by Jesse Joren
Your blue-gray eyes take on a steely look.
"That door is locked. No one come here without my asking. Unless I want them to. Right now I want you all to myself."
You settle into the leather chair behind your desk, then make a brief "off-with-it" gesture.
"Strip," you say.
A rush of shame and excitement steals over me. Stripping for you, here in this very expensive office high above Manhattan. How many times have I made myself hot, thinking about this?
There isn't much to remove. My dress is a simple one-piece pullover, no buttons or zipper. With one motion I tug it over my head. I smooth the folds and lay it over a nearby chair.
My heart gallops as I stand naked before you except for my sandals. I'm acutely conscious of the voices I hear passing outside in the hall. They seem loud. And close.
"Look at me, Gabrielle."
I drag my eyes up, seeing your eyes appraising me.
"You still have your toy in. Take it out. Put your leg up on my desk so I can watch."
My face burns, but the excitement throbs between my thighs as I approach your desk from my side. I lift my leg up, placing my sandal on the polished surface. I'm almost not fast enough to catch the vibrator. The open position makes it pop out, gleaming and slick.
The corners of your mouth twitch as though to smile.
"Now put it back in. Your ass this time."
A wave of light-headedness makes the room seem to rock. Carefully I move far enough in front of your desk so you can see me as I bend over from the waist. I reach back and spread my ass cheeks wide with one hand, exposing the tight little opening to you.
My free hand positions the tip of the vibrator against the puckered little hole. With a hard push I slip the warm, wet toy up into inside of me. The fullness makes my clit tingle.
Maybe it's only intuition, but I think I hear a change in your breathing behind me. A tiny surge of triumph runs through me, and I decide to tease you a little. I arch my back, thrusting out my ass and running my hands over the smooth curve of my butt.
Your voice definitely has lost a shade of its control.
"Come here," you say curtly. When I look over my shoulder, you beckon to me.
I straighten and walk around the desk to in front of you. You put your hands on my waist, pulling me closer. Your mouth is level with my nipples. When your tongue snakes out to taste them, the warmth and wetness of your mouth seep into me.
It feels good, and it hurts. There's the sensation of a warm tongue bath, but also the pain as you excite me, making my nipples swell against the twine. My clit is on fire down between the aching lips of my pussy. You close your lips over my nipple and suck hard, making me gasp.
"Does that feel better?" you ask against my skin.
"Yes," I gasp, and it's mostly true.
"I think it's time for you to see what's under my desk."
You push back your chair, motioning to the space between your legs. I lean over to peer underneath.
So you weren't teasing me after all. There's the head harness, mounted under the crosspiece of the desk. I can't see every detail, but I can make out limp leather straps, the soft metallic gleam of a tiny padlock.
"Want to see if it fits?" you ask.
I can only nod, not trusting my voice.
"Then get into your position, my little bitch." Your voice lingers over the words, making them both an insult and an endearment.
As I drop to my knees, my last view out the window is of life going on as usual down on the crowded streets. Those millions of people scurrying about their daily business with no awareness as we play our private game high above the city.
I crawl under the desk, feeling the little toy pressing into my ass. I turn to face outward, the harness hanging in front of me. Your hands adjust the leather harness, untangling the contraption so I can see how it works.
"Put your chin over the bottom strap," you instruct.
I lean forward, fitting the smooth leather strip under my chin.
"Open your mouth."
Your fingers pull up another piece of the mask, a leather-covered, two-prong affair that you position at the right side of my mouth. I feel another strap of leather pass across the back of my head, attached to the prong. A second prong gets fitted at the left side of my mouth.
With a firm tug you adjust the strap behind my head. The leather-covered prongs suddenly pull back, forcing my mouth into a wide-open position that I can't close. A leather-wrapped spider gag, made just for me.
You seem to be checking your work more by touch than by sight. I can't turn my head, but from the corner of my eye, I see your hands slipping the little padlock through a set of double-rings at the side of my head.
There's a click-click as the lock closes. I'm secured in the harness, my mouth held wide, unable to speak or move my head.
Your hands close over my right wrist like a vise, pulling my arm to the side. I can't quite cut my eyes hard enough to see, but I can feel what happens. Something hard and metal closes over my wrist, fastening me to desk.
"Now the other one," you murmur above me, working by touch. My left wrist is stretched and attached to the opposite side of the space under your desk.
Oh shit. We'd talked about the harness. The cuffs take me off-guard.
He could do anything to you right now, my mind whispers. The thought only increases the heat inside me. It's always been like this with him.
Your fingers brush my lips, coating them with something oily and fragrant. I detect the sweet, familiar odor of coconut. Possessively your fingers enter my mouth, spreading the smoothness over my lips and tongue.
"That will keep your mouth from getting dry. Are you sure you want to be my little captive cocksucker?" you tease.
Your oiled fingers slide down over my throat, over my breasts. You pull at my bound nipple, and I try to say yes. It comes out garbled around the gag.
From my position, I can see you from the waist down as you sit back, Your hands go to the zipper of your pants. My mouth starts to water as you unzip, and the hard, smooth column of your cock springs out. In spite of all my fantasies, it looks better than I ever hoped, thick and ridged.
You move your chair forward, my body fitting easily between your thighs. The angle of my head and mouth is perfect. As you press forward, my open mouth slides neatly over the firm, throbbing head.
I groan as your thick shaft pushed into my helpless mouth. The harness holds my head still as you rock your hips, fucking my mouth, rubbing the smooth oil all over your cock, smearing it on my lips each time you pull out for another thrust.
With a groan I close my lips on you as much as I can, tasting you and the oil mingling in my mouth. The heavy, musky mass of you, shaved and smooth, brushes against my face.
To my disappointment you pull out, leaning over to smile at me.
"I'm starving, and that Colombian place sometimes runs out of food early," you say. "I think I'm going to leave you here while I go get something to eat. Want anything?"
My eyes widen. You wouldn't leave me here alone like this, naked and cuffed, unable to even close my mouth.
Would you?
I stare at you and try to speak, but I can't. I pull my head, but the harness doesn't budge. My arms can only move a few inches either way.
"My advice is that you should stay very quiet," you say. "Someone might come investigate, thinking I have a mouse. You wouldn't want them to find you like this, would you?"
Your fingers trace my mouth.
"You're practically drooling. Kind of hard to swallow like this isn't it?"
You stand up and push your chair close enough to mostly hide me. I hear your voice, muffled and far away on the other side of the desk.
"We really are having a problem with rats in this building. This morning I saw a big one under the bookcase. If something scampers up your leg, offer it a lick of that sweet little pussy."
I can't stop the little squeak of fear that leaves my throat. You're probably teasing me abou
t the rat, but the problem with you is that I can't always read you. Your chuckle falls on my ears.
The door opens and shuts behind you. Silence falls in your office, and I'm left alone to wait. For how long, only you can say.
Under the desk I have no view except of your chair and a thin slice of the windows behind your desk, looking out at sky. I hear the subdued noises of a large office at lunch time, and the dim roar of the traffic far down on the street.
What have I gotten myself into? It's Friday. You could leave me here over the weekend and give the cleaning crew the weekend off. You're the only person in the world who knows where I am. Even my best friend doesn't know where I am this weekend.
Again I feel that strange surge of trust. Somehow no matter what kind of games you lead me into, I know I'm safe with you.
It begins to seem like a long time already, but it's only been minutes since you left. How to entertain myself while you're gone? I test the harness, the steel cuffs. I won't be going anywhere without a key.
I try to rearrange myself to kneel more comfortably. It doesn't help, and the expensive hardwoods are making my knees ache. You think of everything, so the lack of padding is no mistake. You want me to feel this discomfort, to be aware of my body in every way.
My mind drifts to the past. I remember the long phone conversations between us. All the times you've come to Atlanta to take me to dinner, to the theater, down to the ocean. The heat was always there between us, the tug of attraction.
But in spite of that desire, or maybe because of it, you held yourself back. Other than a few brief hugs and one kiss on the forehead, you never touched me. I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with me, but now I realize you were testing yourself more than me.
"I want you completely," you'd finally said on that last trip to see me two weeks ago. "Come to me in New York, Gabrielle. I need to know if you can give yourself to me in the way that I need. And if you can't, there's no point in going further."
Now I'm here, and the fear and excitement are almost unbearable. I want you, to be owned by you, to please you. I want to be everything you want in a woman, not to disappoint you.
Dampness is on my face from not being able to close my mouth. You spoke the truth. It's hard to swallow with the prongs propping my mouth open. My shoulders are starting to feel uncomfortable, and my knees are slowly bonding to the floor.
The oil you smeared still clings to my mouth. The scent/taste of your cock fills my mouth and throat. That tiny taste of you spins my mind in all sorts of directions. What would it be like to have that inside me, filling me until I screamed…
The sound of the door opening interrupts my thoughts. I hurriedly try to compose myself, ready to greet you with a look of reproach for leaving me alone.
Then my sense of smell warns me. It isn't you entering the office.
Who would dare to sneak in here without so much as a knock? I hear footsteps approach your desk and cringe back into the shadows. What if the intruder has business on this side of the room and finds me instead?
The door opens again. A second scent joins the first. Definitely a woman's perfume. There's the rustling the sound of papers being shuffled on your desk.
I start to get pissed on your behalf at what sounds like blatant snooping. Then I hear a husky female voice, low and breathless, a single plea.
"Fuck me. Right here, right now."
My mouth would drop open if not for the gag. There's the unmistakable sound of a zipper being ripped down, the rustlings of a skirt being lifted. A dull thud sounds over me, like someone being dropped on your desk. There's a sharp inrush of breath from the unknown woman, then rhythmic grunts.
Holy hell. They're going at it on your desk over me. The low grunts of the man intermingle with the softer moans of his partner. What kind of office is this?
Office decorum be damned. There's a heated, whispered litany of filth from the man, probably into the ear of his partner. The appreciative little squeals from her tell me this isn't their first time.
A long, drawn-out groan, and then another, signals that both intruders have finished. Hard, from the sound of things. Talk about a quickie.
After a moment of panting, there's a hasty sounds of clothes and papers being rearranged. The smell of perfume and heavy musk of sex are in the air. The door opens and shuts in a hurry, leaving me alone again.
My thoughts are in a scramble. Who the hell was that? More importantly, I realize how much I want you to take me on that same desk. Not the fast, hurried affair I just heard, but long and slow, positioning me in every way you can on the wide, dark wood.
The door opens again. Whatever happened to hanky-panky in a convenient broom closet? But I hear the difference in the step. These are the firm strides of the rightful owner of this office, not the hesitant steps of intruders.
Your shoes appear as you reach your chair, pulling it back and settling in. You peer under and smile at me, as though you find me here like this every day.
Now your coat is gone, your tie loosened around your throat. You look casual, sexy, and smug. That's exactly the expression. The cat who got the cream.
"Did you miss me?" you ask, stretching your foot between my thighs, rubbing the tip of your shoe against my hot flesh. It comes away wet.
"I guess you did. You must be thirsty. Want something to drink?"
I nod, realizing how very thirsty I am. You kneel in front of me, holding a bottle of Evian to my open mouth. I expect you to remove the prongs, but you smile and shake your head.
"Tilt your head back and relax your throat. You won't strangle. Your body knows what to do with it. Trust me."
You insert the tip of the bottle into my mouth, squeezing. A stream of the cold, delicious water hits the back of my tongue. For an instant my throat tenses. Then as you promised, my reflexes take over, and I gulp without thought.
Your fingers trail over my lips, wiping away the water splashes. My body throbs as your fingers perform this casual, intimate service. It's so easy to imagine those fingers entering other places in my body, preparing each opening for things to come.
"I brought some ice cream," you say. "Just let it melt over your tongue and take it like you did with the water."
You offer me a soft, melting spoonful of strawberry ice cream on a little plastic spoon. My eyes meet yours as my tongue extends to catch it, working the sweetness with my tongue.
Your voice is husky again.
"So many times I sat across the table from you, or next to you while I was driving. I imagined that sweet tongue licking just like that. But it was my cock, not ice cream."
A knock startles us both. In one motion you sit up and roll forward, unzipping yourself. Your hardness appears again, and you press forward and into my mouth.
"Come in," you call.
I freeze under the desk as the door opens. The taste of your musk and strawberries fills my mouth, a heady combination that makes my head spin.
A man enters and greets you, but I barely hear the exchange over my head. There's only you in my mouth, the low rumble of your voice over my head. Your composure is incredible, not a change in tone or inflection.
An evil part of me can't resist. I give you my hardest, slowest lick, feeling you twitch in my mouth. Your voice never misses a beat.
Then the visitor says something that claims my attention.
"Nice dress. The blue must bring out your eyes. You cross-dressing now?"
Oh no. My dress, draped over the visitor's chair. It probably looks cheap and discarded in the rich surroundings of the office.
"My wife asked me to drop it by the cleaners," you say.
I tense under the desk. Wife? Oh God, please don't tell me I've misread you somehow. I can deal with almost anything you throw at me. A wife isn't one of them.
The voice laughs, but it holds no real humor.
"Right. Like you'll ever marry, Mr. Fuck and Run. You got a girl in the closet, is that it?"
All at once I real
ize that as he's talked to you, I've developed an instant dislike for him. There are many things in his voice, none of them very likeable.
"No. She's under the desk taking care of me right now," you say in an off-hand tone, dropping the empty cup into the wastebasket.
I grow very still, wondering where this will go.
"Stick to the first story," the visitor advises, and again his tone makes the hair prickle on the back of my neck.
The door opens and closes behind him as he leaves without saying good-bye. I'm not sorry to have him leave. There was something about him…
You move inside my mouth.
"Sorry, that was uncalled for, but I couldn't resist. I have few phone calls to make, then we'll go back across the street. I promise you a dinner you'll never forget. What do you say?"
I'm never going to forget the afternoon. That's for sure.
Wordlessly I nod. My nipples tingle at the thought of the return trip to the hotel and what may happen when we arrive. I remember the toys, sitting mute in the darkened room.
You pick up the phone and then pause.
"By the way, was anyone in my office while I was gone? A man and a woman, maybe, on my desk?"
I nod again.
"I probably have ass prints on my desk now. I caught them once, but I was a good guy, laughed and told them to use it anytime I stepped out. So they do."
You pause, and I hear a grin in your voice.
"You think I should tell them about my hidden camera? That I sit back later and watch everything they do?"
My laugh around the mouthful of you comes out as an unladylike snort. Nothing gets past you.
Then my laughter dries up. I've stripped and performed like a whore in this same office. I don't know where the camera is either.
My stillness must give my thoughts away. You chuckle and begin to dial.
"I love that about you, Gabrielle. You're no dumb blonde. Don't worry, no one will ever see you but me. What we have is only for us. I'm selfish when it comes to you."
I should be mad. Instead I surrender to exploring your taste and texture while you do business as usual.
How can you sound so casual when I'm trying to make you moan? Once or twice, I hear the catch in your voice as I rake my teeth over you. It satisfies me. You know I'm there.