Ada Employed · Part 1

Ada Employed · Part 1 (1/3)
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The Select Bank headquarters slouches toward the riverbank, nothing like its competitors’ skyscrapers in the core of downtown a couple miles away. The office we’re sitting in, though, is just as sleekly appointed as any of its counterparts I’ve seen in the last four months. Below the huge windows of the top-floor office, its strip of landscaping gives way to the tangle of undeveloped land it neighbors. I’m sure the clientele appreciates the privacy. The river here is wide and sluggish, a single small boat picking its way upstream.

“Fingers,” Miss snaps at me. I’ve been absently picking at my cuticle while gazing out the window. Miss doesn’t mind me not listening to the report she’s delivering to the bank’s head of security, but I’m supposed to at least seem attentive. She hates when I’m visibly anxious, too, and when I pick at myself too. I swallow my dread and smile as Miss shoots the bigshot an apologetic look. “That line of access is quite secure from a purely technical perspective,” she tells him, “but of course you have to train your employees against a social engineering vector…”

As she continues to run down the list of weak points she’s identified in their systems, I make sure not to become distracted again. Having put her in a bad mood, I know she’ll be extra alert to whatever small errors I might make.

The meeting runs another twenty minutes before the two of them set another appointment in a month. Miss glances my way, but I’m already diligently noting it in the hardcover appointment book I’ve pulled from the large messenger bag by my chair. She shakes the executive’s hand and strides out of the office; I’m close on her heels.

In the three-story-high atrium, Miss turns to face me for a moment, her eyes traveling up and down my body. “Come on,” she says, and leads me through a short hallway, at the end of which is the door to a single-user restroom. I expertly hide the trembling of my knees as she pulls the handle and ushers me inside. She glances over her shoulder and then follows me in, locking the door.

The bathroom is well-appointed, its location on the top floor making it clear that it’s intended for the bank’s top execs and wealthiest clients. Miss removes her suit jacket and hangs it on the wooden hook set into the door. “You’re getting on my nerves today,” she says bluntly. “I’ll punish you properly for it later, but I need to work out a bit of frustration before the drive home. Take off the dress.” She places a pinch of coke on the marble top of the cabinet next to the basin and shapes it into a line as I fumble with the button at the back of my neck. My dress is a black A-line that falls to mid-thigh.

The neckline plunges between my breasts, but there's a collar of glimmering golden lacework beneath that reaches my neck and keeps the outfit looking vaguely professional. At the back, between the burnished button that holds it closed and the fitted band of gold lace that overlays the black satin at my midriff, it exposes a diamond of bare skin. A thin gold choker and two bracelets on each wrist, plus pumps with two-inch heels and a dull metallic color, complete the look. It's a classy and elegant outfit, if not quite fitting with what most corporate secretaries wear.

The lingerie revealed when I hastily wriggle out of the dress and hang it on the door's coathook is a different story. A bustier of intricate slate-grey lacework comes up barely high enough to cover my nipples, though it has integrated wire that does an impressive job of supporting my heavy breasts. The affair is strapless, but laced at the back for a tight and secure fit. It leaves my shoulder blades bare, and the section that covers my waist is nearly transparent. My belly button is left uncovered, framed by an A shape where the lace descends on either side to form garters that hold up my thigh-high stockings.

They're of the same grey lace, each connected to one garter at the front and two at the back, which form a W shape over my buttocks. I'm also wearing matching panties in a string bikini cut, which are largely transparent except for the front center panel. All this lace is hardly comfortable to wear all day, but glancing in the mirror over the sink it's easy to see how it appeals to Miss.

I stand upright by the door, head bowed, my shoulder-length brown hair curling slightly around my face. Miss straightens from where she was bent over the counter. With a grin, she approaches me and puts one arm around my shoulders, the other hand finding my ass and giving it a squeeze.

Miss is a head taller than me and a good deal stockier. I'm not skinny by any means, but she's not lean either and she has a lot more muscle. She wears her blonde hair in a shaggy mullet, and her eyes have dark circles under them. In her late thirties, she "works hard, plays hard," although in a ratio that skews toward the latter. Not that she isn't very good at what she does – so good she only has to spend ten or fifteen hours a week on it to be richer than I ever was. Her touch is rough and I flinch, too aware of her sharp mood.

She notices my reticence and shoves me against the wall, pinning me at the shoulders and planting a knee between my legs. My hands fly up to scrabble at hers. She usually doesn't mind my useless, compulsive efforts at self-defense. She leers at me, her icy grey eyes rimmed with red.

Her knee rises to grind into my crotch and I feel myself harden against her as she bends to kiss me on the neck. My breathing becomes ragged and I can't help but grind against her knee. I'm shaking in my pumps because I know where this is going.

Sure enough, the kissing becomes biting and I cry out. Miss pauses for a moment to slap me lightly across the face, then on the right tit, harder. "Keep it quiet," she orders, and goes back to giving me several massive hickeys around my choker. When she gets her fill of that, her lips find mine. Her sunken eyes watch me closely. I'm not reciprocating, but she doesn't care. When she's in a gentler mood she appreciates when I kiss her back, but right now her sadism is in full swing. Her teeth nip at my lips and tongue, and her own tongue probes deep into my mouth. She wants me to struggle, to choke on her, and I do.

As Miss eases off me one hand slips into the waistband of my panties and pulls them down. They're slick inside, displaying my arousal despite myself. They fall to my ankles when she retracts her knee. "Give," she says, and I oblige, bending over to pick them up as I step out of them. My already-softening shaft is left exposed.

Miss grabs them from me. Then she sticks something in the sink's drain to plug it, and turns the water on. Not a good sign. While the sink fills she unbuttons her trousers and lowers her own panties. She stands over the toilet and holds mine up against her dick as she lets loose a stream of piss. It dribbles through into the bowl, leaving the grey lace and satin sopping.

She holds them out to me. I glare balefully from where I'm still standing against the wall. We stand off for several seconds. Then she raises an eyebrow slightly and the thrill of fear in my stomach has me hastening forward to take them from her.

"In your mouth, that's a good girl," Miss says, turning to rinse her hand in the sink. I discreetly give the panties a squeeze, but Miss turns her head to look at me. She at least suspects what I did, but she doesn't say anything. I can't delay any further and take the sodden fabric into my mouth. Tears spring to my eyes at the acrid, slightly nutty taste and I choke on the trickle of liquid at the back of my throat. It's not a ton of fabric but my mouth is still quite full.

I can see Miss almost trembling in anticipation as she once more puts an arm around my shoulder. She leads me over to the slowly-filling sink. I glance at my miserable face in the mirror over the basin. My light pink lipstick is badly smeared and my golden eye shadow is getting messed up too. My face is visibly flushed even through my foundation. Either deliberately while I was distracted, or by accident while leaning her body into mine, Miss has pulled down the stiff cups that cover my breasts enough to expose the quarter-size golden rings hanging from my rouged nipples.

Miss isn't wearing any makeup at all. She's dressed well, in dark gold trousers matching the jacket she removed and a sleeveless button-up top in cream, but she ultimately doesn't need to put on an impressive face for most of her clients. My own elaborate appearance is mostly for her own benefit.

She pushes my shoulders forward, her other hand on my belly, to bend me over. I catch myself on the narrow rim of the dark stone basin, which is luckily sturdy enough to take my weight. The hand not caressing my belly reaches over my shoulder to cup my chin, then roams across my features. Both by touch and in the mirror, Miss admires my aquiline nose, my dark eyebrows, my lips pursed shut in the knowledge that Miss will be very upset if I let the piss-soaked panties fall out of my mouth.

Her other hand moves from my belly to my rear. She has a small bottle of lube, which she applies to my asshole. Her fingers slip inside, coating my hole in the chill slime. I close my eyes, wincing, as her sizable cock slides into me, but she delivers a hard smack on the side of my buttock. "Come on, Ada, keep your eyes open. Look how cute you are!"

She grabs my hair and holds my head up straight. I can't look the pathetic wretch in the eyes, so I watch Miss instead. Her other hand grabs my waist hard and she pants, needing me, as she begins to thrust in and out, rough and fast, rutting almost, and I whine as my pain and fear give ground to the heat rising in me. Even so, tears run down my face as she lets go of my hair to turn off the sink, finally full, and holds my waist with both hands for extra leverage. Her dick is large enough that even though I'm used to it by now, it's still painful whenever she deviates from a totally straight angle. It gives her a lot of control over me, my body arching involuntarily against her hips and my hands pushing painfully on the lip of the basin. I'm breathing heavily through my nose, trying not to choke on the fabric in my mouth.

Miss finds a steady rhythm, only a little slower than her initial burst of energy. Soon I'm thrusting my hips too, my fear forgotten, my breasts pendulums, slapping into my belly. In a few minutes, though, when Miss approaches her climax, she grabs my hair again and I squirm and shout, muffled, knowing what's coming.

She pushes my head down into the water-filled basin. I try to keep calm but within moments I fail. I thrash and push as hard as I can with my arms, but I'm weaker than she is and without any leverage. My hair drifts around my face and I hold back a sob, desperate not to release any air from my lungs. That probably lasts less than a minute as Miss pumps her hips frantically. I cough, and my pathetic flailing provokes an orgasm from Miss, hot cum filling my ass as she pulls me half-conscious out of the sink and her cock out of my hole.

I drop to my knees and cough the panties out onto the wet tile, then a measure of water. Then I fall over onto my side, gasping and with cum dripping from my asshole.

Miss straightens her hair and clothes while I fill my spasming lungs. She prods the fallen panties with the toe of one flat-soled ballet shoe. "Dropped these." She leans against the wall by the door and lights a cigarette. "Clean this shit up," she tells me.

When I can take a few deep breaths in a row without coughing I get to my knees and pick up the newly-sodden lace and satin. Miss is watching, casual but vigilant, so I don't dare wring them out again before I place them in my mouth. But disgust wells in me at the wetness of them on my tongue and the knowledge they were just lying on the floor of a public restroom, even a very nice one. The panties fall back out as I retch and cough. I don't even have to glance at Miss to know she's not feeling merciful. I take a deep breath before I try again, successfully this time.

I stand up and make haste to grab a handful of paper towels, squatting down to mop up the water pooling around the sink. Once I have the floor dry I brace myself and reach into the basin to dislodge the wad of shrink-wrap plastic that Miss plugged the drain with. I wipe down the basin and do my best with the mirror.

Finished, I motion to the toilet and tilt my head questioningly. "Yeah, go ahead and clean yourself up," Miss says, finishing the cigarette and flicking the butt in the trash on top of the mess of wet paper towels.

I sit and piss, then use toilet paper to clean as much cum out of my ass as I can. Then, after washing my hands, I use the last of the paper towels to dry my hair as best I can, combing my bangs with my fingers. I take my dress from the coathook and pull it over my head as Miss shrugs back into her jacket. She does up the zipper at the back of my waistband – I can undo it myself but putting it on is harder. I fasten the button at my neck and pick up the messenger bag. Miss holds the door open and I'm relieved not to find anyone waiting in the hall.

As we leave the building, I keep my lips clamped shut. My disheveled appearance gets odd looks from the receptionists, but no one takes any particular notice of us as we exit into the parking lot.

Byron, Miss's driver and live-in servant, is waiting for us in the black electric SUV just in front of the doors. He gets out to open the door for us, taking the messenger bag and putting it in the trunk. He's dressed in pinstripe trousers and a short-sleeve buttoned shirt, leaving his burly arms on display. He's on the short side, and older, but he spends a lot of time in the gym.

I sit next to Miss in back, pulling the door shut behind me. She puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a sideways hug, holding the car's small garbage can in front of me. "You did a good job," she tells me. "You can drop them." Grateful, I let the bedraggled panties fall into the trash.

"Going home," Miss tells Byron. He switches the engine on and pulls out.

The oversized townhouse purchased with the fruits of Miss's business, legitimate and otherwise, nestles among near-identical neighbors in the eastern blocks of the city center. Skyscrapers rise up less than a mile away, but these streets are lined with trees. Byron parks on the street outside and the three of us hurry inside to get out of the rapidly cooling evening air.

"Go let Charlie out," Miss says as we file into the foyer, "and get her ready to come join me in the bath. Dinner at the usual time."

"Yes Miss, understood!" I make haste down a short set of steps to the semi-basement, the back half of the first story as it were.

The cell where Charlie is kept while no one's home occupies one corner of the concrete-floored "dungeon," converted from a below-ground garage by simply bricking up the door. Anchors are set into the floor, walls, and ceiling in a few places, and a couple wooden frames with straps attached are gathered against one wall of the cell, although the effect is dampened by the presence of a washer and dryer in the corner opposite. There's also a large drain in the floor with a pair of shower-heads protruding from the wall over it. The cell itself is furnished with a small metal toilet and a thin foam mattress with a plastic cover, plus a big dog bowl half-full of water.

Charlie's lying face-down on the mattress, humping the corner in an attempt to thwart the chastity device locked around her hips. It's ineffectual, but she's still not supposed to be doing it, so I'll have to report that to Miss. She still does it more often than not, which isn't surprising given how Miss treats her. Her leather "alone time" hood muffles sound, so she doesn't notice me opening the door and entering the cell until I place my hand on her flank. She starts at my touch, backing away off the mattress and kowtowing until her forehead touches the floor, just in case it's Miss interrupting her.

When I undo the leather hood and pull it off her, though, she recognizes my touch. Losing any semblance of respect, she sits up and pushes herself at me, slobbering at me blindly. Her plaintive moaning echoes off the concrete as she tries to hump my leg and rub her nipples against my clothes. It's not even against the rules, because Miss thinks it's funny when she comes at me.

Personally, I find her ravening repulsive. I push her away by the shoulders, rough, turn her around, and unbuckle the straitjacket of heavy leather. It covers her arms and shoulders, but apart from that it's just held together by straps, leaving her breasts bare. Below the arms it's just the crotch strap, bifurcated at the front so she can piss with it on and joining between her legs. Rubber slippers sheathe her toes and the balls of her feet, stopping short at the arch but held on by an inelastic strap around the ankle. An anchor at the back is connected to the back of the straitjacket by cords that are too short for her to fully extend her legs, which I remove.

Charlie has calmed down momentarily while I removed her more restrictive bondage, but once I'm done she comes at me again, now with her arms and legs free. "Stop, stop! I have to get you ready for her bath!" I tell her. I know she can hear me but she's not cooperating. I don't like to hurt her, and Miss would return any permanent damage I did her to me twofold, but I often have no choice if I want to get anywhere with the little bitch. When she paws hard at my boob I lose my patience, grabbing one of her pigtails and pulling her head sideways and then using that leverage to get her in a headlock from behind.

"I'm supposed to get you ready for your bath," I say. "You don't want to keep her waiting, I don't want to keep her waiting, so behave yourself or I'll…" I don't have a good threat, she likes it when I hit her. "Or you'll keep her waiting." Lame, but she nods and falls to her hands and knees when I let go of her.

Coming out on top of a struggle with Charlie isn't exactly difficult. Even with her "alone time" bondage removed, she's still got a thinner hood that leaves only her lower face bare; she can hear pretty well through it but she can't see. It's got small holes through which her red hair protrudes in two plaited pigtails. Sturdy metal rings are braided into the ends to make them even easier to handle her by. A gag of rigid, rubber-coated wires is fitted over her teeth to hold them slightly open, and can be adjusted wider without even removing it if you stick a hex wrench in her mouth.

It's held on with a stretchy harness worn over the hood, which passes both behind her head and over it as well as under the chin. Her hands are enveloped in thick mittens that keep them uselessly flat, and her slippers stay on so that her legs can be restrained anytime. Plus her chastity device, which encloses her tender bits in a cage of hard white plastic and sculpted foam with only a tiny hole to let her piss. It's held on by a high-leg thong (with a hole in the front through which pokes the middle of the cage) that's too tight and rigid to remove except by undoing the hook-and-loop closures at her tailbone – like unfastening a bra, impossible to manage with her hand restraints.

All of it's done up in jade-green rubber (except the gag's harness, the collar on the hood, and the straps on the mittens and slippers, which are white), which means I don't have to take any of it off before I lead her out of the cell and under the showerhead.

My own outfit is less waterproof, so after turning the water on and letting it run over Charlie, I strip it off and place it in the hamper by the washing machine, except the lace underwear – that needs hand-washing. Meanwhile she stands there and sways more or less contentedly. It's not warm, but it's not ice-cold either, and she's been stewing in her own juices all day.

Once I'm nude I join her under the spray and soap both of us down. She gropes at me, leaning into me, but gently enough not to be too much of a bother. She's taller than me by a few inches, but a good deal more slender, so she can't exactly bowl me over. I scrub and rinse her off, then myself, and then I turn off the water and towel us both dry.

"Alright, go on up," I tell her, "she's probably got the bath drawn by now." Charlie nods and picks her way out of the dungeon, feeling in front of her with her hands and ascending the stairs on hands and feet.

I sigh, one task out of the way, and go to use the toilet in the now-open cell. Then I fish appropriate attire from the massive wardrobe by the washer and dryer. For cooking and cleaning, that means my maid uniform. The first piece is a top made of black PVC. The so-called neckline bares my entire collarbone and bosom, and the hem comes to barely below my sternum, so essentially all it covers in front is my shoulders and a few inches right under my tits. It's got full coverage in the back, for whatever that's worth. It's got short, puffy sleeves that are decorated with white cuffs and big white linen frills over the shoulders to evoke the apron of a French maid.

Next I put on a sort of bustier made of layers of white satin, buttoning it to the PVC top to keep the latter from riding up and doing up the laces tight in front. It's got some wiring at the upper hem where it's sculpted outward an inch to give my heavy breasts a modicum of support, but apart from that it's simply a band of stiff

Ada Employed · Part 1 (1/3)
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