At Work · Part 1

At Work · Part 1 (1/2)
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Settling In “Okay, looks like you’re all set. Anything I need to know before we get started?”

He leaned over her, double-checking his work for any possible problems that might give her some trouble during the next few hours. She twisted and turned, testing the restraints. As always, he was very careful with the details. Today, while he was on the job she would be sitting by his side, quietly watching the man she loved while he immersed himself in his labors. She might never understand the creative steps that went on in his brain, but she was fascinated by how that logical progression manifested itself while he sat at the computer.

He worked from home at least two days a week, on average. Those were special days, when she could spend time with him, indulging in her favorite pastime in the grasp of confining bondage, while he went off into that zone he called “the groove”, a place where ideas flowed directly from his subconscious mind to his fingertips, a state where he tuned out all distractions, concentrating only on those mysterious abstractions constructed in his head.

Through the wire mesh screen over her face, she saw the diagram appear on his larger display. A schematic, he had explained to her some time ago, essentially a roadmap detailing the complexities of interconnected electronic circuits. That was his specialty, designing circuit boards for a wide variety of purposes, whatever the company required. Computer-Aided Design, CAD for short, in a way very artistic since it involved precise drawing, but also demanding in the unforgiving design rules that produced a workable device. She didn’t really understand any of it, and wasn’t interested in learning either. That was his job.

He worked as part of a design team, though when it came to modeling the electronics in whatever they were tasked to create, that part he did on his own. “An elephant is a horse designed by a committee”, that was the explanation he offered when asked why he wasn’t always the team player. When finished the entire team would review his plans, but until then he sought no input from anyone else.

In part that’s what she found so appealing about him. Once he had enough information, what he called his “due diligence”, his self-assurance would not be shaken by doubts or outside influences. Their personal relationship wasn’t any different from his attitude about work. Once he decided on a direction she was pulled along, drawn by that same confidence into trusting his judgement above her own.

She had a crucial part too. They worked together based on a well-defined division of labor, with each of them contributing according to their chosen role. In his role as the provider, he must by necessity also be the leader, the one in charge. Her role was the homemaker, the one who made best use of the resources he brought home. She was the follower, the one who needed a strong hand to guide her and keep her on the path he blazed for the two of them. For her part she did her best to encourage him in maintaining control over her.

He switched to his second display and opened up some kind of technical datasheet. He scrolled down to some arcane graphs and diagrams, constantly looking back and forth between the two screens. When he leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk, that quirk meant something wasn’t right, and he was struggling to figure out what he’d missed.

She didn’t have the luxury of tapping her fingers. Inside the thick leather mitts she flexed her hands, to keep them from becoming stiff. The mitts were attached to the arms of the chair, rendering her hands all but useless. It didn’t stop there. The mitts incorporated padded leather cuffs wrapped around her wrists. Larger leather cuffs above her elbows held her arms securely in place against the chair. All the cuffs had locking buckles. It was essential that she wasn’t able to free herself. That privilege was reserved for him alone.

He had been clear on the conditions when she asked to watch him work. She had to quietly sit to one side, out of his direct sight, and not cause a distraction. That was reasonable, which led her to suggest how he might guarantee she would not be disruptive. Admittedly, her solution was self-serving yet it did appeal to him, and so here she was, confined in her custom-built furniture.

The armchair was built on a wooden frame, though it was no ordinary piece of furniture. The boards were twice the size of a normal chair, and all the joints were reinforced with steel angle irons. Not one nail was used; the entire assembly was held together with oversized wood screws. The original design had a ghoulish origin, since it was based on pictures of old electric chairs. Fortunately for her this version didn’t plug into the wall.

From head to toe there was a web of leather cuffs and belts. The sole purpose was to ensure she had no choice other than to remain seated until he let her go, when, and more importantly if, it suited him. That’s what she loved about workdays with him. It was an opportunity to enjoy the pleasures of being his captive for hours at a time, patiently waiting at his side.

The back of the chair extended above her head. There was a reason for it. Her view of him at his desk was partially obscured by the fine wire mesh screen that covered her face. It resembled one of those fencing masks, except it locked in place. Her head was rigidly fixed to the back of the chair by wooden blocks to either side, lined with padding and cut to match her contours. Another wooden board, with a cutout for her neck, was fitted under her chin, forcing her head up and slightly back. He did not permit slouching; the chair enforced his rule about proper posture.

Most of her neck was left bare, except for one important detail. The oval ring was permanent, a promise she would belong to him for a lifetime. Day or night, the omnipresent weight of the rounded metal band resting against her neck served to remind her of the unbreakable bond between them. She was his property, to cherish, to protect, and most of all to use as he wished. She looked forward to those moments when he would come up behind her, put one arm around her waist to pull her tight, and then slowly, sensually, run his fingers across her collar while whispering in her ear that he would never part with her.

She closed her eyes, lost in a memory of the last time. Those little whispers, barely audible, penetrated deeply into her mind. It was the distilled essence of the influence he had over her, a power she could not resist. Not that she had the slightest desire to oppose him. She trusted him, with her life, her wellbeing, even her sanity. Behind the mask she smiled. No doubt she had some kind of mental illness given her extreme dependency on her man, yet she didn’t care. It served to the benefit of both of them, and that was all that mattered.

Clothes were not allowed while in the chair. Other than her collar, which never came off, the only article of apparel she wore was the chastity belt around her waist and between her legs. Without the seat padding it would have been uncomfortable. Made from stainless steel it was heavy and inflexible. The belt portion was a snug fit around her waist. When closed it was held in place by her wide hips. The working portion descended from the front in a triangle, narrowing before it came back up in the rear between her legs, with two sections that split and attached to the back of the belt.

Like her collar it was a tangible reminder she was his property in a very literal sense. Normally she wore the belt whenever she went out, either with him or on her own. The idea she would ever cheat on him was absurd, and she was certain he trusted her in that respect. But it was irrelevant; he was intensely possessive and showed it in his non-negotiable demand she be dressed in the belt outside the house. Sexual access was an integral part of belonging to him. Once he had explained the reason the belt went from a burden to a pleasure.

The days he worked at home were to be considered as the equivalent to travelling to his office, so if she wanted to come along then the belt was mandatory. Having it on all day could be tiring, but she didn’t object. It was one more thing she could do for him, and in the end that was all that mattered. As long as he unlocked it before they went to bed she wasn’t concerned. What did worry her is if he didn’t open the belt, because that meant he was irritated or disappointed by something she’d done.

Above the waistband of the belt were two wide leather belts intended to hold her torso against the chair. Both fed through wooden slots behind her back, buckling behind the chair. The upper belt ran just below her bare breasts. Neither belt was pulled tight, which would have made breathing difficult, but there wasn’t much slack either.

There were no straps over her shoulders. Not that they were necessary; she was firmly clamped to the chair. No, they were missing for a very simple reason; he liked to look at her bare arms. She might never understand why men would fixate on a particular area of female anatomy, yet she couldn’t deny for some odd reason he found her arms and shoulders particularly attractive. The closet full of sleeveless and halter top blouses was conclusive proof.

Leather cuffs wrapped around her ankles kept her legs together. Belts below and above her knees prevented her from moving around. Even her feet were fixed in place on a wide, flat board raised above the floor. It was angled down, as if she were wearing heels.

That was another of his preferences. He was a big fan of old movies, from the 1930s to the 1950s. For her that meant dressing in a very feminine fashion, either a dress or skirt, and always with heels, though he usually left the details to her. In the chair fashion was a moot point. Bare skin was all she was allowed.

She asked him once why being naked didn’t constitute a distraction by itself. His logical mind had the answer. She was sitting behind him, out of direct line of sight. It made sense, at least the way he explained it. He still found her attractive, which was reassuring.

Every so often she would silently strain against her bonds. It was a hopeless struggle, of which she was acutely aware. Her goal wasn’t to somehow escape; quite the opposite, she needed the feeling of being helpless, trapped, held in captivity, of his will imposed on her regardless of her own wishes. More than once, she’d made the attempt to put that feeling into words, trying to describe her need in a way he could comprehend.

It never quite worked out. There was something fundamentally different in the way their brains were wired. The blank look on his face left no doubt she failed, but when he did the same thing, revealing his inner thoughts on the compulsion to control her, she was the one with the puzzled expression. Whatever it was that drove him to possess her, body and soul, was a mystery beyond comprehension.

Musical Charms She had no idea how long he’d been at work on his project. There was a clock display on his second display, but she was too far away to read the small font. Not that it mattered; she was content just to be with him, watching for those little “tells” that signaled his state of mind to her. How she recognized them was a subconscious act, though the end result was the ability to read his mind, at least on some occasions. Right now, she sensed something was bothering him.

Suddenly his head started swiveling back and forth, between the diagram on the large screen and the data sheet on the smaller one. He’s getting close, she thought. He grabbed a sheet of scratch paper, turned it over to the blank side and began drawing a crude sketch covered with little abbreviations pointing to circles on the lines. He stopped, started at it, threw down his pen in disgust, and slapped his head with an open hand.

“Dumb, dumb, dumb,” he repeated, over and over. “A fresh out of school junior engineer would have spotted this in two minutes.” He leaned back in his chair and turned to face her. “If I hadn’t caught it this would have been a nightmare when the finished circuit board reached thermal cycle testing. We’d have spent weeks pulling out our hair trying to trace it down. Maybe I’m getting too old for this.”

She wanted to point out he had spotted it, and in time to avoid costly mistakes. Thanks to his years of experience, he knew there was a problem before it showed up, and where to look. However, she had to remain silent. One spoken word in support would violate everything she held dear. Deliberate disobedience, without justification, she thought, no matter how much I want to help I can’t go that far.

He rolled his office chair toward her until their knees were touching. “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” he recited, from an old English poet. He made a fist and pressed it against his chest. “You are my music, calming the bestial anger that arises from within. If you weren’t here, by my side, I’d be pounding my head against the wall in frustration.”

At Work · Part 1 (1/2)
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