A Master For A Desperate Slave Page 3

  “Yes, sir,” I stare up meekly. I have no hope of doing anything he suggests. It’s all too vague. I don’t how to manage myself. Why would I know how to manage a company as complex as my import business? After three years, I’m finally beginning to understand this about myself. I suppose I never thought about my losses when the business was booming and I could afford to let some of my customers slide. But the last few months, sales took a terrible downturn. I have this terrible feeling they are not going to rebound.

  When I return to the office, Randall Tyler is there cooling his heels, staring out the window at the street below. The traffic is light; there’s not much to see. He whips around abruptly when the door opens. The man is small but he packs a lot of power in his five foot four frame. He glares like a beast, coldly. I find him intimidating because he’s so impeccably perfect, with flawless skin and perfect manners and precise clipped speech. While he may look worried, I know that whatever message he delivers, he’ll do so with utmost calm, and flawless diction.

  The quick flash of anger fades as he starts to speak. “Seems as if you’re away from this office more than you’re here.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I needed to run an errand.” I rush in and try to look busily engaged.

  “I got a call from Sandoli in New York. He was worried that you were going to miss another deadline with that fabric from Manila.”

  I’m sure my face pales while I grittily say, “I don’t think so.” Manila? Manila? I can’t even think straight. My hand is trembling so badly that I grab it with the other and pray he doesn’t see the show of tattered nerves.

  “Good.” He nods his head as if he actually buys my weak response, then with his hands behind him, he strolls around the office like a real estate appraiser making mental notes.

  No. He doesn’t believe me; and he shouldn’t. Manila is the latest of my failings, but I won’t admit that to him. My mind swims; I can hardly think.

  Tyler finally turns to me again. “I’m beginning to think that it will be necessary for me to intervene.”

  “Intervene?”

  “Bring in someone who can help you, rather than have important business fall through the cracks. I know this company is your life; I’d hate to see you lose what you love so dearly.”

  “I can’t imagine that happening.” Right. I’ve imagined that happening every day for three years.

  “Good. I’m glad.” He’s sounding much more light-hearted. “Then I can trust that you’ll get back to Sandoli this afternoon?”

  “Absolutely. You can be sure, as soon as I find out what’s happened to that shipment of fabric.”

  He nods again, while heading for the door. I watch him stop with his hand on the doorknob, make a half turn, then stop himself. He decides not say anything more and leaves.

  I get the sense that he’s marking time, perhaps carefully planning my ouster. Gathering evidence. Gauging. Weighing facts. His mind is in motion making decisions that will exclude me. I’m sure of it. He could have this place running like clockwork within days. Why can’t I just let go of it and let someone else take over? I don’t know how many times I’ve asked myself this question. But I know the answer before I even think about the question.

  ***

  Late afternoons draw me in like sultry summer country days. My mind is in Napa drinking wine, lazing in the sun eating grapes and savory pasta, shrimp on ice, olives, juicy plums and cold poached salmon. From the office windows I can’t see the mountains or the ocean, or the valley above where my heart wants to dine on drunken pleasure. My longing for those northern counties fills me with the urge to leave, as in pack up and head north; but then, this is just today’s pipe dream. Besides, I don’t have the guts to return to the valley.

  Three years ago I was last there with Benjamin, and the memories are so thick they buzz my mind like a swarm of restive bees.

  “Dana?”

  The voice is familiar, but so unexpected.

  I turn around.

  “Sir!” I can’t believe I’m seeing his towering figure at the door. “What? I-I thought you weren’t—”

  I’m totally unprepared for him… ‘I won’t be back until late next week.’

  “Is this what you do all day? Daydream? No wonder your business is in a tailspin.”

  A tailspin? Who said tailspin? Has he been talking to Tyler? No. That’s impossible. He doesn’t even know him.

  “I was just taking a break,” I answer weakly.

  I instinctively back up as he approaches, feeling an onslaught of energy hit me squarely in the groin. And it doesn’t stop there; the feeling is all over me, ravaging my body as if it hasn’t cum in days. His eyes and grim expression assault me. The fact that he knows me in an intimate physical ways almost annoys me. There’s something peculiar even wrong about weaving my Bdsm life with the real world of my business and that makes me nervous. I did it before with Benjamin and the results where disastrous.

  I know what he’s after without his saying another word, and as inappropriate as it would be to indulge right now, right inside my office, that only makes the temptation greater. The strange juxtaposition of my two lives will only add a special kick that I can’t have any way else.

  He scares me; his footsteps are all I hear. The floorboards creak like a house creaks portentously in the darkness of night. The huge sound drowns out the noises from the street below.

  I smell him. His scent pours over me, the earthy masculine scent of breeding and seduction. As his callused hand reaches out to touch my face, I smell the aroma of his soap, soap meant to wash away the chemicals from his darkroom. An amateur photographer, he’s been developing pictures. Maybe they are of me.

  I lay my head against his open palm while I feel my heart throb with desire. He shouldn’t be here, I tell myself in an ever-repeating refrain. But how can I send him away? I need this. I need him. Five days without him and my life is coming unglued.

  I close my eyes and drink in all that he brings to me, even as I remind him, “Sally will be returning soon.”

  “Then I’ll fuck you in your office,” he answers, unconcerned.

  “Is that wise?” I look at him earnestly.

  “It’s what I want.”

  “Yes, sir.” I won’t voice any further objections, but I feel my cheeks begin to burn, my heart race and my gut clench. Nothing good can come of this, my intuition shouts at me.

  Ignoring intuition, I pull away from him, take his hand and lead him into my office. The door closes with a firm click behind us.

  “By the windows with your clothes off,” he says, directly. “You know how I hate those clothes.”

  Yes. It’s the Ivy League sensibility for dress, the preppy stylishness that hates my funky attire. This morning, I was in a good but queer mood, and decided to dress in my best stripped nylons, the red wrap skirt and a purple bustier that shoves my breasts into a plump cleavage. Of course, since modesty dictates that I subdue the slut look, I’ve worn a leather bomber jacket over the ensemble. I’ve been roasting in it since noon and am actually glad to be shedding it now.

  “I’m expected to be quirky,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head. “No, you’re expected to be a professional,” he says judgmentally.

  He’s probably right. No one I know approves of how I dress. But when I’m in a mood as I’ve been today, I can feel my creative juices flowing and that’s exactly what I need. Until Locksley walked in, I felt flippantly happy.

  I move to the windows and begin to strip, while keeping my eye flirtatiously on my master’s face.

  “Turn around; I want to see your ass,” he says.

  I turn and continue the lengthy process of removing the bustier. The laces so tightly bind my midsection that it’s actually freeing to feel the confining garment loosened before it falls to the floor. I breathe in the essence of that moment of relief, knowing it may be my last before I finish with my master’s demands. Funny, since we spoke last, I have been questioning our relationsh
ip in my mind, feeling a determination in me to end a situation that’s only making my life more complicated. And yet, the moment I heard his voice, there wasn’t one doubt in my mind that I needed him, or any thought about ending our relationship. Not a single thought until now—and even now, it’s just a fleeting recollection. The disquiet has passed. All that is me, body, mind, heart and soul are joined together in the experience of what he brings. I want the pleasure, the long languid, loving nights in bed, the wild scenarios of humiliation and abuse, yes, even the pain that I know will come from his cruelty.

  Most of all, right now, I desire the altered space he will create in me that will take me off this planet and into our private realm. I feel that altered space already coming to me, almost upon me as I finally remove the last of my kinky clothes, the striped stockings he hates the most, and toss them aside.

  I face the windows and feel his eyes boring into my skin, though they go far deeper than the surface of my flesh. The back of my neck heats, as does my spine, as his eyes travel downward to my ass.

  “Put your hands on the window,” he orders.

  I do, then close my eyes and listen as the floor creaks again under the weight of his boots when he approaches. I can almost smell his breath, taste his mouth, feel his fingertips. I hope for some physical contact. But it’s not his flesh that connects with my naked body.

  He strikes my ass with a small whip that he can use effectively in a cramped place. I cringe as the first strike merely grazes my skin, knowing what comes next. The small hurts become bigger ones as he slices my back side over and over again, punishing me, as he warned he would. My suffering begins, but I don’t dare whimper. I’m sure he approves of my restrained response since he’s not one for screaming subs.

  I hold in and hang on as strike after strike tortures my flesh, and even when he changes implements and uses a thin whippy cane on my posterior. Oh, I have sat bare-assed on the welts before, for days after such a caning. I can already feel the marks rising on the flushed surface of my bottom.

  “Spread your legs,” he says and I unthinkingly obey. Intuitively, I know that in seconds he’ll clip my privates with a painful message of surrender. I want his cock in me, whether it impales my cunt or reams my ass, it doesn’t matter. My emptiness breeds my desire.

  One cut of that whippy devil laces my pubic lips and I flinch with every nerve in me seizing up. I can hardly breathe. If only I could scream. But surely Sally has returned from lunch by now, and the boys of Morris & Rainey Architectural Design next door will hear the sound.

  When my master pauses for even a second, the throbbing in my pussy expands. The heat in my belly taunts me. The cum is on me, if only—

  He continues on as I open my eyes and thoughtlessly gaze through the windows. My body is smashed against the thick glass as if I’m trying to escape, my nipples pressed against the streaky surface—I should be thankful the windows need to be cleaned and the world outside can’t see me now in this second story loft.

  “Tell me? Are you wet?” he says when he stops the assault.

  He knows I am, but wants me to show him my glistening fingers once I’ve stabbed them into my cunt and garnered the evidence of my want.

  He sits now casually with one hip on the side of my desk, looking outrageously sexy—I’m a sucker for a man in jeans and boots—his more casual attire. He pulls off the look like a young Calvin Klein.

  “Come here,” he says.

  I’m quick to follow the order, although this is enough of a break in the scene to have me wondering what is going on in the outer office. Does Sally even have a clue? And just now, wasn’t that the outside door I heard open and close?

  But once my master has his hands on me, I forget my fearful worries; it’s just my body and me and his open palms running over my flesh, passionately prodding, slapping lightly as a reminder of the pain on my wounded skin. I’m almost over his lap, spanking style, but this is no spanking but a prelude to sex. He gathers the wetness from my pussy and pushes three fingers into my anus. “You’re going to wear a dildo tomorrow; I want it loose enough for my fist.” He whispers so quietly, I wonder if he, too, is mindful of what’s going on beyond these walls.

  When he finally pulls up, he thrusts me over my desk. My ass faces the door, although it’s at an angle so that even when he comes up from behind me with his organ erect, pries apart my cheeks and shoves his member against the puckering rosebud, the condition of my rosy bottom, and the impalement of my behind are clearly visible from the door. Of course, the positioning would only be important if there were someone at the door, for that someone would have a full view of me being anally fucked. I understand the risk we take, my vulnerable position; and I sense what’s bound to happen long before it does. But I can’t stop my master and I can’t stop myself.

  It’s only after the heavy breathing begins and I’m starting to groan from the fullness that expands my ass wide open, that in the back of my mind I hear the office door squeak. It takes some seconds to fully understand, then reality finally hits hard and my fears materialize. Someone is standing at the door, watching.

  “Dana Ransom, is this how you spend your working hours?”

  Randall Tyler’s voice rings through the steamy air like a bell ringing on a rain-washed day. I jerk out of my master’s grasp, as he, too, is surprised by the intruder. While Locksley judiciously returns his cock to his jeans, I cover my body with my hands, forgetting that maybe I could use my discarded clothes more effectively to hide my nakedness.

  “Oh, my God, I…I’m so sorry!” I shout. My mind finally engages and I go for something to cover me.

  “Who are you to be barging in?” Locksley says in a voice of haughty command.

  Oh, God, I wish he wouldn’t! I shrivel, ready to die before I get my striped stockings up my legs. Doom is upon me.

  “I hope Dana doesn’t think this is a suitable place for sex,” Tyler continues.

  “No, sir, I really don’t,” I jump in, as I attempt to buckle the high-heeled Maryjane on my left foot. “It was just one of those spontaneous things,” I say weakly in my defense. “After all, this is my business.”

  I think the man is about to lose this composure. He stares from me to Locksley then back at me again, searching for something to say. Apparently, we’ve left him speechless, although I doubt that will be for long. It’s like some bizarre dream. Oddly, he doesn’t say another word. Ending his piercing stare, Randall Tyler exits the room and closes the door.

  By the time I’m completely dressed and run after him, he’s gone, and there is Sally shaking her head. I assume it’s disgust on her face, but I find it almost impossible to read her emotions.

  “Dana,” I hear my master’s voice behind me and turn around. He nods to my open office.

  “You can’t expect me to finish now!” I whisper discreetly as I follow him back inside.

  “You let people intimidate you too easily. It’s his mistake barging in like that.”

  “He has a right to barge in.”

  “Not in my world. You knock first.” He studies my flustered face for a minute, then moves back to the door. “I’ll be needing you soon, a little assignment I think you’ll enjoy. Expect my call.” He nods and leaves me speechless.

  I can’t believe his gall. Not a care in the world. He’s an untroubled man who glides through life oblivious to consequences, leaving me wondering why I’m so sorely lacking.

  Chapter Four

  I’ve been so perfect the last few days that I hardly recognize myself. Everything is going smoothly at the office. Of course, I’m not caught up; that will take a couple of months yet, but I’m on the right track and things are starting to organize themselves. A little discipline. Locksley was right—that’s all it takes, a little discipline. I can hang on; I can do this—the little mantra repeats automatically and I’m soothed, at least for awhile.

  Now, far from the office and that terror, I lie in his bed waiting. My legs slide along the silky cotton sheets—l
uxurious expensive sheets that smell like the out-of-doors—the man actually dries them in the wind, letting them whip with the cool morning breeze off the ocean. The tang of salt air still clings to their fibers and I float in them as if riding stretched out on the sea.

  When Locksley comes to me, I know he’ll use me hard, and I want that.

  My arms are stretched above my head, my wrists bound to the polished walnut headboard. My legs are splayed widely as well, chained to a spreader bar that clatters when I move my feet. I watch as my master guzzles the last of his wine, sets the glass down on the nightstand and, as naked as I am, climbs on my bound body. His organ is beautiful and half-erect, which makes me salivate with the desire to take it in my mouth and make it hard—although I have the feeling that Locksley has other ideas in mind.

  His tanned body gleams, and his muscles clench and flex like a matinee idol’s, like Tarzan’s, like Superman’s. If only I could run my hands along his hard chest, my fingers through the fuzz of tawny sun-bleached hair.

  He sits on my groin and takes my tits in his hands, first squeezing them, then slapping them back and forth in a sustained rhythm that has them stinging hot it seconds. There’s an intense look on his chiseled features; his jaw is firmly set, but quivering just slightly as he prepares for what he’s about to do.

  “Oh, gawd, yessssssssss,” I hiss, in response to the repeated slapping. My body attempts to thrash back and forth, although I can hardly move my groin with so much weight to hold me down.

  He pinches my nipples, twisting the little nubs as he does. “Don’t make a sound!” he says in a steely whisper as he anticipates my agonized squeal.

  I clamp my mouth shut tight and experience the pain as it travels deep into my belly with a rich sexual warmth. My pussy clenches, even my asshole tingles as if desirous of his titillating onslaught. Then, after so much unremitting pain, he at last releases my nipples and his fingers glide slowly, soothingly over my skin; his face looks filled with awe and is certainly not as grim as it was before. A look of surprise sometimes registers in his expression, unnerving me. What is he thinking? But I don’t dare ask.