The Master & the Secretary (Finding Master Right Book 2)

by Claire Thompson

  “Yes,” he breathed, continuing to whip me harder and harder, all the while stroking my sex until I was wriggling around, my skin on fire, passion making my blood boil. Unaware of what I was doing, I rolled over suddenly, and his flogger struck my breasts, the tips whipping across my right nipple like needles.

  I squealed and instinctively covered my breasts with my hands, the pleasure receding.

  He dropped the flogger and lowered his mouth to my stinging nipple. As his tongue moved over it, the sting was erased, though the fire in my belly only intensified. Utterly shameless, I reached for him and pulled him down on top of me, seeking his mouth, those lips, with mine.

  He held me close as he kissed me. I could feel his erection beneath his trousers. “I want you,” he breathed in my ear. “I must have you.”

  “Yes,” I groaned in reply. “Please.”

  He lifted himself from me long enough to pull off the rest of his clothing. He had one of those condom things, and I suppose I was glad he’d thought of that, though somehow it made what we were doing less of a fantasy, more of a cold reality—we were committing adultery, no matter how you sliced it.

  When he entered me, I began to convulse. For a second, I was afraid I was having a seizure, but as he began to move inside me, I realized I was having an orgasm, and then my mind shut off as he made love to me for what seemed like hours.

  I woke sometime in the middle of the night. I was alone in my bed, Mr. Stevenson long gone. I lay there awake for a long time, reliving the stunning events of the evening, both shocked and thrilled at what had taken place between us.

  Now we’re back at the office, once again Mr. Stevenson and Olivia, boss and secretary, with no mention of what happened, and no idea of when it might happen again.

  I’ll admit it here. I’m not sorry it happened. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it. I want what he offers. I want more than he’s offered so far. Now the question is, how am I going to get it?

  ~*~

  “Wow,” Tess murmured, letting Olivia’s journal slide from her hands. She turned to Ryan in the bed. “He whipped her. He actually whipped Olivia. I can’t even imagine it.”

  “Can’t you, Tess?”

  Tess swallowed hard. She’d had a full-blown daydream after reading Charlotte’s Awakening, one she had yet to share with Ryan. In the fantasy, Tess was standing in a room, her arms raised high overhead, her wrists bound in thick rope. Her ankles were also bound, forcing her to stand with legs far apart. She was naked, her skin gleaming with sweat.

  Ryan stood behind her. Though he didn’t say a word, she could sense his power, both sensual and dangerous. The only sound in the room was her own rapid breathing. Though she couldn’t see him, somehow she knew he was holding a whip. Not a flogger as Olivia had described, but a long, single tail whip, coiled like a snake in his hand, ready to strike.

  Ryan was watching her now. He repeated the question. “Can’t you imagine that whipping, Tess?”

  “Yes,” she admitted softly. Why not tell him the truth? She could trust him. “I actually had this daydream after reading the novel you gave me.”

  “Tell me.”

  She described the fantasy, though putting the underlying feelings into words was harder than just describing the scenario. “It seemed so real. Like every nerve in my body was poised and waiting for the cut of the lash against my skin.”

  “Did you want it? Do you want to experience that for yourself?”

  “I-I don’t know. I do. And I don’t. If that even makes sense.”

  “You’re afraid but curious.”

  “Yes,” Tess agreed, not sure which feeling was stronger.

  Ryan leaned over her, kissing her eyelids shut. Speaking in a soft, seductive voice, he murmured, “I love the fantasy you’ve created, Tess. I can totally imagine it. You, tied and bound, helpless really, the thick rope snug around your wrists and ankles. There’s no way out. You’re completely at your Master’s mercy. He possesses you at that moment, in every sense of the word.”

  Tess shivered at Ryan’s words.

  He stroked her right nipple and captured it between thumb and forefinger, squeezing lightly at first, and then harder. “In the fantasy, you’re turned on but scared. There’s no one there to set you free, no one but the Master to hear your cries.” His voice had deepened, his words weaving a sensual spell over her. “You have to take it, Tess. To take the whipping. Your Master is aware of your fear, but also of your need. He leads you slowly, carefully, but inexorably, to that dark, sensual place where pain and pleasure no longer have separate meaning.”

  “Oh my god,” Tess breathed, feeling both hot and cold. “It’s like you’re inside my head.” She turned to him. “Is that what you want, Ryan? Would it excite you to whip a woman?”

  To whip me.

  Ryan’s smile was slow and sensual, his eyes glittering with lust. “Yes, Tess. It’s what I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted, but I’d never found the right woman. Until now.”

  Tess drew in a breath, her heart pounding. He reached for her, pulling her closer. As she nestled against him, he said, “Are you ready to go to the next level, Tess? To turn your fantasies into reality?”

  Tess thought a while before answering, honestly weighing her conflicting feelings in her mind. “It’s weird,” she finally said, “because while it really turned me on to read all that stuff in Charlotte’s Awakening, I don’t know if I could handle that kind of intensity in real life. I mean, I’m not into pain. I don’t like stubbing my toe. I considered getting a tattoo once, but the thought of the needles made me woozy. Not to mention, I’m a firm believer in equality and women’s rights. So why did I get so incredibly turned on when Charlotte was chained and brutally whipped, not only by her lover, but by his butler? Why did I get such a dark thrill when she was raped by the guy’s chauffeur and then casually sodomized by her lover?”

  Ryan snorted, though his expression was thoughtful. “I totally get what you’re saying. Regarding women’s rights, there’s no conflict. You can be a kickass attorney and completely in charge of your own affairs and decisions, but still choose to submit sexually to your partner. I think that’s the crux of it—choice. A consensual, informed and willing exchange of power. True liberation is the freedom to actually be who you are. To be true to yourself, and that doesn’t just include women.”

  “That makes sense,” Tess agreed. “I never really thought about it that way, but yeah. I like that.”

  Ryan nodded. “And regarding erotic pain, stubbing your toe or getting repeatedly poked by a tattoo artist has nothing to do with it. Being a sexual masochist, or a sensual sadist for that matter, is a whole different experience. It’s not about inflicting or receiving the pain per se. It’s about erotic domination and submission. It’s about surrender and trust. It’s about sensation, and the incredible rush, both physical and mental, of a true exchange of power.”

  He stroked her hair, his voice calm, but she could feel the intensity beneath it—his need for her to understand, and the underlying trust that went with it. She fell a little more in love with him, if that was possible.

  “I’ve had a little experience,” he went on, “and I’ve done a lot of reading and research about BDSM, and what I’ve come to realize is that we’re hardwired a particular way, sexually speaking. We may or may not choose to act on those feelings, but I’m dominant and sensually sadistic—it’s a part of who I am at my core, just like I believe you’re submissive and sexually masochistic. Mainstream acceptance of this kind of sexuality is still relatively new, and certainly not universal. BDSM is still largely misunderstood by most people.”

  Tess nodded. “I get it. I think I’ve always had these feelings, but I never dared to act on them. I’m so glad I found Olivia’s diaries, even if it’s still hard to get my head around the fact she’s my grandmother.” She gave a small laugh.

  “And I’m glad you shared them with me,” Ryan said. “Her journals are like a gateway for us. They’ve give
n us permission to explore our own D/s connection, on our own terms. And we’re lucky. We don’t have to sneak around. We don’t have to feel guilty about what we’re doing.”

  She stroked Ryan’s smooth chest. “So you’re hardwired to be sexually dominant, but you’ve waited until you’re practically thirty to act on it?” she said in a teasing voice, though her heart was beating fast, her mind reeling with the possibilities.

  “I guess I was waiting for the right woman,” he replied seriously. “Trust is a two-way street, as you know. I feel safe with you—safe to express my true feelings and desires.”

  Tess warmed at his words. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to make light of your feelings. I’m honored to be your safe place, and I feel the same way. It’s just so much to take in. To-to admit to myself, much less another person, that I want to be tied down, to be controlled, to be…whipped.” It was hard even to say the words, but at the same time somehow freeing.

  “And yet, for you,” Ryan replied, “when you can throw off all the noise from societal expectations and norms and all that other crap, it’s the most natural thing in the world, because it’s a part of what you are. It’s like being gay or left-handed. You can pretend to be hetero, or make yourself learn to write with your right hand, but in the end, you still are what you are. The cool thing—the awesome thing—is when you can get to a place where you not only accept that about yourself, but embrace it—celebrate it.”

  He pushed her gently onto her back and leaned up beside her to stare down into her eyes. “It’s like Olivia’s Mr. Stevenson said. You and I have found this rare, kindred connection. We have the chance to discover together where it might take us.” He stroked her cheek and then slid his hand below her jawline, his fingers spanning out to grip her lightly by the throat.

  His touch sent a shiver of both fear and lust hurtling through her frame. She stared up into his eyes, mesmerized by his gaze, his words, and the power implied in his primal grip. “This is the opportunity we’ve both been waiting all our lives for. The question is, do we have the courage to seize it?”

  Chapter 7

  December 4, 1961

  Okay, it’s been way too long since I wrote in this thing. I realized it when he asked me this morning how my journal is going. He still wants me to write about what I’m feeling, to explore it honestly and without editing my reactions.

  “This isn’t for my consumption,” he reminded me. “It is for yours alone. Your journal is a place to express your feelings without censoring them. Be honest with yourself. That can be harder than you think.”

  He’s right. Sometimes, I find myself wanting to deny my own feelings, or deny that something aroused me. I have to wonder—are there others out there like me? Like him? Is our behavior sick and twisted, or, as Mr. Stevenson calmly assures me, just another facet of our innate sexuality?

  Where do I start?

  Things between us are definitely more…intimate. No question, we crossed a line at the hotel. I’ve betrayed my husband in such a final and absolute sense. Though if I’m really honest, I betrayed Frank the first time I let Mr. Stevenson use a ruler, or permitted him to stare at me in that way he has, as if he can see not only through my clothing, but into my very heart and soul.

  And yet, at the same time I don’t feel as if I’ve betrayed anyone. I am still the same Livvie at home, taking care of Frank and kids, involved in everyone’s lives, behaving as I always do. If anything, guilt has driven me to be even more attentive to my husband. And as long as I keep it ladylike and am not too demanding—I’m coming to realize how ridiculous this is, the limits we put on ourselves and let others put on us—Frank seems happy enough with our sex life.

  I am reasonably able to compartmentalize my life, leaving my submissive behaviors and Mr. Stevenson’s influence here at the office when I leave. It’s best to keep what we have just where we have it.

  But what is it, exactly, that we have?

  Perhaps I’ll just write for a while. Describe some of the things we’ve begun to incorporate into our strange little world here in this office.

  My daily routine has changed somewhat. I still come in a half-hour before Mr. Stevenson and remove my girdle and practical underpants, replacing them with a garter belt and pretty panties. I have a dozen pairs now, and I wash them out at the end of the day and leave them discreetly to dry overnight on a rack I brought in for the purpose.

  But now, if we aren’t expecting any clients, I am to remove my bra as well, but put back my dress or blouse and jacket. Sometimes, he’ll take no notice of my state of semi-undress the entire day, but I’m always hyper-aware of it. At first I was mildly scandalized at going without a bra, something I never do, even at home under my housedress. But I rather like the sensation, and the freedom. Several times a day I’ll go into the bathroom and reach into my blouse to touch my nipples. They have become “needy”—Mr. Stevenson’s term.

  He explains that he wants each part of my body to become needy, to experience a constant readiness and desire for his touch, whether it be gentle or harsh.

  Yesterday, he came to stand in front of my desk. I was just completing a letter and I finished typing the sentence before looking up at him.

  “Unbutton your blouse.”

  Keeping my eyes on his face, I obediently unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse, my heart racing, nipples instantly erect. He nodded, indicating I should continue. Even though he’s seen me completely naked, I still feel shy displaying myself like that. I love to obey him, however. It satisfies something deep in my soul. I undid all the buttons, pulling the blouse from my skirt to get at the bottom ones.

  Mr. Stevenson placed his hand inside the open blouse and cupped my left breast. I’m sure he could feel the thudding of my heart. Using his thumb and forefinger, he rolled my nipple, gently at first, then with more pressure.

  Heat rushed into my face as he fondled me. It’s so annoying the way I constantly blush. I wish I could control that, but Mr. Stevenson say he enjoys eliciting that response in me. I still hate it.

  Anyway, he drew his hand away and my other breast felt “needy”—it wanted to be touched and teased too. He pulled the blouse from my shoulders, completely exposing me. I had to grip the desk to resist my impulse to cover myself. At the same time, I was hot and wet between my legs.

  “What do you want, Olivia?”

  I didn’t answer right away, not sure what to say—how much to admit.

  “I asked you a question, Olivia,” he said, his voice growing stern. “You will answer me.”

  “I-I want you to touch my other breast,” I admitted.

  His smile was cruel, his eyes glittering like chips of blue ice as he reached for my other nipple and caught it in a sudden, painful twist.

  It hurt.

  But along with the pain came the same dark, urgent thrill I’d experienced when he’d flogged me that night at the hotel. I don’t understand myself—how I can both hate and crave the pain, but Mr. Stevenson says that’s okay. He says he will understand for both of us. All I have to do is accept it.

  After teasing and twisting my nipples until I was a panting wreck, he said casually, “You know, a good legal secretary should always exhibit excellent powers of concentration. Let’s see how well you can concentrate, Olivia, while being distracted.” He lifted a sheet of paper from a file on my desk. “Have you prepared these briefs yet?”

  “No, Sir.” I looked down. My nipples were poking from my breasts like hard red cherries.

  “You will begin with this one.” He set the page on my typewriter. “Type up the comments I’ve made in the margins. Focus completely on your task, no matter what I do to you. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, biting back a yelp of nervous excitement. I’ll admit it, I love this kind of game, and I was hot to trot.

  Then he added, “I’m going to inspect your work, Olivia. For each error I find, I will punish you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, some of
my excitement dampened by his threat. I was determined to produce a flawless product. Taking a fresh sheet of bond from the drawer, I slid it into my trusty typewriter, trying to act calm and professional, which is hard to do when your blouse is hanging off your shoulders, your bare breasts on full display.

  Mr. Stevenson moved to stand behind me. At first, I had no problem focusing, but then he placed his hands on my shoulders. He pushed the blouse farther down so it hampered my arms as I tried to type.

  I thought about just wriggling out of it so I could type more effectively, but he hadn’t said anything about removing the blouse, so I just gamely continued typing. Meanwhile his hands moved from my shoulders to my breasts. Still behind me, he took each nipple between thumb and forefinger and began to roll them, sending waves of pleasure, and sometimes of pain when he tweaked too hard, through my body.

  The more aroused I got, the harder it was to focus. When he lowered his head to nuzzle my neck, my hands fell away from the typewriter and I sighed with pleasure.

  He pulled away and snapped, “Olivia, pay attention to what you’re doing. You forget yourself.”

  My eyes, which had fluttered shut of their own accord, popped open as I put my hands back into position on the keyboard. Just as I was finding my place again, he gripped my nipples, twisting them so hard I yelped, my fingers fumbling as they smacked the wrong keys.

  “Focus,” he commanded in a hard voice.

  I tried to obey, and I did manage a few more lines, but I was so aroused and confused by the sensations of heat and desire deep in my belly, juxtaposed with the twisting pain at my nipples, that I barely knew what I was doing.

  I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, and finally I gave up trying to type. He pulled my head back and kissed me hard on the mouth. If he’d ordered me to strip and lie down on the carpet, I would have done it.