Her Master Demands (Dark BDSM Erotica) (2 page)

She came to an end suddenly. Emily rolled onto her side in a
foetal huddle and convulsed into bitter tears. Triumphs are short
and often sweet, but wars are long and nasty, and the battle for
the soul still raged inside her. Shame can be subdued but never
totally defeated. Ask Mrs. Johnson as she lay there and
wept.

Eventually pulling herself together, Emily struggled to her
feet. Twenty minutes had passed since Her Master had left her, yet
her legs were still shaking, barely able to support her trim toned
body. She stumbled to the washbasin and gripped it for support – in
front of her was a mirror, something her vanity could never
resist.

Emily gawped at a stranger reflected before her. She looked a
mess: her expensively cut ash-blond hair was sweaty and tangled,
darkened by the wet; her normally perfectly made-up face was
flushed and haggard, but thankfully, unlike before, there was no
bruising to be explained, or to draw the attention of fellow
travellers on the journey home.

Emily’s eyes fell to the leather collar round her neck – the
collar that Her Master had put on her along with the chain leash
that now dangled down her back. It was the collar that had been
used to bring her like a dog, crawling on all fours, from the
elevator where it all began, to the basement washroom where so much
had occurred – where her life had been irrevocably changed. She
stared at the collar in wonder, seeing herself so adorned for the
first time. Shame cried again, but its protesting voice was quickly
drowned by the thrill of exhilaration that rippled through Emily’s
body. Slowly her hand was drawn from the washbasin and rose to
stroke the leather. She watched her reflection, amazed at what she
saw – the vision surreal but somehow soothing. She reached behind
and found the chain. The collar was turned to bring the leash
frontwards where it fell over her pearls to lie between her
breasts, cool on her sweat drenched flesh.

Emily stared, captivated. Her collar and chain, the mark of
her position in the world of the basement - placed there by Her
Master on the property he had claimed, and left behind as a token,
his claim un-removed.

Emily touched it again – the leather then the metal: smooth
black cowhide and chunky links of steel. Born into a good family,
and eased into a well paid job where she was being groomed for
greater things – Emily Johnson was an affluent young woman who had
many worldly goods: the latest fashions, designer labels, expensive
jewellery to go with the pearls, the highest tech, the smartest
gadgets, and a spacious townhouse in the right address – South
Kensington no less, and those don’t come cheap! But all these
things seemed only that as Emily looked at her latest possession.
They were things, accessories to a life-style she had cultivated
and still valued – objects to be replaced when something new came
along. This leather and steel she bore felt like so much more. The
collar especially – it was a symbol that couldn’t be easily
discarded, at least not by the woman who wore it. Surely it could
only be taken away by the master who had bestowed it, should that
brute of a man tire of his latest toy.

“But that can only apply here in the basement washroom, and
only when he is around,” Emily muttered, testing the claim, hoping
it was true.

With a quick look over her shoulder to ensure the mirror
didn’t lie and that Her Master wasn’t lurking, waiting for a crime,
Emily reached with both hands for the collar’s buckle. She paused.
It felt wrong to take it off. Her hands quivered – Emily watched
them shake in the reflection. Then on impulse she unclasped the
leash from the collar and let the metal drop in a coil on her
clothes. That was okay – a leash was only functional, irrelevant
when alone – even a dog wouldn’t wear a leash if its master wasn’t
around and taking it out for a walk.

Emily continued to stare, admiring this simplified
arrangement, stroking the collar like a proud dowager might her
diamonds. There was a rebellious part of her that wished she could
keep it on, and display it to the world, flaunting the fact that a
man had made a claim on her – that a master had turned her into his
slave. But she knew she lacked the strength to act so brazenly on
her own, and endure the laughter of narrow-minded strangers or the
potential rejection of unsympathetic friends. At home there would
be questions if she was to wear it there – Les would be totally
flummoxed – chaos would ensue in a place that should be
calm.

A grin hit Emily’s face as she thought of the reaction: Les,
for once, throwing a fit of anger, instead of meekly accepting
being under Emily’s thumb. A little domestic drama might not be
such a bad thing - after four peaceful years together, her
relationship with Les could do with being shaken up. It could be
the making of them, but more likely the breaking of them – and
Emily knew deep down she would never risk the disruption such a
revelation would cause, and upset what was a very satisfactory
arrangement.

Then the grin was wiped away as another scenario unfolded in
Emily’s wayward mind – a fear she had repressed now rose to the
fore and staked its hideous claim. What if in a moment of madness
she put the collar on at work! Not here in the basement, but above
in the office proper, where her boss, her colleagues, her friends
and enemies lurked. Her life would become a nightmare – ridicule
would ensue.

Emily shivered as she continued to stare in the mirror – the
horror of that prospect becoming painfully clear, piercing her
deep, and stabbing at her heart with all the surety of an
assassin’s deftly yielded knife. The threat to her home life seemed
negligible in comparison – Les was pliable and ultimately
disposable. Domesticity was a world away from the basement where
everything happened and the collar belonged. But her career was
only an elevator ride away, on the top floor of the office block
where Her Master also worked – part of the rank and file on one of
the floors below. Emily had no idea what the man’s position was –
she didn’t even know his name. But position was irrelevant – it was
power that mattered, and the man who was Her Master here in the
basement possessed a power that could threaten beyond, its
tentacles stretching all the way to the top, like the internal mail
he had sent her that morning, summonsing her presence for his
pleasure.

Emily was a woman in a high profile position – the personal
assistant to the C.E.O. She was a woman with a level of covert
corporate power – having sway over the boss and the ability to
influence major decisions. But her position, and more so, her
arrogant nature, had earned her plenty of enemies who would relish
an opportunity to bring about her demise. In a world where men
still held control, Emily had carved a niche that demanded respect.
But now she possessed a dark destructive secret that could threaten
her high standing, and bring her fragile ‘house of cards’ tumbling
down around her, should a whiff of the scandal fall into the wrong
hands.

“No! There has to be a limit!” Emily resolutely said. “What
happens in the basement stays in the basement. When I walk out of
here I have to be a different woman!”

After another glance in the mirror then a look over her
shoulder just to be sure she was definitely alone, the collar was
removed and placed with the leash on top of her clothes.

Totally naked except for her pearls, more conscious than Eve
having fallen from grace, Emily took another shower – removing the
spunk but not the sin from her body. Cleaned, at least physically,
her mind whirling in turmoil of snapping emotions, Emily dressed
herself and made good her appearance. The collar and chain were
tucked away in her bag – a souvenir to take home and look at in
private. And in the bag they would stay locked away, and be brought
back to the office again, day after day, on hand to be worn in the
washroom of the basement, should Her Master’s whim
demand.

Chapter 3

Normality! Emily wore it like a mask, not aware that it was
there.

She left the building and nodded to the security guard behind
the desk, barely conscious of the man and his greeting. The
lateness of the hour wasn’t even questioned, Emily betraying no
hint of what had kept her at the office well beyond nine in the
evening.

Darkness had fallen on the streets outside, the air hot and
balmy, London enjoying a brief spell of clear skies and sweltering
heat sandwiched between the more persistent rains that would blight
another British summer. Taking advantage, or in need of a
cigarette, people had spilled out of the local wine bar, chatting
and smoking as they raucously quaffed. Emily saw a familiar face;
she heard a bitchy voice – her arch enemy, Tessa Clifford, was
holding court - the queen bee who headed Human Resources surrounded
by her drones. Emily smiled politely as her name was called,
declining the insincere offer to join the evil witch and her
entourage in a glass of chilled Chardonnay.

It was all so routine. Life was going on. But Emily walked
through it as if in a cloud, everything around her ill-defined. She
entered the underground, ignoring the beggars that seemed to
multiply by the day. The Circle Line was running reasonably okay,
gathering its strength again after the peak hour exhaustion. Emily
took the tube home to South Kensington. She sat in a grubby
carriage that had seen better days and blocked out the other
passengers in typical commuter fashion. It was business as usual
for Mrs. Johnson, yet none of it was the same. She was acting on
auto-pilot, behaving as normal, drifting along in an unnatural haze
that no one seemed to notice.

It was only when she opened up her treasured Chanel bag, to
take out the iPad she would look at but not read, that Emily was
jolted and realised she was actually alive. She saw a few links of
the chain leash lurking in the depths, escaped from under the spare
blouse Emily had bought during her lunch break – a sensible
precaution having received Her Master’s summons, given what had
happened the previous time in the basement. Suddenly it struck her:
what she had done; what she had allowed; how good it had felt to be
so utterly debased and brutally fucked by two dominant men; the
fact that it wasn’t over, this was now part of her life; the threat
that the leash and the collar represented, yet there they still
were in her bag, and there they would be the following
day.

The iPad came out. The bag was quickly shut. Emily looked at
the screen that never changed, feigning normality, accepting its
blandness, thinking of Her Master, thinking of that collar - hopes
and fears running riot in her mind.

An hour later Emily was picking at some food, sharing a late
supper that Les had prepared. They chatted about something,
although Emily would never remember what. Yet she kept the
conversation going, betraying not a jot of her heinous infidelity,
or the mounting concern that was playing havoc with her mind and
ruining her appetite for the food.

Les cleared away and loaded the dishwasher. He then joined
Emily in the lounge and helped her finish off the wine, telling his
wife about his day and article he was currently working on in his
work from home role as a free-lance writer. On the surface it was
all so normal – mundane and safe – Les blissfully unaware of
Emily’s change of state. Only their cats sensed the difference and
accused with knowing eyes, smelling her deceit, sniffing out her
lies, not giving a damn because why should cats care as long as
someone continued to feed them.

Emily went early to bed. Les joined her as always hoping for
some sex, but wasn’t overly surprised when it was initially denied.
Emily protested tiredness – after such a long day, she claimed she
was far too exhausted.

Sleep didn’t come easy, at least not for Emily, although Les
was soon snoring which earned him a poke in the ribs. Half an hour
later Emily was poking Les again – guilt and insomnia and a
slavering pussy combined to bring about another dose of
normality.

Dragged from sleep, Les performed his duty – always grateful
for any crumb he was thrown from the sex table. The sex didn’t last
long: five minutes of hard thrusting and Les was spurting. It was
no great climax, and one he had on his own – Emily not even
bothering to pretend any different. Normality felt empty as Les
squeezed out the sperm from his balls and blew it into Emily’s
pussy – not wearing a condom, sure there was no need. He cleaned
himself with a tissue; then as usual, Les turned his back to his
bed-mate of four years. He fell asleep again easily, innocent like
a child. Emily lay awake beside him, numb to her crime and the
shocking risk of infection she’d just exposed her husband
to.

Chapter 4

The facade of normality continued the following day at work.
Emily arrived at the office around her usual time, well ahead of
the rank and file, but later than her workaholic boss, Donald
Harper, who ran the company with good example. She spent half an
hour with Donald, receiving updates and instructions. Tasks were
then actioned, meetings were arranged - a corporate high-flier’s
life was professionally organised. Calls were fielded, others were
let through – Emily knew enough to differentiate what and who was
allowed access to the boss. The day progressed and Emily coped
without stress. She forced her mind to do what was needed and
blanked out the other aspect of her life – the fact that she had a
Master who could at anytime demand.