I was losing my nerve. Anxiously jabbing my hand into the pocket of my skirt, I discovered the crumbled note where I stuffed it just before Cassandra arrived back at the table. The horror, the question marks. The risk excited me, but the danger seemed so unnecessary. Why here? Why was it so important for him to require me to put myself in such precarious positions?
I was about to grasp the doorknob before me, when out of nowhere a hand moved out from behind me and covered my eyes.
“I see you’re too chicken to follow through on this one,” the soft voice whispered in my ear.
“I’m afraid,” I whispered back.
“You’ll do as you’re told and trust me. If not, you end the game.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now don’t look back,” he said as he released his grip and pushed me forward.
I moved out of his hands and practically fell through the door, slamming it behind me, and in a classic pose of panic, leaning back against it, as if I’d just locked out the demon chasing me.
He had been there behind me, touching me, his heart beating against my back. We’d never been so close, except for that moment on the 5th floor when he briefly leaned in to me. This time seemed much more intimate and I could still feel him with me, as if I were caught inside his aura, attached by invisible tethers.
‘Do as I was told’ I repeated the instruction several times, trying to remember what I was supposed to do. Putting my mind to the task, I clearly recalled the note. Yes. Undress and lean against the wall.
I stared at the old fashioned bathroom. It was curiously quaint, as if at one time the restroom had been used by the restaurant’s patrons. There was natural dark wood wainscoting about waist high. Above the chair rail that ran along the perimeter of the room the walls were papered in a floral design of large pink and mauve colored roses. The paper was water stained and turning yellow with age, the roses fading with time. The commode was standard issue, and looked to be sturdy and in working order, and the washstand was of the old-fashioned pedestal style. A cabinet against the wall was made of the same dark-stained wood as the wainscoting. Rather than some dirty employee bathroom, I found my surroundings clean, even pleasant, certainly more comforting than what I had imagined finding. My surveillance of the room took just seconds, and it was seconds more disrobing according to the plan. I hung my clothes on a convenient hook—as if all this had been thought of before—then turned out the light and leaned in against the one bare wall.
I admit, the entire scene would have been more profoundly exciting if I’d followed the instructions before my master found me trembling in the corridor. The element of surprise was taken from me when he entered. And yet, the fact of my nakedness in this compromising situation was still amazing, and the heat in my body reflected that fact. By the time my mystery man entered the bathroom, my legs were itchy from the sex juice leaking down my legs. As his hands began to explore my privates, I undulated into them, encouraging the physical inspection. He began fingering my slit, running his hand along the cleft, greasing the back barrier and prodding deeply with his fingers. I gasped, then quietly moaned as he plunged fingers in both holes and fucked me hard. I was certain that he wanted me to come; I’m not sure I could have survived the event without it. For a time, he leaned into my back, with the fucking hand in my crotch and his other reaching around, caressing my breasts. He plucked my nipples between his fingers, pulling until I almost shrieked with pain. I muted my response, keeping my head about me enough to contain the desire to scream with joy. I suspected that the man was already pissed enough at me for my hesitation; I certainly didn’t need to add more scorn from him by telegraphing our scene to world outside the restroom.
I endured the physical torture, realizing the most exquisite sort of relief after he eased up. My climax was only seconds from me. My panting increased, my heart raced faster.
“Sir, please,” I seethed under my breath.
It had never quite hit me to formally ask permission to come, but I didn’t want to break his rule, and I did need to climax.
“Hang on,” he whispered, as he continued the torturous play, squeezing this breast, mauling that ass cheek, diving back into my two sex holes with his fingers.
I gasped, moaned under my breath, said a hundred silent, ‘pleases’ and still hung on. I was at the edge, and then backed off, then was at the edge again. My body seesawed for several minutes until that perfect instant, when he whispered in my ear, “Come.” He knew. He could tell that my flooded senses could take no more.
Ah! Relief rushed through me as the orgasm ripped my insides, tearing at my body. I writhed in his arms to stay on my feet. Then all that passed, and I settled myself weakly against the wall, in the same position that he’d originally required. A moment later, the lights came on.
“Eyes closed,” he reminded me.
Of course, they were closed. I didn’t dare open them.
He rested something thin against my protruding ass. And before I could figure out what it was, he struck my behind with what had to be a bamboo cane. The first cut so surprised me that I shrieked, though the second the cry was out of my mouth, I knew it was a mistake.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered into the thick, hot air. It must have been the heat from the kitchen oozing into the close room—or maybe just our body heat. After that, he rattled off eleven more cuts in a furious cadence. My body reeled with pain, cries threatening, but never voiced. I climbed the wall on tiptoe, as pain rocketed through my body upward. My ass pulled in in self-defense, my muscles clenched as tight as rocks. I learned later that these taut reflexes only make the pain worse. But I had no time to get used to the punishment, no time to relax, no time to anticipate the degree of chastisement my poor bottom received.
The second the caning was over, the lights went out again.
“Next time, you won’t hesitate, will you?” his voice seethed in my ear. I still clutched the wall as though that was some comfort. He had his fingers woven through my hair and was pulling it so tightly that it could feel it stretch the skin around my eyes.
“No, sir,” I quickly answered.
He let go, shoving me forward into the wall.
As abrupt as the two previous times, he was out of the room before I could catch my breath.
I fumbled for the light switch, gladly escaping the dark. Self-preservation made me lock the door immediately, so I’d have a few recuperating moments to myself. I gazed only briefly into the mirror, but was unable to really see the damage from the cane. I did feel punished, though. The ache would be present with me for several days.
Hearing voices in the corridor outside, I dressed as quickly as I could, then escaped the bathroom, blushing at a woman waiting for me to exit. Apparently, she hadn’t been there long, and the wait raised no suspicions. Even so, my cheeks flushed red as I gave her shy smile. Ducking my head in haste, I split the scene through the downstairs emergency exit. It was a rough walk up a steep lawn, but worth the trouble, since I couldn’t gracefully face the crowd of elegant diners in the restaurant above. I could imagine that at the moment of my retreat, there was a sign swinging from my body, emblazoned in neon letters, spelling out my sexual crimes.
Chapter Five
For the next two weeks I waited for Ellington Lloyd to confirm our activities at the Morrow Seafood Grill. The two times I was in his presence, however, no mention was made—not that I expected him to say something in front of other people. I did expect him, at the very least, to give me a wink or the nod of his head. There was none. In all the weeks of our surreptitious game playing, as nervous as I’d become, I was never so nervous as I was waiting for him to acknowledge our relationship.
Then one afternoon, exactly two weeks following the Morrow incident, Ellington came to my cubicle himself.
“Miss Sinclair, we’re going to need to talk. Monday in my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we have some important matters to discuss.”
&nbs
p; “I imagine we do,” I said, fully honoring his comment.
He smiled, rather tentatively. “By the way, you have entered the office pool for the baseball playoffs, haven’t you?”
I’m sure I looked astonished. “No. I don’t know a thing about baseball.”
“You should know something. It’s the national pastime.”
Had I offended him? “I guess for some.”
He was being just like the charming Ellington Lloyd who schmoozed the office crowd and his clients with wit and the twinkle in his eyes. I decided that he was putting me at ease, but I knew right then that my weekend would be a disaster of more tortuous hours of waiting for our Monday meeting.
On Monday morning, I found a memo from Ellington on my desk when I arrived. “I’ve penciled you in at eleven.”
My body raced, memories, physical memories flooding it with sexual excitement. Not that I wasn’t already jittery with anticipation.
At ten, I had an employee review with Preston Lockhart, something I didn’t particularly look forward to, but it would be brief—the man was always brief. Maybe it would take my mind off the meeting an hour later. I’d certainly be no good to work until I’d had my first face-to-face meeting with my master.
The review went exactly as I expected—Lockhart hardly knew what I did. There wasn’t a clear yardstick to evaluate my performance, just the comments of the agents and the others for whom I did research. Apparently, the remarks about my work were favorable and properly recorded in my file. I did my work in a timely way. It was neat, organized and reasoned.
Still, Preston Lockhart always unnerved me. I couldn’t decide if it was the coolly critical formality or his amazing good looks that had me quaking, and just a little bit shivering in the regions of my panties. For all of his self-assurance, however, the vulnerability I felt beneath the surface of his demeanor intrigued me. I didn’t expect to ever get beyond that ripple in his polished veneer, but I would look for cracks, just to keep interested. I was in the process of doing that as our interview ended. He closed my file, sat back in his chair. I was prepared for his ending spiel about the company in the next quarter and his expectations for me, which were probably not much different than they’d been the last quarter.
“Another matter to discuss,” he started, just as I expected.
“Yes?”
He stared me down, like he was climbing under my skin. I squirmed in my seat. “I have sent you emails from time to time; instructions…”
I heard what he was saying, but it wasn’t computing in my brain. I couldn’t remember any specific emails. “Sure,” I answered, only because I had to say something.
“I expect for the most part you’ve done well with our arrangement, but then, the game is hardly started.” The tenor of his voice changed, becoming that intensely deep and sexual baritone that had been haunting me daily, nightly. My breath grew short, as I struggled to believe what I was hearing, to put all the pieces together and acknowledge the facts he was laying out for me. “My question is: Do you have the stomach for more?”
I think I dropped my jaw as a child would, in awe of something ten times its size. The anxiety in my gut made me nauseous. The surprise took not just my breath but my power of speech.
As long as twenty seconds passed. Doesn’t seem like much, but when you watch the clock, each tick of the sweep hand seems an eternity. He was content to wait for me, steepling his fingers in front of his impassive but elegant face. He was my least likely candidate for master, my least favorite. However, even as I believed that this was true, as I stared him down as critically as he was staring at me, I sensed that in time, I’d change my mind.
“Maybe you need to think about it.” His voice cut through me like a scalpel through flesh.
“And how much time would I have?”
“The end of the day.”
“That’s all?”
“You should be able to tell me now without any wait at all. Is there a reason you’re stalling?”
“I just thought…”
“It was someone else?”
“Exactly.”
“So, you’re disappointed.”
“I’m … I don’t think so. I just have to adjust.”
“Well, you’ve got thirty seconds to do that,” he said with a terse sigh.
“I thought I had till the end of the day?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“But I…” I started and stopped, knowing exactly what I had to say, but being too chicken to spit it out, until the sweep of the second hand on his watch ended my thirty seconds of painful deliberation. The expression on his face became intensely focused on me and I knew my time was up. Maybe he was right to make me answer right then. “Yes, I have to go forward… I can’t even think of stopping,” I finally blurted out with no time left.
“Good.” He penciled something on his desk calendar of which I was instantly suspicious, then he looked back up at me. “You can go now.”
“Now?”
“It’s all I have for you right now. My next appointment is waiting.”
Yes, of course, sure… I think I shook my head, while wondering if I had just dreamed this scene. But everything seemed real, touchable, interacting with all my senses appropriately.
I made my way out of his office, probably not very gracefully, but I’m not sure he noticed. His attention was already concentrated on his next agenda.
A few minutes later, the meeting with Ellington Lloyd was like a walk in the park. He had some projects he was warning me about, and otherwise he joked about trivial stuff—I don’t even remember what he said. My head was somewhere else. I probably didn’t even sound lucid, but Ellington wouldn’t know that.
I spent five days dwelling on Preston Lockhart, discovering that he had an uncanny power over me, even though he was nowhere around. Shortly after our meeting on Monday, he’d taken off for three days in Vermont. I was relieved, although it took me two days, trying to stay clear of him, and not having to, before I realized that he had left the office. I suppose dropping the bomb and letting it quietly detonate in his absence was a reasonable ploy. It certainly worked. Once I learned the identity of my master, my body had no problem adjusting and my fantasies altered to fit the man. My logical mind revolted frequently, but this had never been sensible scheme, not from the start. My insane desires and unruly imagination rejected my perfectly reasoned reservations as so much nonsense. Preston Lockhart was my master.
***
Friday afternoon I was on the street heading toward my bus stop, when a small silver Audi pulled up beside me and the door opened from the inside.
“Get in.” I could hardly see who was inside, but there was no mistaking the voice. Although I’d been unable to recognize it just a week ago, it had been inside my head since that incredible moment in Preston’s office.
We drove in silence for some distance, until my nerves were practically fried and he looked at me, saying, “Lean back and spread your legs.”
I did as I was told, glad for something to do other than that interminable waiting. Instantly, the warm feeling in my body grew from the hot spot at my clit, up and outward.
“No panties?” he asked. He couldn’t see. “Pull back your skirt.”
I obliged him, wiggling my tight skirt up off my hips, probably more than asked for, but by then my fantasies were so heavily engaged, I’m sure I’d have walked naked in public if he ordered me to do so.
“Feet on the dash,” he further directed.
My pussy lurched, one big spasm followed by another. I could hardly keep from touching myself.
He could see my fingers, itching to claw at the aroused wet folds. “If you dare lay a hand on your pussy, I’ll tie your wrists behind you.” His directive stopped any thoughts of masturbation cold.
Okay, I said to myself. Being ever obedient, I pressed my hands on either side of my hips and kept them there, as we rode through a maze of city streets. With my feet on the dash, spread as ordered, a
sensuous breeze tickled the folds of my exposed cunt. When the clear, cold eyes of Preston Lockhart occasionally gazed at the lewd sight, my arousal soared another notch higher.
I wiggled some, just to let off a little steam. I even closed my thighs, slightly massaging them together; anything to expand the sexy feeling and maybe get off.
“Tell me what you want from me,” he suddenly demanded.
Why the hell was he asking me that? “How about letting me come?” I threw in because I couldn’t help myself, even though it was probably the wrong thing to say.
I thought I saw him almost laugh, or maybe he was just relaying his amusement telepathically.
“You’ll come when you’re told,” he reminded me.
“Yes, I got that,” I answered back.
When we turned a corner, a beam of sunlight streamed in through the window directly on my pussy. I squirmed more, while pretending that my hands were tied and useless at my sides. I would have given anything to have a mouth fixed on my privates, sucking the gathering juices. But there would be no such luck for me—at least not for now.
Preston stopped the car and parked along a commercial street lined with trendy shops, jewelry stores, books stores and quaint cafés. Though it was a neighborhood for leisurely strolls, sipping cappuccino and quiet chat, I sensed there was a more urgent, more purposeful reason for our being there.
“You can put your feet down and cover your ass,” he spoke before he exited the car. He opened my door for me, and with a hand at the small of my back guiding me, he pushed me from the sidewalk into an alley between two buildings. A moment later, we darted into the first available door on our right, into the back room of a dress shop.
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