

  “You missed a spot,” he says coldly pointing to the section of desk right in front of him. I hurry to dust it off, though I know that he’s just asserting his authority over me.

  After the desk, he guides me over to a massive stack of files. I have a suspicion that they’re not even relevant to the company any more—what use could this many paper files possibly have? Everything is electronic by now, surely in a company as modern as Larson Global.

  He asks me to open each file and then insert it into the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet to the right of his desk. He stands next to me as I open the first file. I feel heat rolling off of his body. His muscles tense as he watches me—he literally looks like he’s getting ready to pounce on me.

  My eyes flit over the contents of the front page, and then I bend down and insert it into an open slot in the filing cabinet.

  “No,” he says, drawing out the word. “That was the wrong place. All wrong. Now, you must be punished.”

  Punished. Now, I will have to endure pain. I grimace but force myself to straighten up.

  His hand moves to the waistband of my skirt. He pulls it down, around my thighs. Another tug and I feel the satin slip of fabric fall to the floor. His strong, large hands move to the fabric of the crimson thong he’s had me put on. With one finger, he brushes my mound over the lace.

  “Holy shit,” he says.

  I feel an inkling of pride emerge through my haze of nerves.

  “You got a wax,” he says. “Maria—Maria. What are you doing to me?”

  His fingers run up and down the front of my pussy, over the thong’s sheer fabric.

  I know that my bare folds are visible to him. His tented pants move with arousal.

  “I did,” I say. “With the money you gave me.”

  “Good girl,” he says. His fingers move so softly over me, yet each time they touch my clit, beautiful waves of arousal stir through my core.

  If this is his idea of punishment, maybe I should misbehave more often. He leans into me, closer and closer, while his fingers still stroke me.

  His lips are now near my ear. “Over the next two weeks, you’re going to learn that pleasure and pain are very closely related,” he says. “By the end, you won’t be able to tell them apart anymore.”

  His breath is hot against my ear.

  “Is this my punishment?” I ask as he strokes me.

  I feel myself becoming wet as my arousal builds.

  “Mmm,” is all he says in answer. “I’ve made you come like this before. Haven’t I, Maria?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Yes, Mr. Larson,” he corrects me. His fingers move slightly faster. The pressure between my legs is building.

  “Yes, Mr. Larson,” I say.

  “You’d like to come again, wouldn’t you?” he asks.

  Oh God, I would. I feel his finger working magic against my clit. How does he do this?

  “It feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice breathy.

  “Yes?” he prompts me.

  “Yes, Mr. Larson,” I say.

  “Mmm…” he says again.

  Pressure is building between my legs, intense and aching. I move my hands to his pants, and my fingers begin to fumble against his fly as I try to pull them away. He’s still standing so close to me that I can’t see what I’m doing.

  “No, no,” he whispers into my ear.

  “No?” I ask.

  “No.” He removes his hand then and steps away. “Turn around.”

  The throbbing between my legs makes it difficult to move. I want him to take me, then and there on the desk. I turn willingly, hoping that he’ll pull the thong down and enter me from behind.

  Instead, I feel the sting of his palm against my ass as he slaps me.

  A burst of pain blossoms along my flesh.

  It
collides with the pressure between my legs, the burning desire pulsating inside of me.

  He slaps me again, harder.

  “Oh!” I cry out. I’m surprised at the way my cry sounds. It’s the same sound I was making as we made love in his bedroom. It is a sound of pleasure, yet it’s pain that I’m feeling.

  His slaps aren’t gentle. He’s hurting me. The memory of our safe word flits through my mind, but I seal my lips shut. I want him to slap me again.

  He does, harder this time.

  “Oh!” I cry. My need for him grows more intense. I’m filled with throbbing desire for him. Take me, I think desperately. Take me now—right here on the desk.

  I wait desperately for more.

  It doesn’t come.

  When I turn to look at him, he’s stepped away from me.

  He turns to the stack of files. One lying on the top is open. He flips it shut. “That will be all for tonight,” he says.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  He can’t do this to me. It isn’t fair.

  I approach him, hoping that I can convince him otherwise. But with one steely look in my direction, he assures me that he’s not going to be swayed in his decision.

  “I can’t leave like this,” I say. My statement has two meanings, and I see that he understands. I can’t leave in this outfit, and I can’t leave in this state. Fully aroused, ready for him.

  “I’ll tell you what you can and can’t do,” he says.

  He palms my mound again as if he owns it, and I wilt under his touch. Again, he strokes my clit until I’m at the brink of an orgasm.

  Just as I’m about to come, he pulls his hand away.

  “Do you see now?” he asks, a wicked glint in this eye.

  “See what?” I ask.

  “That pleasure and pain are two words that describe the same sensation. You hurt, don’t you.”

  “Mmhmm,” I say, squirming against my own need for him.

  “It aches, doesn’t it?” he asks.