Master of Hearts: A Domination And Submission Romance Anthology

by Erika Masten

  “I promise I won’t.”

  OK, here goes. Susan steels herself, bites her lower lip and pushes through the double doors. It’s amazing how much this man affects her. No man should have the right to affect me this much.

  She’s immediately assaulted by those electric blue eyes in that wonderfully sculpted face. She almost takes a step back in terror. At the same time, she can’t take her eyes off him. She’s like a prey which must soon be devoured by a predator . . . and this will be of her own choosing.

  “Twice in a day, Susan,” he says, not getting up from behind his desk. “I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me.”

  Again, she feels the power radiating out of him. Her stomach goes queasy again and her feet wobble in her high heels. If he were ugly and old, she could at least attempt to marginalize what she is about to do. But he’s young, extremely handsome and fascinatingly powerful in every sense of the word. Omnipresent is the term she ascribes to him. He sucks all the air out of the room, and she’s breathless as a result.

  Before she can lose her nerve, she says in a rush, “Yes.”

  “Yes to what?”

  “Yes to your proposition, sir. I w-want the job and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.” A warm flush traverses down her body as she says this.

  He regards her for a long, long time, and she’s beginning to think that perhaps she had heard him wrong previously . . . and he has no idea what she’s talking about. In fact, this entire morning might have been a dream brought on by too much stress.

  I think I’m losing it.

  Then his eyes crinkle in amusement. He says, “I’m glad to hear of it, Susan Chalmers. I admire ambition when it comes to ascending the corporate ladder. Reminds me of myself when I was younger.”

  I thought you were in the military, she wanted to say, but she isn’t certain. There are so many things she isn’t certain about when it comes to Channing Crawford.

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” he says. “You have the right body proportions . . . everything I like in the female form. Take off your clothes.”

  She thinks she didn’t hear right.

  “Wh-what?”

  “I said take off your clothes. I would like to see the merchandise before I trade in a VP post for it.”

  Merchandise. So that’s what he thinks of her. Dread pools in the pit of her stomach.

  “You mean right here?”

  “No, I mean in the street.” He leans back. “Of course I mean right here. You can lock the door if you feel more comfortable.”

  Again, the fleeting thought – so fast? – crosses her churning mind. She hesitates only for a moment, and then she turns to wrench the double lock in the door so that it slides back home. Click. No escape now.

  She turns to him again.

  It’ll be OK. He finds me beautiful.

  I can do this.

  She begins to unbutton her blouse from top to bottom. He stares at her – a frank appraising gaze that simultaneously unnerves and excites her. Oh yes, she is excited as well because he is a very, very attractive man. And he wants me. He wants me enough to see me naked. Her buttons are gold, and she undoes them carefully, her fingers almost slipping because of accumulated sweat.

  Her red silk blouse parts to reveal her brassiere – black, lacy, expensive La Perla. Her blouse is tucked into the waistband of her skirt. She pulls it out. She unbuttons the rest of it and peels it off. Her skin is white because she has not gone on a vacation for a long, long time – not since Christmas, and you can’t exactly get a tan during Christmas. She has been working hard, immersing herself in project after project so that she has no time to work on herself.

  She lays the blouse carefully on one of the chairs facing his desk. She doesn’t think she should drop it onto the floor like a common stripper. This is, after all, essentially a job interview.

  She reaches for the zipper at the back of her pencil skirt.

  “Come here,” he motions to the side of his desk. “I want to see you more clearly.”

  Yes, of course. He doesn’t want to be obstructed by the bric-bracs on his desk – the pen holders, the commemorative plaques, the files, the piles of documents.

  She walks nervously to the other side of his desk, where there is a direct unobstructed line between his chair and her body. She resumes unzipping her skirt – a demure tartan piece that shows off her slim hips and emphasizes her long, shapely legs. She lets the skirt fall onto a crumpled heap at her ankles, and then steps out of it.

  She bends down to gather her skirt. She hangs it neatly on the back of the chair next to her blouse. Her heart is beating very rapidly. His eyes rake in her body, focusing on her black brassiere and her matching panties. Her cleavage is pronounced. She has always been proud of her large breasts.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says.

  “Thank you, sir.” She does not dare meet his eyes, preferring to fix her gaze on his crotch instead. If he is having an erection, she does not see signs of it.

  He waves his hand. “Go on.”

  A blush flowers her cheeks. She reaches behind for the clasp of her brassiere. The sun is streaming through the ceiling-to-floor windows, lending a golden glow to her skin. Her brassiere comes off and her breasts spring free. They are large and bouncy and firm. Her nipples are cherry red.

  He does not say a word as she digs her thumbs into the sides of her panties and slides them off as well. Her pubic bush is a neat copper triangle between her legs, and she suddenly feels embarrassed – mortified beyond all measure that she is doing this.

  Oh, what has she become?

  She perches there in her red high heels, aware that red is the striking color of a harlot. Her lipstick is a bright red as well. Her copper hair hangs down her shoulders in curls, not long enough to obscure her breasts.

  He breathes sharply, and she rejoices in the sound, because it means she has affected him.

  “Look at me, Susan.”

  Her heart is pounding hard. She can sense her breasts rising and falling to its furious staccato tap-tap-tapping. She raises her eyes from his fully clothed crotch to his face.

  And is blown back by the force of his scorching gaze. She sees the fierce desire in his eyes and the ruthless determination. Her stomach does an uneasy wrench.

  “Come here, Susan.” It is a command, not a request.

  She treads towards him, the heels of her slippers sinking into the thick carpeting. She can feel his warmth as she approaches – like the radiation off a coal burner.

  “Come closer. I want to touch you.”

  She sidles up to him as close as she possibly can so that her legs are almost touching his seated knees. Her body trembles at the thought of his nearness. She looks down at his face. Her lips part slightly.

  Without a change of expression, his hands grab her breasts. His touch is firm. She gasps as he squeezes both her mounds, lifting them up as though she is a slave for inspection at an ancient marketplace. He tweaks her nipples, sending an erotic current coursing through her chest. Her nipples fill with a rush of blood and her peaks become pointed and erect. Her lungs expand with air. Her entire chest is suffused with warmth.

  His right hand trails down her belly and slips between her legs.

  “Ohhhh,” she moans.

  “Open your legs wider,” he says.

  She parts her thighs and feet so that she stands on a broader base. His hand has not left her pussy. Once she has afforded him greater access, he probes her pussy again. His fingers burrow into the clefts between her nether lips and clit on either side, and he compresses her clit like a wedge of lemon. She wasn’t wet before, but she can feel her juices gathering now. The little beads of secretion coalesce and become bigger droplets and even bigger ones until they become sluices – rivers of molten desire.

  Her breathing grows more ragged. He senses this and his eyes burn into hers as he increases his merciless rubbing of her most secret valleys. Her sticky juices pour out and trickle over his fingers. He use
s her natural lubrication for more leverage, dipping his fingers into her overflowing pot and smearing it all over her throbbing sex.

  “Please,” she whispers.

  “Please what?”

  “Please . . . ”

  She doesn’t know what she’s going to say. Does she want him to stop? Does she want him to continue? Her mind is clouded with fragments of half thoughts. All she knows is that her entire sensory being is concentrated on that one place where his hand is and her pleasure fountain is bubbling over, frothing at the aperture.

  “You’re very wet,” he states.

  Two of his fingers plunge into her cream-slicked hole. She gives a little cry of surprise. He doesn’t heed her, choosing to massage the pulps of his now very wet fingers against her velvet walls instead. He makes a clean sweep of her narrow tunnel – an oscillatory movement that sends her head reeling. Then he withdraws his fingers and plunges them in again roughly, startling her.

  He fucks her with his fingers this way, and it’s all she can do to maintain her balance. I can’t believe Channing Crawford is doing this to me, she faintly thinks.

  He takes out his well-creamed fingers, glistening with her secret juices, and smears them onto her inner thighs.

  She breathes sharply. It’s an intimate gesture – one she did not expect from him.

  “You can put on your clothes again, Susan,” he says, his mouth twitching into a grin.

  “Yes, thank you.” Part of her is relieved, and yet another part wants to remain naked so that he can revel in her beauty.

  “You can put all your clothes back on except . . . ” he lets it trail “ . . . your underwear.”

  “Wh-what?” Once again, he takes her by surprise.

  “This is a condition, Susan. From now until next Friday, I don’t want you to wear any panties. No pants either. You are only allowed to wear skirts and dresses. You may wear a brassiere under your blouse, but that’s about it. Is that understood?” His voice takes on an edge.

  She feels her stomach contract. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, I like that. Obedience is a virtue.”

  He watches her dress. She puts on all her clothes again except for her black lacy panties. She leaves it hanging from the back of the chair.

  “You may go now, Susan. Come back here at six. Ms. Radcliffe would have left by then. I trust you have no dinner plans.”

  She doesn’t anymore. “No.”

  “Good. Had you any, I would have asked you to change them. See you later, Susan Chalmers.”

  The sun in the windows has gone behind a cloud. She turns back to look at him, and her breath catches. He’s insanely, gloriously beautiful.

  The little kernel of need between her naked legs is actually now looking forward to six o’ clock. She shudders in anticipation of what he has in store for her.

  4

  It’s strange not to be wearing any underwear. It makes her hyperaware – of the moistness between her legs, of her femininity, of the way her pussy folds rub against one another.

  She’s extremely self-conscious when she walks through the office. She feels as if everyone is gazing at her skirt with knowing sidelong glances. Every roll of her buttocks seems to be accentuated. When she sits, she keeps her thighs clasped firmly together. Although her skirt is below her knees, she feels naked.

  A draft seems to be perpetually blowing between her legs.

  Worse still, she hasn’t stopped creaming since noon. Every time she shifts her legs, a trickle flows out again and she’s mortified. There’s a wet stain on her skirt’s back lining that is spreading wider as she sits, and she daren’t get up.

  Oh, this is bad, bad, bad.

  She longs to reach for a tissue from the box behind her and wipe the sopping mess that her pussy has become. But she daren’t for fear that someone passing by might peek through the blinds.

  Oh, what a dilemma!

  5

  At six p.m. sharp, she’s at Channing Crawford’s office. True to his word, Ms. Radcliffe’s chair is empty.

  She readies herself by taking a deep breath. She has brushed her hair so that her copper curls fall softly and prettily around her shoulders. She has put some makeup on – soft magenta eyeliner and a touch of eye shadow on her lids, as well as red lipstick. She realizes she wants to look beautiful for him. Well, as beautiful as she possibly can, anyway. She wants to please him – make him desire her.

  This is no different from a date, she tells herself.

  She raps the door twice, and then enters.

  He is standing by the windows and looking at the glorious sunset outside. The red ball of sun has sunk between two skyscrapers and has touched the surrounding sky with a hazy crimson tint. He is silhouetted against this amazing view, and he turns as she approaches him.

  “Very punctual,” he remarks. “I like what I see of you so far, Susan Chalmers.”

  She is aware of the implications of that statement. “Thank you, sir.”

  So far, he has not asked her to stop calling him ‘sir’. It must be his military upbringing, she decides.

  “Are you naked beneath your skirt, Susan?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, but he is so beautiful. Prior to today, she has only seen him from a distance – the closest being from across a boardroom table.

  “Show me,” he says. “Lift up your skirt.”

  It is an unusual request – one that she has never had before, not even at a doctor’s office. She bends down and tugs the hem of her skirt up. She raises it high – to above the level of her hips. His eyes rove down to her revealed pussy.

  She’s embarrassed to find herself wet again. Very wet. In fact, she’s running all over with a sudden deluge of juices at the thought of him scrutinizing her.

  “Very good,” he says. “Did you caress yourself in your office?”

  Caress herself? No. She shakes her head.

  “You should. I would like to see you caress yourself before our week is up. Now take off your clothes.”

  With his heated eyes inspecting her every move, she removes her clothes and lays them neatly on the back of the chair once again. She wonders what he has done with her previously discarded panties.

  “Nice,” he says once she is completely naked but for her shoes. She makes to toe them off, but he says, “No, leave them on. I like you with them.”

  He starts to shrug off his dark jacket. It’s made out of the finest homespun wool, she can see. He loosens his grey tie until its noose becomes a wide oval, and slips it off his neck. Her heart skips a beat as he unbuttons his white shirt – one button at a time. His hairless chest peeks between the lapels. It’s well-formed, as she suspects, with pectorals that are bulging, but not too much. Just like her before him, he pulls the hem of his shirt out of his belt.

  She can’t take her eyes off him. His abs are washboard hard and the muscle delineation of his arms suggests a man who works out in the gym at least three times a week. He is not bodybuilder bulky and he is lean, with no ounce of spare fat anywhere on his torso.

  Is it wrong for her to desire him?

  He appears to desire her as well, as evidenced by the mild flaring of his nostrils. He unbuckles his belt – brown leather with a gold ‘G’ Gucci insignia upon it. He is wearing boxers underneath, and the bulge at his crotch is obvious.

  Oh so obvious.

  A tendril of desire and expectation runs between her legs.

  She expects him to take the belt off and drop his pants, but he doesn’t.

  “Come here, Susan.”

  Like a shivering filly, she goes to him. Her red heels spear the carpet and leave peg-like imprints. When she gets close enough, he grabs her breasts again.

  “I like these,” he says, roaming his hands over her rich curves and nipples. He pinches her nipples – not painfully – and watches as they swell and perk up. Her stomach does a flip flop.

  “May I kiss you?” she whispers.

  This takes him aback.

  “You want to ki
ss me?”

  “Yes. I would like that . . . very much.”

  “Why?”

  Now it’s her turn to be unsettled. She falters. “I-I thought we’re going to make love.”

  He smiles benignly. “I don’t make love, Susan Chalmers. I fuck. Hard. Many times a day. And I don’t kiss either. Now turn around.”

  She’s trembling. The word ‘fuck’ reverberates in her head. She turns and proffers him the view of her back. She holds her breath as his hands slide down her back and waist, lingering upon the hourglass curve of her hips. She is not a thin or small woman. She trends towards the voluptuous, and she has to really watch what she eats lest she puts on weight.

  His hands dip down to the swell of her buttocks. He cups them.

  “Have you ever been spanked, Susan?”

  A sliver of fear blossoms within her spine and traverses all the way down to her legs.

  “No, sir.”

  He continues to caress the firm flesh of her buttocks as her anticipation – and terror – escalates. No, she has never been spanked. Never contemplated it. She has never been physically hit in her entire life. She has heard of such sexually-orientated practices, of course, but has always chalked their practitioners to be rock star and celebrity types; not normal everyday people.

  But Channing Crawford is far from being your normal everyday person.

  He takes huge chunks of her buttock flesh in his palms and squeezes. “You have wonderfully unblemished skin.”

  Her heart skips several beats. She’s frightened, and at the same time, she wants him to slide his hand between her legs from the back and finger her pussy, which is once again extremely wet. She wants him to delve into the recesses between her clit and pussy lips again.

  Disappointingly, he withdraws his hands. He walks to her front and gestures to a low glass table in the middle of the sofa and armchair arrangement.

  “Get on top of that,” he commands. “Get on your hands and knees on all fours.”

  Her pulse is hammering at her throat as she climbs onto the table. But it’s glass. Won’t it break? The table seems sturdy enough, and it doesn’t even shift as she concentrates her weight on one part of it.