Submitting to Her (17 page)

"Well, I guess you don't want to speculate to
that level of detail. But some people don't see that as sex
nowadays - again, blame Clinton." Robin shrugged. "I think when you
do get a home run, you guys need to have that little chat about
exclusivity."

I nodded, but knew full well that in this
relationship, it wasn't really up to me.

Somehow, a dark part of me found that little
idea a little exciting - though I still had no idea why.

When I slept, I dreamed of Zoey Schoenberg,
bossing me around, stepping on me, ordering me to serve her. It was
no wonder I awoke on Monday morning to find that I'd had yet
another incident. Well, it was some kind of release - and it did
comply with my no touching rule.

Nevertheless, it did worry me as I arrived
nice and early at the office that morning. One of these days, she'd
decide to grant my dearest wish of full sexual release, and she'd
know full well there wasn't as much come inside me as there should
have been.

Yet there seemed to be no opportunity for me
to tell her what was happening in my sleep.

During the day at the office, I was able to
ignore my concerns for the most part, and business continued as
well as it had done since my new strategy for success had kicked
in. There was plenty to keep me occupied managing the team. Then at
the end of the afternoon, as I was already beginning to get hopeful
again that I might be given the opportunity to serve my boss
sexually once more, I received a short but devastating email from
her.

It said only: "Present yourself in my office
at 5:30pm to explain why you have failed to carry out your
instructions."

My heart sank like a torpedoed submarine, and
I think I must have audibly sighed, since my colleague Scott said:
"Everything okay, dude?"

I sighed again, trying to portray casual
annoyance this time, although inside my chest there was something
of a nuclear meltdown going on. I said: "Yeah, I just realized I
forgot to include a couple things in the RJS presentation."

"Ah well, it went pretty well from the sounds
of it," he said, buying my line.

"Yeah, it did."

"You seem to be a pretty good team with Zoey
these days."

I smiled, hoping desperately that I wasn't
blushing like an idiot. I said: "I guess you could say I've had my
eyes opened to her effectiveness as a leader."

I was dreading our meeting a little before I
went in. What had I done wrong? I really had no idea. Was it
possible she'd found out about my wet dream? How? I hadn't told a
soul.

The thing was, if she wanted to punish me,
she now had the inside track on how to do so in such a way as to
really hurt me. I couldn't see her bringing Brandon into the office
on a weekday evening, but there was renewed recognition within me
of Zoey's real power.

Waiting to go in there, I had the suspicion
that our head of department had a quiet desire to punish me anyway,
regardless of whether she had genuine cause to complain. Maybe
she'd make an assumption that I'd touched myself at some point. I'd
find it hard to lie to her if she asked me.

At last came the appointed time. Everybody
else had left for the evening other than the cleaning woman. I
nervously stood outside Zoey's door and knocked.

"Come!"

My heart was racing and my stomach full of
butterflies as I entered her office.

"Ah, Jones. Close the door behind you."

She was sitting at her desk, apparently
working on some paperwork as I slipped inside and closed the door
behind me, then took a few paces towards the desk, to stand
demurely at attention.

For a few moments, she ignored me, and the
tension within me just continued to build.

Then she said: "What were your instructions,
Jones?"

"Not to touch myself during the weekend."

She breathed once, twice, then shook her
head. "No. Not those - I assumed you complied with those
instructions."

"I did," I insisted, adding: "Ma'am."

She scowled at me. "And now talking when I
haven't asked you to? Oh dear, Jones. No, the instructions I'm
referring to were your requirement to ensure I'm compensated each
day for the stress you inflicted. Correct?"

"Correct, Ms Schoenberg."

My head spun as I tried to figure out what
she meant. Surely I'd been attentive? I gasped as I realized what,
perhaps, she was getting at.

"And so what happened yesterday?"

Sunday. She'd never enforced Sundays
before.

"I... I don't know, Ms Schoenberg," I
stammered. "I forgot... it was Sunday..."

She shook her head gently. I tried to appear
calm, though inside my chest my nuclear meltdown response team was
scurrying about with no real idea how to contain the catastrophe
currently laying waste to my internal organs.

I half wondered if Brandon really was going
to show up, drop by the office to see his ex. Or maybe we'd go back
to her apartment, and he'd be there. That idea, strangely, was a
little exciting to me, not just horrifying. I was a mess, but it
turned out that getting to watch Zoey Schoenberg being pleasured,
no matter who was doing it, was a scintillating notion.

In this curious new fantasy, although the
woman I was increasingly of the opinion I loved was apparently
cheating on me to my face, I was still the one making her come. I
was the special one. I was the one who served her, and eventually I
would be rewarded with the ultimate access.

"Take off your clothes."

I almost didn't hear her order, my mind
wandering to thoughts of my goddess being worshipped by other men.
But thankfully, her voice was sharp enough to penetrate my
daydreams.

I flicked a quick glance at the door,
concerned that it was unlocked.

"I didn't say look at the door," she
said.

I started unfastening my buttons. I could
hear the cleaning woman outside, or at least her vacuum cleaner.
What if she burst in on us while I was servicing Zoey? She'd
probably run screaming for the hills, or perhaps for the human
resources department where she could report our depravity.

"Come on, speed it up. I don't have all
night."

I pulled my shirt off, the cool air of the
air-conditioned office raising goose bumps on my arms, and hastily
folded it up to lay on the chair in front of her desk. Off came my
shoes, then my pants and underwear came down all in one.

Socks off, and I was completely bare. If the
cleaner came in now, she would get a real shock.

"Good." My head of department looked up at
me, and nodded, her eyes running over my body as I stood to
attention.

For a moment or two, she just continued
working, leaving me standing there, my cock semi-hard as though it
wasn't quite sure whether to be aroused by all this or frightened.
Still, the vacuum cleaner hummed outside, and I don't think it was
only my paranoia suggesting that the sound was growing louder.

My heart pounded inside my chest.

Then she said: "Stand in the corner, Jones.
You're very distracting when I'm trying to finish up the Philips
proposal."

"Yes, Ms Schoenberg."

I did as she wanted. Hey, if my punishment
for neglecting my duty over the weekend was to be a nice
not-so-little ornament for her office, that was fine with me.

"Face the wall, Jones, there's a good
boy."

I turned to face the bookcase, and started to
count the books on the shelf in front of me to stave off the
growing fear as the sound of the vacuum cleaner designated its
location to be increasingly close to this office. Out of the corner
of my eye, I could see Zoey at the desk, just working away at her
report, apparently completely unconcerned at the danger posed by
the unlocked door.

Was she insane?

My head was reeling as I heard the vacuum now
just outside the door, the pitch of the motor rising and falling as
the cleaning woman whirled it around the floor not more than a few
feet from where I was standing without a stitch on.

I tried to calm myself with the idea that
this was merely my punishment. Somehow, Zoey had engineered it so
the cleaning woman would know not to disturb us. She had instructed
her that she needn't concern herself with this particular office
tonight.

Then the door opened.

I gasped, but then tried desperately to
stifle my reaction, fearing consequences.

Giselle said softly: "Oh, sorry, Miss
Zoey."

I was gripped by blinding panic, white-hot
heat swamping my entire body. Was the open door shielding me from
the cleaning woman's eyes? I felt myself blushing, quivering with
embarrassment even though I couldn't be sure I was seen. Even
breathing was difficult - it felt as though the oxygen levels in
that room had suddenly halved, like we were suddenly at high
altitude.

"No, it's all right, Giselle, you can clean
in here," I heard Zoey saying, and the horror overwhelmed me.

I heard the run-of-the-mill clunking sound of
the vacuum as she brought it into the room, and then the door
closed, and I heard the cleaning woman, Giselle, catch her breath
at the sudden sight of this naked man standing in the corner.

There was a pause that seemed to go on
forever as I knew her startled eyes were running all over me, no
doubt rather confused at what she saw, and probably highly
amused.

"I'm sorry, Miss..." she said.

But Zoey said: "Oh no, you just go right
ahead. Move any... objects... if you need to."

I tried to focus on a single book sitting on
the shelf next to me - Who's Who 1981-95, the driest of titles -
and go into some kind of state of meditation. Keep breathing, block
out the darkness around me, the thoughts that a young cleaning
woman was sniggering at me as she cleaned the office.

I even shuffled a little closer to the
bookshelf, as though it might somehow hide my brutally exposed
penis from the intruder, allow her to see me only from the
back.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see
movement, and then she was cleaning along my bookshelf, and I could
see her trying to look at me without making it obvious what she was
doing, and I knew how ridiculous it was for me to try to conceal
myself.

Oh God.

I felt a little tingle in my loins at the
prospect of her looking at me. Oh, this was a bad, bad thing. The
thought that she had seen me, the question of whether she was
impressed with me - my relatively athletic body, my cock - somehow
prompted a tickle of early arousal.

Please, God, no.

I looked down and could see my cock twitch.
Oh, that would be the worst.

I tried desperately to think of horrible,
awful things to quell my burgeoning erection, but nothing could
quite dislodge the full horror I was currently experiencing, and so
I was left with absolutely no defense. I glanced down to see my
manhood swelling even as I watched.

Then I felt a breeze behind me as though the
cleaning woman had passed by very close, and I detected the crisp,
overly sweet scent of perfume overlaid with cleaning products.

A soft hand touched my arm just above my
elbow, and I visibly jumped.

"I'm sorry," she said in a quiet voice,
"could you just move over a little?"

Her gentle European accent and close
proximity brought me to full hardness. Oh God, what must she have
thought of me?

I did as she asked, and as I moved to the
side, to stand in a place in front of the bookshelf that I knew
she'd already cleaned, our eyes connected, and a pulse of shame
shot through my heart.

She was quite attractive, which only made it
worse. Before I turned away to focus again on the bookshelf, I
caught a slight smile on her lips. There was pity in that smile,
more than amusement. Empathizing with someone else who was
downtrodden by those in positions of power.

Giselle seemed to take her time cleaning the
place in which I'd been standing, and then she touched my other arm
briefly, allowing me to return to my position. Before resuming my
careful observation of Who's Who 1981-95, I noticed Giselle's eyes
drop briefly to my groin, checking out my equipment up close.

I felt as though my humiliation was now
complete, full-to-bursting. It was now veering into strange new
territory where it was becoming a thrill. Like when wine had been
open too long, and turned into vinegar, turned into something else.
Was Zoey turning me into a sexual freak? Had a streak of voyeurism
and exhibitionism been inside me all along, to be revealed only
when this girl I adored decided to have sex in front of me, or
invite another woman into the room to peer at me? Or was this
thrill something entirely new?

Were these strange reactions to difficult
stimuli common among men? Some kind of innate behavior, perhaps,
from the days when humans ran in packs and humped whatever they
could get their hands on in the hope that their genes would be
passed on. Or was it just me, and I was becoming a monster?

Giselle seemed to take her time cleaning in
there - I'm sure we would have gotten faster service if she wasn't
distracted, didn't feel the need to dust the bookshelves on that
particular evening as well as vacuum the carpet.

Eventually, I heard Zoey thanking her, and
she was saying quietly in reply: "Of course, you are welcome,
Miss."

And she was gone.

She hadn't acted or sounded like someone who
was going to run for her lawyers, or hammer down the door to the
human resources department. She'd sounded respectful, someone who
wasn't going to question things she didn't understand. She had an
immigrant's desire not to cause trouble in her new country.

It was a huge relief when the door to the
office closed again, and this time I heard Zoey locking it.