The Business of Pleasure (10 page)

‘Your nipples are hard,’ said Collins with a flash of wicked teeth. ‘I can see them through your bra. Are you feeling a little bit hot and bothered, Miss?’

Charlotte knew she could not lie, not to Collins. ‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered.

‘I didn’t hear you.’

She looked up and repeated herself, a little belligerently. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You like to be told what to do, don’t you, Charlotte? You like to be treated like a bad girl who needs constant supervision. Am I right?’

‘You’re right, sir,’ she whispered, the words so uncomfortable to speak, more uncomfortable than her ungainly position on that damned stool.

He relaxed his sternly locked brow. ‘Just as I hoped,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I am going to give you permission to speak, Charlotte, so that you can give me your impressions of your first day at work. Anything you wish to tell me, you can tell me now.’

Charlotte sat up straight, gathering her thoughts, hoping to please Collins with her ideas and insights. ‘I think the job will suit me very well, sir. I am getting to grips with the website and all the different procedures you have to go through. All the vetting! Wow! I had no idea you were so very meticulous. But it’s good that you are, of course. I’ve had loads of ideas about how to put some of the clients’ requests into practice too. I know the perfect venue for that banquet one. And I’ve found a really good florist that can undercut the one you use. And I thought about advertising in the Student Unions for men to add to our roster – though obviously not everyone wants a
young
man … so we’d have to stick to the men’s magazines for the older candidates … all the same …’

Collins held up a hand, smiling indulgently. ‘This is good, Charlotte,’ he said, ‘but not what we are here to discuss. We can bring up all these ideas when we meet as a team with Bryant. I just wondered … if you liked it here. That was all.’

Charlotte looked down at the slopes of her breasts rising above lacy bra cups and between gauzy flaps of shirt. She looked at the skirt bulked around her waist and the spread milky thighs, striped with ruched black suspenders. The portion of stool seat visible to her was slightly slick with damp; a damp that must have proceeded directly from the heat generating between her legs.

‘Yes, sir. I like it very much.’

‘Better than local government, eh?’

‘Much better, sir.’

‘Good.’ Collins, who had been eyeing her sidelong, hungrily, but with enough restraint to realise that his meal would be tastier if he took it slowly, snapped back into severe business mode.

‘Bryant says he is satisfied with your performance today, but we have a few small matters to address.’ Collins flicked open a leather notebook, reading from it. ‘Speaking out of turn on three occasions. Wearing an overly long skirt. Using the washroom without asking.’

Charlotte gasped. ‘But nobody was here! Who could I ask? And how do you even know?’

‘Because, dear Charlotte, you have just told me.’

‘But … I … oh my God! How was I supposed to …?’

Collins drummed elegant fingers on the desk. ‘Phone? Email? Text message?’

‘What if neither of you is available?’

‘You wait.’

‘What if I
can’t
wait?’

‘You work on strengthening your pelvic floor, dear Charlotte. Which will be a useful thing for you to do anyway, because believe me, you are going to get thoroughly used in every orifice while you are working here. But you knew that, didn’t you?’

Charlotte was mutely open-mouthed for a while, electrified by the intense, almost savage, delivery of Collins’s statement of his intent for her.

‘And there was an awful lot of disrespectful
tone
in those last few exchanges,’ said Collins contemplatively. ‘Dear, dear, dear.’

Charlotte felt outwitted, realising too late that Collins had been winding her up with the deliberate intent of provoking her into a rule break. She determined to grit her teeth and accept whatever it was he had in mind for her. After all, it was unlikely to be anything she didn’t want, in the final honest analysis.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said meekly.

‘Not sorry enough. Not yet,’ he said softly. ‘Push those knickers aside and play with yourself.’

The abrupt command surprised Charlotte, who had been expecting something along more traditional disciplinary lines.

‘Go on,’ he prompted. ‘Put them to one side. Show me how wet you are.’

Charlotte unveiled her glistening pussy lips, wondering if Collins would approve of their newly-shaven look. She had done it especially for him, thinking he would approve. He made no comment on it, though. He simply nodded and leaned forward a little, squinting through the lenses of his glasses.

‘I thought so. You’re soaking wet. That stool will need a good wipe down by the time I’ve finished with you. Well, what are you waiting for? Finger yourself.’

Charlotte was by nature an assiduous person, and when she set out to do a job, she made sure it was done to the best of her ability. She inserted three doughty fingers between those weeping lips and began to strum, looking up at a corner of the ceiling initially until Collins ordered her to face him, to watch herself being watched.

This was so difficult, she thought. It was almost impossible not to break the eye contact, unless she pretended she was doing something altogether different. Rather than frigging herself in the office for the entertainment of her strict boss, she was … making a sandwich. Cheese? Chicken? Butter, not that horrid low-fat spread stuff. Her fingers skittered manically, mechanically across her clit, a butterknife spreading their goodness.

‘You are thinking of something else,’ Collins realised indignantly. ‘Stop daydreaming. Is it because you are afraid you might come?’

‘Yes, sir,’ shuddered Charlotte, forcing herself to obey. ‘No, sir,’ she amended, aware that this was not the complete truth. ‘It’s embarrassing, sir.’

‘Good.’

Charlotte curled one finger up into her tightly-furled bud, finding it slick and slippery with her juices. Was Collins going to fuck her? Was he going to let her come? Was he going to punish her? Oh, the thought of it made her body convulse as she pictured herself bent over the stool, maybe tied to the wooden legs, taking stroke after stroke of Mr Collins’s belt.

‘Your face is very red. Are you going to come?’ Collins could have been asking her if she had settled the stationer’s account.

‘I … think so …, sir.’ Her fingers were blurs of activity, scrabbling, squishing, pressing, pushing.

‘You’d better stop then.’ Charlotte, almost tearful with reluctance, took her supercharged fingers from the channel and lifted woeful eyes to her tormentor. ‘Hmm, orgasms must be earned, dear Charlotte,’ he admonished her. ‘Stand up now and come over here.’

Now so wet that she made a tiny sucking sound with each step, she approached the desk, her knickers still dragged diagonally across her mons, baring the largest part of her nether regions.

‘Hold out that hand.’ Collins took it and held it to his beaky nose, taking a good long lungful of her female scent. ‘You’re incorrigible,’ he said. ‘I shall have to whip the lewdness out of you, shan’t I?’ He mock sighed and Charlotte tried not to break into a grin. ‘Very well. Bend over the desk then.’

Exhilarated and yet afraid, Charlotte tilted herself over to press her warm breasts and stomach into the cold mirror-shine of the desk. Collins took her hands and pulled them up to his side of the desk, so that she could cling on to the edge. She heard him open a desk drawer, but she did not dare look up, keeping her cheek flattened to the surface while he stood and moved around to the other side where her red and black frilly bottom adorned the polished oak. One hand descended on the cascading frills, ruffling them lightly.

‘These are nice,’ he said, his voice sardonic. ‘Favourites, are they?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘All the same, they’re coming down.’ He bared her bottom, letting the scanty panties fall until they snagged against her suspender snaps and were held captive at mid-thigh.

Charlotte could feel two hands now, squeezing the mounds of her buttocks then brushing them, following the curve down to the cleft of her sex.

‘I’m wondering how much these can take,’ Collins explained, his voice, as ever, unaccountably dark and melancholy. ‘Do you know? Do you know your limit, Charlotte?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve never really … gone that far.’

‘These Performance Reviews are partly designed to find it. We balance your achievements against your transgressions and your shapely little rear here pays for any deficit. You will inevitably make mistakes. We all do. Most of us do not have to reap quite the same consequences as you will, though, Charlotte. Because you are special, and you need this.’

Charlotte felt warm. Special. She was special to him.

She felt warmer still on the first measured crack of his hand against the bare flesh of her arse, shocking her out of contemplation, shocking her into the moment.

‘Just an introduction then,’ he said. ‘Just a taste,’ and his hand continued to rise and fall, with sharp impact, while Charlotte kept her fingers tense at the ledge, working hard at keeping her squirms minimal.

‘You won’t forget the rules now, will you, Charlotte?’ The smacks were hard, but in a considered kind of way, as if he was making sure he didn’t peak too soon. They left their imprints across the widest part of her bottom and downwards, pinkening her thighs to the stocking tops. Charlotte knew that this was nothing, that this was mild, that this was a mere feather-duster tickling compared to what lay in his reserves, but it was still getting a little uncomfortable and before too long she thought she might have to utter a low cry or a squeak. She tried to clench her buttocks, but he responded by putting extra weight behind the next few strokes, and she conceded defeat, offering him her full soft globes to do with as he wished.

Once they were warm and the colour of strawberry pulp, Collins changed his tactic, picking something up from the desk – whatever the thing was he had taken from the drawer, she supposed.

‘As a reminder to keep the hemlines high,’ he said, gripping the roll of skirt material for a moment as a tactile cue, ‘I shall give you twenty strokes of my best leather strap. This one is supple, Charlotte, and has proved rather popular with my submissives through the years. I suspect you will find much to appreciate in its combination of strength and sting.’

Charlotte was just processing the words ‘
my submissives through the years
’ and surprising herself with a pang of jealousy when the strap swung and caught her across a bar of skin already well-prepared by Collins’s hand.

Her pelvis jolted against the desk and she yelped, feeling the burn more intensely than she had ever imagined she would in all her years of fantasising about it. She managed to take the first half dozen without breaking position or yelling the place down, but as the strapping continued her broken vocalisations turned into cries of outrage – ‘that hurt’ or ‘ouch, ouch, ouch’ – but never did it occur to her to ask him to stop, or beg for mercy. By the twelfth, she was biting her lip hard and letting go of the desk periodically to try and shield her bottom. Each attempt to do this was met with a firm replacement of her hand in its permitted station and a warning that she would get more for disobedient conduct during a punishment.
He wants me to cry
, she realised by the fifteenth.
He wants me to plead through my tears.
And, despite the tightness and soreness of her rear, her final thought was,
I won’t.

He added one more to the total of twenty, catching her off guard so that she howled in surprised pain, but then he put the strap aside, laid a hand on the fervid heat of her bottom and said, ‘You take it well. Repeat after me: “Thank you, sir, for correcting me.”’

Charlotte, spluttering and gasping a little in the wake of the onslaught, said, ‘Thank you, sir, for correcting me.’

‘Well, Charlotte,’ he said, his hand still enjoying her posterior heat wave, stroking the scarlet flesh in a way that somehow offered no relief, ‘I don’t think we’re anywhere near your limit yet. But I will find it. Trust me.’

Charlotte shivered, wondering, not for the first time, what went through the mind of a man like Collins. Why did he want to hurt her? Why did he want to master her? But then, she might as well ask why she wanted him to hurt her – she was no closer to finding that answer.

‘Open those legs wider,’ he commanded with a sharp smack to her humbled flesh. ‘I’m on the horns of a dilemma here … it all looks so tempting.’ She heard him open and close a drawer.

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘No lubricant. Well, that solves my problem, I suppose.’

The sound of his swift footsteps mingled with the jingling of his belt buckle and the soft shush of fabric, then there was flesh on her flesh, his hands on her hips, his knees bending hers at the back and his cock, large and thick, slipping speedily into her cunt. She cried out and kept her fingers tightly wound around the edge of the desk, for he began forcefully and only carried on more so, his thrusts making her knees knock against the wood and her bottom take a secondary pounding from his lower abdomen. She was being used, pure and simple; she was a tight hole and a hot cushion for him to pound into and against, a slippery wet cavern to fill with his seed. She could have any face, any form; she was just a convenience. The thought made her come, a first time, but Collins was not finished. He held back, keeping the rhythm measured but brutal, making sure that he wrung a further, sob-inducing climax from Charlotte before releasing inside her.

She felt so tired, so used, so defeated – he had, after all, made her cry – and yet so happy. So complete. So exactly where she wanted to be in the universe.

‘Get dressed,’ was Collins’s curt command. ‘We’re meeting Bryant for dinner. Then we’re taking you shopping.’

‘At this time? Won’t the shops be shut?’

Charlotte made an attempt at emergency repair of her outfit, which was now crumpled and sweaty beyond redemption. She looked like a girl who’d just been well fucked after a hard spanking. But Collins wasn’t going to let her escape the truth of that, and she was going to have to parade it in front of all the patrons of the hotel where they would dine.