At Work · Part 2 (2/2)
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He reached out to lay a hand on her bare knee. It was a casual yet overtly sexual caress, which required her to hold perfectly still. It was imperative she do nothing to discourage him. Not that she had the means to reject his advances. The leather belts above and below her knees clamped her legs firmly against the chair.
Hidden behind the wire mesh covering her face she closed her eyes as the waves of pleasure swept over her. Soothing his angry breast, that was one she’d never heard from him before now. A warm feeling grew within, triggered by the knowledge all the ways they differed had come together to form a balance. He needed her every bit as much as she couldn’t live without him.
He tilted his head to one side while he studied the mask covering her face. Behind it her features were well-concealed, deliberately so, to ensure she did not divert him. Immobilized by the chair, hands encased in thick leather mitts, facial expression concealed behind an inscrutable metal barrier, she had no means to connect with him.
She wasn’t gagged, but only because her self-imposed discipline kept her from breaking his rule to be silent. The least sound from her and he wouldn’t hesitate to use the gag. When that thing was jammed into her mouth it was a stark reminder she had failed and was being punished for it. It was a prime motivation to be as quiet as a mouse.
“You know, I was skeptical about the idea of you keeping me company while I’m on the job. I’m glad you were persistent. Your idea about the chair proved to be, umm…well, I’d have to say brilliant.”
He rolled around his chair until he was behind her. Out of sight, she wasn’t sure where he was or what he was planning. When she felt his hands on her bare shoulders it was back to being an unmoving statue. The trail of his fingers left an electric tingling as they descended down her arms to the padded cuffs at her elbow. Her own powerless state seemed to magnify his touch a thousandfold.
“I confess I didn’t think you’d be able to sit there for hours on end without making a slip. My apologies for doubting; you’ve certainly proved me wrong.” He wrapped his left hand around her slim upper arm in a firm but not painful grip. It was a not-so-subtle reminder of his vastly superior strength. She wasn’t frightened; he would never harm her, although that didn’t prevent him from using physical force to overpower her, if it was necessary. She would be disappointed if he failed to use all the tools at his disposal in fulfilling his obligations to her, and that included insisting she obey his commands.
She couldn’t see his other hand on her collar but it wasn’t important. The slight pressure against the back of her neck was all she needed. She felt his fingertips brush against her throat when he traced a path back and forth across the cool metal. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, wearing this thing night and day, week after week, year after year, knowing it will never come off. I suppose that’s one of the many differences between us. Me, I’d be obsessed with finding a way to cut this thing off, if I were on the inside looking out. Fortunately, I’m on the outside looking in, which means I’ll never tire of seeing my collar around your neck.”
She would do whatever it took to make sure he never lost that desire. In her own way she was just as possessive about her man. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what appealed to him. He enjoyed all the customary adornments that set women apart from men, including his special necklace. The way he would stare at her did make her self-conscious, but not in a bad way. He was satisfied with her efforts, and in the end that was what counted.
The collar was another fixation, one she exploited in ways he never noticed. She secretly positioned her hair so it was always framing her face and more importantly the shiny reminder around her neck. She didn’t miss the way his eyes would take in her carefully crafted presentation. Did he know it was deliberate, or did he just assume the way she styled her hair was a coincidence? That was her secret, unless he forced the issue by asking.
The Good Girl “Okay, break over.” He stood up and pushed his chair back to the desk. “We’ll stop for lunch in…” he paused to check the time, “about ninety minutes. Until then I want you to be a good girl, not a sound out of you.”
Good girl, did he realize how magical that simple phrase was? Just two simple words, but to her it defined her purpose in life. She had grown up as the well-behaved child, the one who never talked back, the one who never caused trouble. In school she always did her homework after dinner, often with her father checking her work while helping when she had difficulties.
Then there were the times her father had taken more interest, reading some essay she’d written, or a book report. When he frowned, she knew he’d caught her being lazy. “You can do better,” was all he’d say, but it was enough. She’d rewrite the essay because that was the right way. More than once she’d deliberately been sloppy, certain he’d catch it. In an odd way those were some of her best memories, knowing he cared enough to draw out the best in her.
Her trip down memory lane was interrupted when he rolled his chair back to his desk. The moment his back was turned she once again began testing her bonds. One at a time she tugged at the cuffs on her wrists and ankles. They functioned as advertised; she was going nowhere. Satisfied she was properly secured she relaxed, content in the knowledge he would look after her.
Why do I have this obsession with testing his authority? She’d had that argument with herself over and over, without an answer. Unlike her father, this man who owned her wasn’t nearly as tolerant. Any challenge to his authority was met with swift action, to her detriment.
He never bluffed about discipline. He wasn’t cruel or sadistic. In fact, his method of correction was quite mild, to the eyes of an outside observer. Most of the time it was the dreaded corner of the living room, set aside for special occasions when she received a reminder of where the line in their relationship was drawn. The corner was devoid of any decorations, just two walls coming together.
Her penalty was to stand in that corner, facing the wall, with her hands bound behind her back in handcuffs, and her ankles chained together with similar, oversized handcuffs. There was no long rebuke; all he would say was, “you know why you’re here.” That hurt more than any form of corporal punishment, for it struck to the heart of her emotions.
Standing in the corner, by itself, wasn’t much of an ordeal. What made it nearly unbearable was the significance of the circumstances that led to her being forced to accept the fact she had not only disappointed him, but worst of all she had failed to uphold her own idealized image of who she wanted to be, the “good girl.”
Why do I have that self-destructive streak? Why must I test his commitment, when I know the inevitable result will be misery? And how is it he seems to have unending patience with me, when I’d be driven to angry rage were I in his place? Those were questions she struggled to answer.
Regardless of her internal conflicts, this was not going to be one of those days when she lost it. The morning was as close to perfect as she could hope for, and nothing was going to spoil it. He was back to working on his drawing, dragging components around with the mouse in his left hand, while typing in commands on the keyboard with his right. She’d never seen anyone do that before. “Mouse with the left, type with the right,” that was his reply when she asked if he was actually left-handed. “We have two hands, the most efficient way to work is with both.”
She had tried the same thing while surfing the web. Her little experiment lasted about five minutes before she went back to the slower but easier one-handed method. One more way they were different. At least she could type with both hands, and much faster and more accurate than he was able to manage. We both have our talents, she thought, and use them without competing against each other.
Lunchtime Content to sit back and watch, she'd lost track of the time. When he suddenly swiveled around and announced, “it’s lunchtime,” she came back to the present with a start.
He reached down and began unbuckling the straps on her ankles and legs. “This is how it’s going to be,” he announced in that matter-of-fact tone that meant he was laying out instructions for her. “I’m going to release you. You will remain seated. You will not make a sound until I give you permission.”
That was simple enough. Off came the mask, the board under her chin, and the straps around her torso. He paused, leaving her arms and hands still bound to the chair. When he sat down in his chair their eyes met and locked together. This was familiar territory for her. She met his intense stare with unflinching obedience. What passed between them had no name, yet she understood exactly what was happening. He was being selfish, relishing the power he possessed over her, the sure and unshakeable knowledge she would obey him no matter what he demanded.
He finished releasing her by opening the straps on her arms and wrists. She made no effort to withdraw her hands from the mitts. That wasn’t allowed, not until she had permission. If he didn’t permit it, she would sit in that chair as long as it took, until she slid out, overcome with exhaustion from hunger and thirst, days later. He’d never forced her to wait that long, but there could always be a first time…
Today would not be that first time. “While you get dressed,” he began, “I’ll clean up the desk. When you’re ready, stand in your spot.” He pointed to the small mark embedded in the floor tiles, to one side and behind her special chair. “Then we’ll go upstairs and eat lunch. It’s entirely up to you what we have. When it’s ready we’ll sit down and have a nice meal together, without any discussion about work.” He waved toward the closet behind her, giving her his implicit permission to stand up.
Though disappointed the bondage session had to end she did need to stretch, and the rumbling in her stomach was a clear indication it was time to eat. As soon as he turned away, she pulled her hands out of the leather mitts, stood up, raised up her arms and flexed her hands. It did feel good to have a bit of freedom once more.
Quickly she made her way to the closet at the far end of the room. Inside was the dress he’d approved for today. On went her underwear, then the dress, and finally the low heels he liked. She finished with a quick check using the hand mirror and a brush, to ensure her collar was properly framed by her hair. Whether or not he noticed it was an important detail for her own satisfaction. She closed the closet door and hurried to her spot.
He was shredding his scratch paper and some random notes. His work was valuable to the company, and he took the confidentiality seriously. Details, he never missed the details. When he spun around in his chair and stood up, she noticed the way he paused, his eyes slowly sweeping up and down looking for any details she might have missed.
He wasn’t overbearing in how he controlled her, but there were moments when he was strict in his expectations, and this was one of them. She stood up under his intense scrutiny, in her own way confident there would be no lapses. Nor was she critical of him, for this was part of his role as her owner, his responsibility to meet her expectations.
Accountability, that’s how she viewed it. Her efforts were wasted unless he held her to account, never letting up on controlling her, quick to react if she displayed the least sign of straying from the boundaries he imposed. Without it her purpose in life had no meaning. It was an obligation he took seriously, every bit as much as her obedience.
When his hands slid around her waist, coming to rest on the waistband of the chastity belt under her dress, and a wry smile appeared on his lips, she had all the confirmation necessary that she had passed his test.
After a long embrace he put his hands on her arms and pushed her back. “I don’t know about you but I’m wasting away here. What’s for lunch?”
“Ever had alligator gumbo, sir?” When it came to food, she was the one in charge. The house might be his kingdom, but the kitchen was her sole domain. He was allowed to carry in the groceries, but that was all. Otherwise, it was off limits. If he wanted something to eat or drink, he had to ask her to get it for him.
Cooking was more than just a hobby for her, more like a career. Her favorite TV viewing consisted of cooking shows, domestic and foreign. She had a bookshelf full of cookbooks, old and new. One of her favorite pastimes was scouring eBay in search of out-of-print cookbooks full of exotic recipes.
“One time,” he answered. “All I remember is pink chicken.”
“Hold on to that thought, sir, because what I have ready to prepare isn’t remotely similar. I promise, no reptiles,” she teased.
He took her hand and led her to the stairway up from the basement. “I wonder who else starts the morning with a cup of coffee,” he mused, “and an attractive, naked woman confined in a prison chair to keep him company. Just another ordinary day at work.”
At Work · Part 2 (2/2)
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