"You want me to turn over?" she asked, and I agreed as though it was something I'd been just about to request. I had conversation privileges, but the power was still hers, after all.
The towel slipped to the floor as she turned over, and neither of us was going to retrieve it. And there was Zoey, lying on her back, entirely naked before me. Stunning. Her pale breasts pointing up, her nipples stiff as I poured out more oil over her flat stomach and thighs. Her eyes were closed in complete bliss as I began to caress her again, my hands sweeping over her body, starting off lightly again before gradually stepping it up.
"You know," she said, softly, "I don't want this to be only about you saving your job, Aiden."
"No, Ma'am."
"If you want this to continue, you have to choose to continue."
"Yes Ma'am," I said. There were a few fireworks going off inside me - just a few, as the butterflies in my stomach were hogging much of the airspace in there, but certainly a rocket or two. Choose to continue - oh boy, did I want to continue. "I would choose to continue as long as you wanted me," I added, feeling strange to say it. I hadn't had a long-term relationship with anyone for so many years.
She smiled. "Good. You know, in a healthy relationship, the submissive has as much power as his Mistress. You can walk away at any time. I want you to know that."
As I slipped my hands over her skin, I had to stifle a gasp. Submissive. Was that what I'd become? Seemed kind of obvious, but I'd never thought about it in those terms before. I guess what we were doing was kind of out there. This was the kind of thing you did in shady clubs in the wrong end of town, wasn't it? Not with your boss in the office.
"Mistress…" My lips betrayed my thoughts while I was thinking them, leaving me too distracted to stop myself uttering the word.
Zoey giggled. "You sound nervous."
"Never been called submissive before."
"You know, I'm learning about this as well, right?" she sighed. "I guess I find it hard to maintain a cruel exterior with you. Even though you deserve it."
"Yes, Ma'am."
From this side, particularly with her cute breasts there for me, it seemed less like a massage and more like out-and-out fondling. Oh, I did her arms, and paid some attention to her shoulders, but it was gliding my hands over her breasts, grazing over her hard nipples that got her moaning.
Squeezing her breasts like this - was this what had happened after tennis?
Quiet sighs became little gasps and moans, my hands toying around her breasts a while before I eventually moved down again, over her stomach and down to her thighs.
I could smell a hint of her arousal in the air, even above the scent of coconut. I had to try my best to keep calm as I coaxed her thighs and calves from the front, then subtly edged open her legs again, so my caresses along her inner thighs could reach all the way up, and nudge the sides of her pussy, so sweet and pink beneath her little patch of dark hair.
She said: "I love the way you touch me, Jones."
Oh God, how wonderful did it feel to receive praise from my Mistress? I wasn't sure I liked thinking about her with that particular label - it was attached to weird, fetishy things - but how else did I refer to her status? Goddess, perhaps. I certainly intended to worship her to the best of my ability. Her power over me made it thrilling to receive a complement, because it was an outward sign that I pleased her.
"I love touching you," I said.
"Well assume you have permission to touch me wherever you want this evening," she said in that wonderfully relaxed, blissed-out honey tone.
Left hand continuing to slide over her thighs, my right now concentrated on her pussy, two fingers in particular rubbing down either side of her rose-blush lips, teasing her, coaxing out those deep moans that made the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
Then all pretense seemed to slip away, and I was using both hands to touch her there. And a finger slipped inside her slippery folds, penetrating her pussy.
"Oh God," she shivered, and I couldn't help but think of a certain tennis player in college, now even wishing this was the way it had gone back then. So hot. I wanted my beautiful Goddess to have had this kind of pleasure before me, though that selfish part that still pulsed inside wanted me to be the best she'd ever had, of course.
One finger became two, and as her moans encouraged me onward, my massage had turned fully into more. My fingers sought out the heat and the wetness, focusing the pressure around her clit and then inside her soft pussy.
I wondered if I had actually learned something from the long process of massaging the rest of her body - I was touching her in a way I'd never really touched a girl before - slower, more sensual, responding to the rhythms and motions of her body and her breathing.
She was so wet, and at last, I couldn't resist any longer, and now my lips touched gently down over her clit, my tongue slipping out to dip into her wet folds, and Zoey's moans turned suddenly deeper, more chesty.
Pushing up her thighs for easier access, she didn't stop me - almost seemed to expect it, lying there on her back, eyes closed, mouth open as she sucked in oxygen, responding to my own mouth now fastening upon her sensitive flesh.
"Oh, Aiden Jones, what are you doing to me…"
As I licked her, her head tilted back and she seemed almost to be in pain, hands gripping the towel beside her as though coping with agony. Yet her breathless moans were so candid to the overwhelming pleasure flowing through her body, making me wonder if my massage had somehow tuned her up, emphasizing the sensations from my tongue.
How strange it was to consider that when I'd been with other girls - the one-a-week dates that Zoey had jealously alluded to - I'd rarely given much oral sex, if at all. It hadn't ever been because I didn't enjoy it, even with girls who weren't as incredible as Zoey. Somehow, it felt to me as though something had been overlooked in the process. I'd always been so keen to get that notch on my bedpost that I'd simply rushed on by, while my dates had always been the kind of girls that had just wanted to please me, and be used by me.
To really appreciate this, time needed to be taken - and that time was not only the guy's to take. The woman had to be able to lie back and relax, enjoy it, allow her partner to spend the time.
I felt I needed more time to perfect this, once again considering the need for research to become a better man, a better lover. Yet with a plaintive cry, she was shuddering through a wonderful climax, and my time slurping her juices was ending.
"Oh that was incredible," she sighed as I picked myself up, stood up straight as though ready to serve her further. "You know, Jones, normally Tuesday and Thursday nights, I go to the gym. I could do with this kind of massage afterwards."
"I'd love to, Ma'am," I said.
She smiled, sat up on the table and reached for me.
"Sit down on the couch for me."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And pass me the oil - I think you deserve some payback."
I did as she asked, and Zoey now sat on the floor in front of me, pouring out some of that coconut oil into her palm.
"I think my hands are a little cold," she said, "but you'll soon warm them up."
I did flinch as her fingers closed around my shaft, pale and chilled as icicles. She used both hands to spread the oil over my full length, and then slowly began to explore me, checking out my erection in a patient fashion, perhaps mirroring my slow exploration of her pussy at the tail end of my massage.
"You remember that you're not to come until I say that you can, don't you, Jones?"
"Yes, Ma'am," I said, hopeful that I would get that release soon.
"Good," she said, sliding her fingers all over my sensitive hard flesh, feeling me out via the slippery oil. "I enjoy the pleasure you give me, but I also enjoy the pleasure I give you - and I don't want you taking that for yourself. I control it."
"Yes, Ma'am."
She poured a little more of the cool oil over the tip of my cock, making me flinch slightly once again.
"If you have an orgasm without my permission, you'll be punished, Jones," she said, putting her hands together to close around my well-lubricated shaft to continue pumping me, both hands together able squeeze me so tight.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"If you take your own orgasm, you'll only have to wait longer for another one," she said, and then she briefly stopped pumping me to add: "Oh, and if you do slip one off behind my back, you'll tell me - or else the punishment will be worse. Understand?"
"Yes Ma'am."
"Great. Then I think we're done for the night, Jones."
God, I walked right into that. I guess in life there's always a balance of good and bad - everything can't always go your way. I had saved my job, I had the most beautiful woman I'd ever known ready to use me for her own sexual pleasure - and tell me how I was to fulfill her every expectation, which was valuable in itself - there had to be a downside somewhere.
So here was my downside - walking back out to my car, my loins throbbing with a denied need.
Chapter Nine
I guess, looking back, Zoey had started dressing in power suits ever since she'd been promoted to the vice president position, and although my sulky attitude meant I had entirely failed to notice the change in her from the librarian she'd been before, she had definitely changed.
But now she'd taken control of me, taken control of my orgasms, I think she was encouraged to go even further, wearing particularly hot outfits just to rub it in my face. Short skirts became scandalous, bras became seriously push-up, shirts went a little more transparent. Taunting me.
Yet it was her confidence I found most sexy, her knowing attitude and the occasional mischievous glance that told me in no uncertain terms she knew exactly what affect she was having on me.
I spent some restless nights after tending to Zoey's needs either in the office or her apartment - lying in bed all worked up with no release possible. Sure, I was tempted to cheat on my pledge. But despite feeling convinced I could cover up the physical signs of my transgression, I knew full well that I'd find it difficult to lie to Zoey. She'd only have to ask a few questions and I'd cave.
So I had to suffer - and Zoey was not going to make it easy for me.
My co-workers even remarked on the way she was dressing these days, and I had to rein them in a little to keep their focus on the job at hand.
In particular, whenever she wore fishnet stockings to work - even with a slightly longer skirt to downplay it a little - the testosterone levels in the office shot through the roof. My colleagues on the sales floor were finding it hard to keep their tongues inside their mouths.
"Wish she'd go visit a few of my clients dressed like that," Finnegan muttered as I declared a unilateral ban on spending fruitless time staring at our VP's door hoping she would appear again.
"Finn, please," I said.
"Hey, I'll get some of that action - my clients won't budge." That was Brooks, who like Finnegan wasn't having a good month.
I sighed, "You guys saying you need a woman to help make sales? Maybe I should fire you, hire a few women instead."
In fairness, our sales team was horrifically male - we did badly need more of a gender balance, that was true enough. My recruitment policy took a significant diversion after Zoey tamed me, but back then we were unlikely to recruit anyone extra unless our numbers improved.
The semi-joking threat got the boys to simmer down, but there were still a multitude of glances directed toward Zoey's door, just a little more subtle. And some of those glances were mine.
It wasn't just her dress sense that got me going.
I'd be sitting at my desk, and she'd send me increasingly risky messages through the instant messenger system. While she avoided email, which was traceable, the IM system seemed safe to her.
She'd kick off mid-morning, perhaps, with:
> I'm bored of the McKammon account. Entertain me?
The question mark signaled that I could talk to her, I guess, though in real life her demands were not optional. I'd want nothing more than a quick walk into her office for some high-risk mid-day oral servitude. But there was always the slight chance she actually did want details on what the sales team was up to, how things were going.
I'd usually feel it best to err on the side of caution to begin with:
> Do you want me to run through where our other key accounts stand?
I'd wait a moment or two, and she hit back with something more suggestive:
>I'd rather find out about how your key account is standing.
And then I'd be looking around the room, checking to make sure I was safe, that noone else could see the words appearing on my screen. I never needed to worry - even when there was someone looking my way, the size of the text on my screen was too diminutive for anyone to actually read unless they were peering over my shoulder.
Sometimes, when I judged her mood was right, I might tease her a little myself, play the innocent regarding her innuendo:
>I can tell you that RGV Ingrams is close to committing to Construction Week, if that's what you mean?
She'd soon show her true colors.
>Don't be facetious. I'm not interested in your clients at the moment, thank you, Jones.
I'd stifle a snigger. I liked flirting with her on IM.
> Do you realize what a pack of slobbering hyenas you've turned our sales team into today?
> I haven't even spoken to the sales team today. What could be on their minds?
Zoey could be really quite casual in our IM banter, but I made the effort to remain respectful. It wasn't that I was concerned she would suddenly take offense and want to punish me - I found I actively wanted to be respectful. I wanted to put her on a pedestal, adore her like the goddess she was.
So, for example, in hinting that her clothing choice was distracting my colleagues, I tried to avoid any sense I was criticizing her.
>I think it may have something to do with the way your outfit highlights your incredible beauty particularly well today.
> And does that mean you're a slobbering hyena as well?
>I have a bucket on hand to keep from messing up the carpet.
I could imagine her shut away in her corner office being amused by my attempts to tread carefully in our conversation, and I liked it.
>I'm sorry I've caused you such trouble.
>It's no trouble. I can handle it.
>Can you handle it if I was to tell you that right now I'm thinking about your beautiful hard cock?
>That would make it a little more difficult.
>How I'm thinking about your next reward, when time comes...
> And what are you thinking my next reward might be?
>Maybe it might involve putting your cock somewhere hot and wet. Are you slobbering right about now?
>I can't help it, Ma'am.
>Is your cock nice and hard as you sit there, imagining me sucking it?
>Like a rock. I'll have to sit here the rest of the day, or someone will see it.
And at that point, often the messaging would stop for a while, and she'd leave me to stew in the thought of her rewarding me, taking our sexual congress to the next level, perhaps even allowing me release.
*
I could usually tell her mood, and a little about what kind of entertaining she might be craving, from her dress sense. Very short skirts often meant she'd need me to go down on her the moment our colleagues had gone home. More conservative attire might mean she was off to the gym after work, and would need a massage afterward. Pants seemed to mean a night off for yours truly for whatever reason.
Later on, fishnet stockings came to mean she felt like tying me up.
Being the default dominant male before Zoey had come along, I'd never been shackled by anyone else before. I'd never even thought about it as an option in the bedroom - and whenever I heard about it in the media, I always thought it some weird kind of kink for scary people in leather and gimp masks.
The first time, she took me to a hotel. It was
a nice hotel, but walking in with a beautiful woman whose legs were bound in black fishnets made me feel so unbelievably seedy. The fact she'd hiked up her skirt and added garish bright scarlet lipstick on the way over made it feel even more like I'd picked her up from some street corner somewhere.
We had a few curious glances from other hotel patrons, and naturally as we stepped up to check in, Zoey received a full up-and-down from the receptionist.
"It's a nice hotel," she said to me on the way up to our room in the elevator. "Thought it might be good to get away from it - really let go."
I trembled as she said that. What was she planning?
"When I started as an intern," she was explaining while I quivered next to her, "this is where they put me up for the first week until I got an apartment sorted out."
"That was nice of them," I said, my thoughts tumbling out of my mouth since I was a little on the nervous side.
"They wanted to impress me, I guess," she said, overlooking my unauthorized speech.
It did feel good to get away from it all, and indulge in the stylish yet anonymous interior of a top hotel. Ours was an impressive room - complete with a large four-poster bed, with clean white bedding and semi-transparent white curtains at each corner that made the place look more suited to the tropics, perhaps, for some colonial island governor's master bedroom.
Submitting to Her Page 7