by J. J. Hayle
* We are not a couple. I have no expectations from you other than your commitment to visit me each Wednesday. You may see whom you wish, and you are not to impede upon my personal life in any way. I may ask you to stay behind after work on occasions to punish you for your conduct in work, you are free to refuse this or renegotiate if it is not a Wednesday.
* I will pay you what you would typically earn from your bar work each week. Please inform me of your average earnings by the return of email. As I stated, I will pay for a further month if you wish to end the arrangement, provided you have met me on at least two occasions.
* Our meetings will commence on Wednesday. You are to be at my address at 7 p.m. I will arrange a car service to collect you and return you home afterwards. I will go easy on you this Wednesday as I have spanked you today.
Finally, I hope you enjoy our arrangement, and please remember that you can end it at any time and use the safe words.
Regards,
Mr Larson
Layla responded to Mr Larson’s email to confirm that she was happy with his conditions. She felt more reassured than she had by meeting him in person. She gave him her average earnings for her bar work, though she exaggerated her tips.
He is using me so I may as well use him. The sooner I can pay off my loans, the sooner I don’t have to depend on him.
Layla sat nervously in the car on Wednesday as it conveyed her to Mr Larson’s home. He lived in a large three-storey townhouse. She couldn’t imagine how much it was worth.
A townhouse in London? His business is more successful than I thought. I should have exaggerated my tips even more.
“Miss Farrow, welcome,” he greeted her at the door.
“Thank you, sir.” She glanced around the hallway. The house was beautiful, though it did not seem to be decorated the way she would expect a young man’s home to be. “Your home is beautiful.”
“Thank you. My mother left it to me—she passed away last year. I have not had the chance to redecorate yet.”
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t respond, and instead, he led her up the stairs to the attic. Layla was relieved to find he wasn’t leading her to a dungeon. The attic held a metal-framed bed that had wrist and ankle restraints fitted. There was also a desk, a bench, and various odd-shaped chairs that had restraints attached, and a metal frame that looked to be used for restraining a person who stood.
Layla swallowed nervously.
“It is soundproofed,” he said. “You can scream and cry, and no one will hear you.” He smiled at her alarm. “I mean that in the least creepy way possible.”
She nodded and lowered her eyes to the floor.
“Raise your skirt,” he said. “I want to see your bottom.”
Layla obeyed, she raised her skirt, lowered her knickers, and turned around to bend over a little to show him her bare behind. He ran his hand over her skin.
“You are still quite bruised. Are you sore?”
“A little, sir.”
“I won’t beat you hard today,” he said. “I will flog you instead.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr Larson ordered her to strip before restraining her in the metal frame. She stood with her hands restrained above her and her legs spread apart. Mr Larson walked towards a wooden chest that sat at the foot of the bed. He opened a drawer and removed a whip with a leather handle and lots of long, leather tassels.
Layla moaned as he hit her with the flogger. Its bite covered every inch of her body.
That’s wonderful.
It whipped along her back and shoulders. She gasped as he hit her breasts and stomach and pulled against the restraints. The flogger bit her thighs and slapped against her pussy, drenching her.
“Thank you, sir,” she moaned.
“So polite.” He chuckled, whipping the flogger against her breasts.
Mr Larson approached her and stood close in front of her. She kept her eyes low as he ran his hand slowly along her stomach towards her breasts. He ran his fingers along her breasts and pulled at her nipples. She moaned as he leaned forward to take one into his mouth. He licked and sucked on them alternately before he removed some clamps from his trouser pocket.
Layla groaned as he attached the clamps to her swollen nipples. They were pleasantly painful. He moved his hands between her legs, his fingers felt delicious rubbing against her soaking clit.
“Do you like that, Miss Farrow?” he said.
“Yes, sir.” He plunged his fingers inside her and began to pound her hard. She was so turned on she felt she could climax from a few strokes. “Yes, master.” She gasped. “Thank you, master.”
“You’re such a good girl,” he said, nibbling at her ear while his fingers fucked her. “My obedient little slut.”
Layla’s legs grew weak, and she hung in the wrist restraints as he made her come. He removed his fingers from her sex and put them into her mouth. He smiled as he made her suck her come from them. Mr Larson released her from the restraints and ordered her to kneel. Layla obeyed, and he restrained her wrists behind her back. He then unfastened his trousers and began to fuck her mouth.
Layla’s eyes watered more than last time as she was unable to push him away. He grasped her hair in his hands and pounded his massive length into her mouth. She sucked him hard, and she soon felt his hot come running down her throat. She swallowed as he pulled his cock from her lips. He released her restraints.
“Get dressed,” he said. “I will order your car.”
Oh. “Yes, sir,” she replied, disappointed.
Mr Larson left the attic, and Layla stood and started to get dressed. She removed the nipple clamps.
These are nice. I will play with them at home.
Once dressed she left the attic, taking the clamps with her, and descended down the stairs to the first floor and then the ground floor. Mr Larson was waiting in the hallway.
“The car should be here shortly, you can wait outside.”
Seriously? “You want me to wait outside?” She frowned.
“It’s a safe neighbourhood,” he said, opening the door. “Goodnight, Miss Farrow.”
She frowned again. “Goodnight, Mr Larson.” She was barely through the door when he closed it.
Is this how it is going to be?
She pulled her jacket around her shoulders to ward off the evening chill.
Mr Larson did not speak to Layla the next day. He was already working in his office when she arrived for work. He passed by her desk when he left for lunch and did not acknowledge her, and on Friday he was out of the office all day.
Layla was happy to get out of the office for the weekend and was overjoyed, despite the awkwardness of her arrangement with Mr Larson, to have a weekend without work. She had considered going out, but the thought of spending a whole Saturday day and night at home was too tempting. She dragged her quilt to the sofa and spent the day watching a marathon of chick flicks. In the evening she opened a bottle of wine and ordered a pizza. She spent Sunday sleeping in before crawling back to the sofa to enjoy another movie marathon and leftover pizza.
The next Wednesday, Mr Larson gave Layla a hard beating, since her bruising and soreness had faded. She moaned loudly as she became aroused, but Mr Larson made no attempt to pleasure her this time. He paddled her hard and used a strap like he had used on her first spanking. The first time he had used it, she had cried, but now she moaned. It still bit her skin, but she found the sensation thrilling. When he had finished, Mr Larson made her perform oral sex on him before shooing her out of his house.
Layla was annoyed to be frustrated, unsatisfied and freezing on his doorstep again.
He said it would be like this.
That didn’t make her like it anymore. She loved to feel used while he played with her, but as soon as it was done she wanted…what? Affection? Some acknowledgement that she meant something to him? She sighed.
I know I mean nothing to him. He is only in
terested because I can take a spanking.
Layla was home by nine—earlier than last week, though she was pleased because it meant she had a few hours to relax before she had to go to sleep.
After two months of meeting Mr Larson, Layla still left his house frustrated. She had given up expecting him to have sex with her. He only ever seemed to want oral, and she was finding her mind drifting during the spanking. It did not hurt so much anymore, nor did she find it as pleasurable. If anything, she was bored.
It was predictable and the same every week. Occasionally Mr Larson would finger her, but he usually just spanked her and accepted a blow job. He was so detached from her that the spanking alone was no longer enough to excite her. Still, the money came in handy, and coupled with the savings made from not eating out every evening and her exaggerated tips, she was managing to pay more off her loans.
It was a Friday afternoon in the office, and Layla was finishing up work on a few accounts before the weekend. Her telephone buzzed to notify her of an internal call, and she was surprised to see it was Mr Larson calling her.
“Yes, sir,” she said, answering his call.
“Come to my office, Miss Farrow.”
“Yes, sir.” She hung up, wondering why he sounded so stern, and made her way nervously to his office.
“Take a seat, Miss Farrow,” he said.
She sat across from him in the same seat she had taken when he told her she would have to be spanked if she wanted to save her job.
“Mr Foster has arranged a business dinner tomorrow night and has asked for you to come along,” he said.
“Me?” she asked. “Why would he want me to go, sir?”
“Apparently, he is impressed with you.”
She smiled.
“Are you free?”
“Yes, I can be.”
“I will pay you of course. We are going to a fine dining restaurant. Do you have something appropriate to wear?”
Shit, do I?
“I have some nice dresses.”
“Good,” he said, turning back to his work as if to prove how uninterested he was in her. “I will pick you up at six.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Mr Larson frowned at her as she climbed into his blue Audi.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She had just bought the dress earlier that day.
I thought it was nice.
“Nothing,” he grumbled. “It will have to do.”
What is his problem?
He was dressed in a designer suit, which no doubt cost a month’s salary. He looked very handsome, but did he really expect her to spend that kind of money on an outfit for one dinner?
Mr Larson pulled into a carpark near the restaurant. He killed the engine and turned to her.
“This evening is important, Miss Farrow,” he said. “There is a lot of money riding on this deal so I need you to be on your best behaviour. Try not to speak unless you have to, don’t have more than one glass of wine, and let me order for you.”
She frowned. “Why do you need to order for me?”
“Because much of the menu is in French.”
“I’ve studied French.”
He sneered. “I’m sure GCSE French has equipped you for ordering a burger and chips, but it is a little different here. Just do as you’re told.”
She sat back in a huff. “If I am not refined enough to meet your clients, why did you bring me?” she snapped.
“I didn’t want to,” he said. “Be on your best behaviour, and I’ll pay you. You’ve proven you can be good for money.”
Her eyes widened, and she felt a lump in her throat.
So that’s what he thinks of me?
“You’re the fool who pays.” Her temper flashed.
He raised an eyebrow and got out of the car. She followed him to the restaurant.
Mr and Mrs Foster were already seated at the table. Layla smiled. She had never been so thrilled to see someone wearing the same dress as her.
“Oh, look, dear.” Mrs Foster smiled. “I do loathe it when someone wears the same dress—especially when that someone is young, pretty, and wears it beautifully.”
Layla beamed and resisted the urge to gloat at Mr Larson. “You are too kind,” she said. “But you wear the dress beautifully yourself.”
“Why thank you.” She smiled. “I just picked it up this afternoon in the sales.”
“Me too!”
“I love a bargain.”
Layla beamed happily. She had been feeling self-conscious about her dress, but now, realising Mr Larson was simply a snob, she relaxed.
Mr Larson ordered their wine—Layla let him as she did not have a clue, but she was not going to let him order her food. Before he could speak, Layla addressed the waiter and ordered her meal in perfect French. Mr Larson bristled at her side but said nothing.
“You speak French beautifully, my dear,” said Mrs Foster. “Where did you study?”
“My mother is French,” replied Layla. “But, I studied European languages at university, and I spent a year living in France, Germany, and Italy before I attended uni.”
“You speak German and Italian as well?” asked Mr Foster.
“I speak fluent Italian, my German is passable.”
“Well, aren’t you full of surprises.” He grinned. “Larson is lucky to have you. If you ever get tired of working for him, then you have a place within my company.”
“Thank you, sir,” she beamed.
I might take him up on that.
“You don’t have to call me sir,” he laughed. “Call me Mike. And may I call you Layla? I am glad I met you. I have implemented those tips you suggested throughout my company, and it has saved us a fortune. Most of our stock will be sourced in the UK soon, and we have created more jobs. You’re truly a marvel.”
Mr Larson’s eyes widened in surprise briefly. Layla beamed and thanked Mike for his praise.
Layla had an enjoyable evening. Mr Larson didn’t relax much, but she loved Mike and his wife, Sarah. Most importantly they seemed happy to broker a larger deal with Mr Larson’s company despite his common and unrefined staff. Mike and Sarah also invited Layla and Mr Larson to a golfing picnic the following weekend, and Mr Larson had agreed they would go.
It is as well I have no social life.
Mr Larson drove her back to her flat. He said nothing during the journey, and Layla said nothing to him. She was still annoyed about the things he had said to her. Her irritation flared as more time passed, and he still had offered no apology.
He stopped outside her building. “Goodnight, Miss Farrow.”
Should I say something? Argh, what’s the point? I’m seeing him for the money—I don’t care what he thinks.
“Goodnight, Mr Larson.” She got out of the car, and he sped away. He did not even wait to check that she had got inside her building.
He probably thinks his car will end up on bricks if he hangs around this common, working-class neighbourhood too long.
Mr Larson was true to his word and paid money into her bank account. He had also emailed her personal account.
Miss Farrow,
Thank you for attending the dinner last night and for making a good impression on Mr and Mrs Foster. I have paid the money into your bank as promised.
Enjoy the rest of your weekend.
Mr Larson
Mr Larson barely spoke to Layla until Wednesday when he invited her to his office.
“Miss Farrow, I’d like to cancel our meeting tonight,” he said.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“I’m not in the mood. I’ll still pay you of course,” he answered disinterestedly.
“Have I done something wrong?”
“No. Do you have something to wear for the picnic on Saturday?”
“Not yet,” she replied. “I have booked Friday afternoon off, and I am going to go shopping then.”
He nodded. “I will se
nd you some money.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I will pick you up at nine on Saturday morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to his work. “Thank you, Miss Farrow.”
Mr Larson did not comment on Layla’s outfit. He did not mention that she looked too ‘high street’ or that she ‘would have to do’, in fact, he did not comment on anything, and he drove them to the country estate in Surrey in silence.
Mr Larson led them from his car to the picnic area and carried a hamper with him. He met several people he knew.
“Larson,” a man named Chad Holmes called. “My good man, it has been too long. And who do we have here?”
“This is Miss Layla Farrow,” said Mr Larson. “She works in my office and has been helping me with Foster’s contracts.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Farrow.” Chad smiled. “And exceedingly well done. I am envious of the Foster contracts—who’d imagine a deal would go from several thousand a month to several thousand a day. I wish I’d got that chance.”
Mr Larson smiled and steered Layla away from Chad.
“Several thousand a day?” said Layla, awestruck.
Mr Larson glared at her. “You want a cut now, gold digger?”
“What?” she exclaimed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, we both know you’re obsessed with money.” He sneered.
“I am not. I haven’t asked for anything, but I wouldn’t be unreasonable if I did. You got those contracts because of me.”
He glared at her.
“What is your problem?” She growled. “Why are you so mean to me?”
“I don’t have a problem with you.”