Bought by the Boss

by Valentine, Layla

  “Yes,” I say with a moan.

  “And when I hit you—it felt good, didn’t it?” he raises a brow.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Words fuck us up,” he says. “They make the mind think that there’s a difference between two things—pleasure and pain—when really they are extremes on one spectrum of feeling. Language creates the illusion of separation. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Change into your clothes. Wear different shoes tomorrow. I’m tired of the red.”

  “Yes,” I say, for the third time.

  He nods.

  It’s almost impossible to change in the bathroom without using my own hand to bring myself over the edge, but I hold back. I don’t want him to know what I’m up to in here. I pull my clothes on, and then I step back out into the office.

  Hunter is at his desk again. He doesn’t look up at me.

  “Have a good evening,” he says.

  I don’t know how to respond. I don't’ know what the hell just happened. All I know is that he’s torturing me, and this is only our first evening together. I’m in for a wild two weeks.

  I’m in a daze as I exit his office, and then the building altogether. As the bus carries me toward my apartment, I think over all that’s just occurred.

  The discussion we had. The look on his face as he described our roles, and then slipped into his own. The authoritative tone of his voice, the feel of his breath on my ear as he spoke…

  All of the pent-up sexual energy that has built up inside of me threatens to unleash. I feel intense pressure between my legs. I close my eyes, willing the bus to move faster.

  I can barely walk home, and as soon as I get inside the door, I begin stripping off my clothes. When I step into the hot shower, my own fingers find the place between my legs that Hunter was so attentive to. I’m already fully aroused; it takes only moments for the orgasm I’ve been holding back to spill through me. I cry out gutturally as I come, my hand sliding against the steamy glass. It leaves a streak, like a bear’s claws, swiping against tree bark.

  I feel buzzing in my veins—an aliveness that I’ve never felt before. My body is relaxed, and I feel as though I’m walking on clouds as I step across the tile floor to my towel.

  As I dry off, my phone rings. I reach for it while wrapping the worn, thin towel around me. My wet hair presses against the phone screen as I answer, and I have to swipe it out of the way so that I can hear.

  Jemma’s voice greets me. “Maria? Oh my God, you answered! I tried calling like ten times, and you didn’t pick up.”

  “I’ve been at work,” I say. My towel begins to slip, and I rearrange it, pulling it tight around my chest.

  “Work? You got a job? You’re going to have to tell me all about it over dinner. That’s why I’m calling. Sanjay’s band is playing at the Sunrise Cafe. Want to go?”

  Since my fridge is empty, and Sunrise has killer Mexican food, I agree.

  This makes Jemma happy. “I’ll tell you all about Jackson. We had the craziest night together.”

  I look at myself in the mirror as I listen to Jemma begin rattling off the beginning of her escapades with Jackson. In the reflection, I can see the claw-like print where my fingers dragged against the shower glass. What woman made that mark? It feels surreal to look at it.

  Who am I becoming?

  A woman who engages in BDSM instead of happy hour. A girl who comes so hard in the shower that the resulting scene looks like it could be from a horror movie.

  It’s all so surreal.

  I’m barely listening to Jemma, and when she finally says, “See you at eight,” I’m happy to get off the phone.

  I dress in jeans and a tank top, and soon I’m back on public transportation—this time with more control over my body—on my way to the cafe.

  The outside deck is lively. The Sunshine Cafe is always packed. The food is healthy, affordable, and delicious, and their micro-brews are some of the best in San Bravado. Add live music to the mix, and you have a winning combo.

  I find a table away from the stage, where our friend Sanjay’s band is already playing loudly. Within a few minutes, Jemma joins me. Her long blond hair is up in a high ponytail, making large, bright pink earrings stand out. The designer halter top dress, also pink, stops mid-thigh.

  “Did you dress up just for me?” I ask, standing and hugging my friend.

  “Not quite. I think I’m going to meet Jackson over at Red Square after this.”

  “So things are going good with him, hm?” I ask.

  “So good!” Jemma gives a squeal. “We stayed up all night last night. We went out for drinks after our training session, and then met up with some of his friends at this really cool club over on Columbus. The DJ was on fire, and Jackson and I were dancing like—oh, hello.” Jemma stops short and eyes the server who has just approached our table. He’s in his twenties and has underwear-model good looks and a hipster style, complete with a man-bun.

  Jemma’s said hello like a predator, greeting a hunk of man-meat.

  I eye my friend. She’s ogling the server.

  “What can I get you two lovely ladies?” he asks, eyeing Jemma right back.

  “Drinks, for starters,” Jemma says, with a flirtatious smile and batting of her eyelashes. “Something light—we’re going dancing later.”

  Speak for yourself, I think as I wait for my friend to continue. Jemma may be planning on partying the night away, but I have work in the morning.

  Work. Is that really the right word for it?

  My stomach fills with butterflies at the thought of returning to Larson Global in the morning.

  Once the server departs, I give my friend the eye. “What was that about?” I ask.

  “What? Oh, that?” She motions to Mr. Man-Bun. “He’s sexy, isn’t he? I wouldn’t mind hooking up with him.”

  “What?” I ask. “I thought you were all about Jackson.”

  “Just because I’m sleeping with Jackson now doesn’t mean I can’t hook up with anyone else,” Jemma says casually.

  I roll my eyes. “You never stop,” I say.

  She giggles. “YOLO, Maria—you only live once.”

  I laugh.

  Now it’s her turn to give me the eye. “What’s gotten into you? I haven’t heard you giggle like this in forever. You’ve been so serious lately, but now…” She squints at me… “You have this lightness around you. I swear, I can see your aura.”

  “You cannot,” I say. I laugh again.

  “I mean it. Jackson is really good with spirituality stuff. He’s teaching me how to squint my eyes so everything is all blurry, and then I actually see lights around people.”

  Jemma is making a ridiculous face, squinting her eyes up like a ninety-year-old woman and waving her hands in the air like she’s sprinkling fairy dust into the air.

  I crack up. She leans back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest. “I mean it, Maria. What’s up with you?”

  Just then, our man-bun server approaches with drinks. I wait for Jemma to get all flirtatious again, but she surprises me by quickly accepting her drink and keeping her eyes on me. The server takes the hint and bustles away without trying for more small talk.

  “Spill,” Jemma says.

  “Oh…” I sigh. I can’t wipe the grin off my face.

  “It’s a guy,” Jemma says.

  I nod. “I met him on the night I was supposed to be out with Mike. We had the most amazing time together… We ate hot dogs on the pier, then sat up on the roof-deck at that great Mexican place across the street until one in the morning. I went home with him…”

  I look down, biting my lip. I can feel Jemma’s eyes, boring into me.

  “And?” she asks. “Girl, you are killing me. You can’t just stop a story there!”

  I laugh. Laughter’s never come this easily to me. It’s bubbling up as though I have an endless reserve of it inside.

  “We hooked up,” I say.

  “Like, r
eally hooked up? Or Maria-style hooked up?”

  She’s teasing me. Usually, when I talk about hooking up, I mean making out or fooling around above-the-belt. Jemma often teases me for taking things slow with guys.

  “I mean Jemma-style hooking up,” I grin.

  “You did? That’s great! Tell me about it. Good sex?” She sips her drink.

  This reminds me of the glass of chilled white wine in front of me. My throat is parched from talking. I lift my glass and take a sip. Sanjay’s band starts up a punk-rock cover song, and I have to raise my voice when I continue.

  “Good,” I say. “Great, actually.”

  “I knew it! You have that ‘great-sex’ glow around you. You’ve been getting some. I love it!”

  She swats the air, nearly tipping my wine glass. I pick it up and pull it out of the way at the last moment, and then I raise it to my lips for another sip.

  I need some courage before telling Jemma just how “great” the sex has been.

  Instead of one, I gulp down two big sips of wine. I feel it go to my head. When I put my glass down, my goofy grin returns. I spin my glass in my hands as I try to figure out how to put my newest revelations into words.

  “It’s not just… it’s not just ‘great sex,’ Jemma. It’s different, too. He’s into some really…kind of crazy stuff.”

  “Oooh. What kind of crazy stuff?” she asks. I’m glad to have her interest; for once, I’m not boring her with complaints about my unemployment or the way my landlord keeps jacking up the rent.

  “We’ve been, well…he likes to do some role-playing stuff. With power dynamics,” I say vaguely. I can’t quite bring myself to say “BDSM” out loud.

  “Ooh, kinky!” Jemma says. Then she laughs. “Oh my God, this is perfect. Maria, you are like the opposite of a person who would be into this. How did he convince you to try it? Do you love it?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, on the brink of taking offense. I know I’m reserved, but I’m not a nun.

  “I mean you like plain-Jane sex. I’ve never heard you mention anything but missionary or doggy style. You don’t usually try new things.”

  “Well, I am now,” I say. “It’s surprising how much I like it. I didn’t expect to.”

  “It’s fun, isn’t it? I had a boyfriend who was into some BDSM stuff. He liked to tie me to the bed with silk scarves. It was amazing.” She has a dreamy look on her face. I pull her back before she can get lost in the memory.

  “Really?” I ask. “You never told me that.” I want to know more. Maybe this stuff Hunter is into isn’t that taboo after all. Maybe I’ve just been hiding under a rock for my whole adult life.

  “I didn’t think you would get it,” Jemma says with a shrug.

  On another night, in another mood, a comment like this would surely have put me on the defensive. But I feel so light, so elevated and content, that her judgment of me just rolls right off my back.

  “I wouldn’t have, before,” I say. “But now that I’ve tried it…” I think of the way Hunter slapped my ass—the pain, mingling with the mounting pleasure between my legs. “I think I do. I get it.”

  She grins mischievously. “So what have you tried?” she asks. “Ball gags? Whips? Plugs?”

  Her list makes me curious. I want to know more. I want to know what she’s tried. I’m intensely relieved to know that others have toyed with the same concept that Hunter is introducing me to. I recall his words, as he explained that pleasure and pain are two words for the same sensation: “Language creates the illusion of separation.” He is so right.

  Before I can mine my friend for information and ask her what the hell a “plug” is, a mutual friend bounces up to our table.

  “Maria! Jemma! Sanjay said you might be here. Can we join you?”

  Jemma and I jump up and hug our friend and then hurriedly make room for the new group of girls that flock in behind her. Soon our conversation turns to the latest drama around Sanjay’s band, and I don’t get a chance to ask Jemma more about her experiences. I make a note to talk to her in private when I get a chance. Maybe the next time I talk to her, I’ll have more captivating stories to share.

  By ten I’m exhausted, and I peel away from my friends as they head off to Red Square to dance the night away. When my head hits the pillow that night, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  This time when I enter Larson Global, I walk straight past the front desk. I can’t handle another elevator ride jam-packed with information about the business’s history and structure. More than that, I don’t want to answer questions about how my first day on the job went. I don’t know if I would be able to answer with a straight face.

  I step into my expansive, bare office and close the door behind me. I let my purse drop to the floor and set my coffee cup on the desk. Without knowing what else to do, I open my email.

  To: MariaMicheals@Larsonglobal.net

  From: HunterLarson@Larsonglobal.net

  Re: Tasks

  Maria,

  I hope you got the appropriate amount of recovery sleep. We didn’t cover this in our evening meeting last night, but I expect you to go directly home from work so that you can be well rested the following day. Eat a healthy dinner—no sugar, no carbs—and be in bed by nine o’clock.

  Remember, I want you physically capable over the next two weeks. We’re going to test your limits.

  I stop reading long enough to calm my heart rate. At first, a habitual response kicks in. Who does he think he is—telling me what to eat, and giving me a curfew?

  Then, I remember the situation I am in. Oh, right. He owns me. I’ve willingly signed up for this. And wasn’t I gushing to Jemma about how much I liked it? Maybe I spoke too soon because this email is over-the-top. I continue reading.

  I expect you in my office by quarter to five this evening. I want you to be ready. Let yourself into the office and lock the door behind you. I have the only key. Change into the outfit I’ve left in my private restroom.

  See you at five. Until then, resume the data entry tasks that you worked on yesterday.

  Hunter

  My stomach lights up as I read the email for a second time. What is the outfit going to be like, this time? What does he have planned for the evening? Will it be more teasing, like yesterday, or will I get to experience all of him as I did at his downtown apartment?

  The feeling in my stomach is a contrasting mix of knots and butterflies. I imagine a mass of twine, tangled and balled up, with butterflies perched all around its edges. That’s about where I’m at, now.

  I can barely concentrate on the mundane work of copying and pasting names and addresses into a spreadsheet. But somehow, I manage to make it to quarter to five.

  I follow the emailed instructions to a T, entering the office and locking the door behind me and then changing into the clothing he’s left for me.

  This time, the outfit is even more risqué. Instead of at least resembling office attire, it’s clearly lingerie. The top barely covers my breasts—white leather crisscrosses over my nipples and then attaches via several straps up to a collar that I fasten around my neck. The white leather skirt starts high up on my waist but stops well before my ass cheeks, fully exposing the white panties. I pull stockings up each leg and attach them with garters to the panties.

  Once dressed, the waiting begins. I watch the clock above his desk. The second hand draws never-ending circles around the modern black face, and soon I notice that the minute hand has begun inching around the face as well. Where is he?

  A full hour passes.

  The door opens. At first, I’m afraid Hunter’s been wrong, and someone else has a key—they’ll find me standing here in this skimpy outfit. I feel relieved when Hunter steps in.

  I start to smile in greeting, but my expression freezes when I see the steely look on his own face.

  He doesn’t say hello.

  An immediate reflex to please him courses through me. I don’t know where it comes from. Am
I so completely trained, already?

  He looks me over, head to toe. I feel proud of the way I fill out the outfit. I know that I look hot in it; Hunter’s bathroom has a floor to ceiling mirror on one wall.

  I pose with my hip jutted out to the side. He nods approvingly.

  “I knew I had to get it for you when I saw it,” he says, referring to the clothing—if it can be called that.

  He moves toward his desk without apologizing for his tardiness. And why would he? He’s the dominant, I remind myself. I’m here to take his orders.

  “How did you find your first day, Ms. Michaels?”

  His words are formal, but I know that he’s not asking me about my office, the computer, or whether I’m enjoying the data entry tasks of the daylight hours. No. He wants to know what I thought of our after-hours activities.

  I recall the way it felt to be left with so much pent-up energy. So close to the brink.

  “Frustrating,” I say coyly, referring to the torturously good stroking he delivered.

  He grins. “Was it? Well, if you behave yourself, I can ensure a little more satisfaction this time around.”

  The butterflies that have been with me since the morning stir with heightened activity.

  Satisfaction.

  That is what I want. I can only hope that Hunter delivers on his promise.

  Chapter 11

  Hunter

  I thought she might be angry because I made her wait, but Maria Michaels seems to be even more submissive than I thought. She’s swallowing her pride—saying nothing of the fact that I’ve had her wait here in this office, alone in a revealing outfit, for a full hour.

  I wanted her to protest. I wanted the opportunity to punish her. I’ll have to get my way with another method.

  I look her over slowly, again. She’s waiting for more instructions, and I make her wait. The heels are spiked stilettos, higher even than her tantalizing red pumps. They accentuate the curve of her calf—the muscular sturdiness of her thigh. She’s lithe and lean—a runner, maybe.

  The stockings end at the most enticing part of her thigh—the place where the curve of her flesh bends toward that wonderful place between her legs. The white panties cover her mound. I can see the indent of her perfectly sculpted sex through the tight-fitting material, as though it’s suctioned over her bare pussy.