The office was high up, indicating a certain seniority, and walled in glass on two sides. The view of the Thames was usually grey and damp, but occasionally glimmers of sunlight lit up the sky and reflected in inexpensive decoration across the rippling water. London had always struck her as the kind of city that looked majestic in monochrome, and bright sunlight hit her office with unrelenting force, almost bringing productivity to a standstill. Today she was grateful for the gloomy weather that surrounded the building as she worked through pages and pages of unimaginative marketing. In squared black print, the ideas were abysmal; she tried to view them in colour and motion, and they appeared worse. Tired, she flipped another page, letting the paper flutter and join the rest, strewn like leaves over the glass tabletop. To her left was the large computer she tried not to use. Her colleagues, taken in by the state of the art technology, had thrown away their manual skills in favour of their new gadgets, while she worried about her eyesight, and found satisfaction in the archaic rituals she had spent the past fifteen years refining.

Sitting in her expensive office chair, she placed her head in her hand for a moment, resting, and wondered what the phrase “state of the art” really meant. Although a diligent worker, she occasionally let her mind wander and follow the lines of her strange consciousness. A reward for being so focused all morning. It wasn’t easy for her to employ such utter self-control, but she had been taught well.

Slipping it between her lips, she licked the end of her pen thoughtfully, curling the tip of her tongue around the black metal, and turned her chair to face the window. On the Thames, in the distance, she could see Tower Bridge closing, the two sections arching over the setting sun behind a tall boat, marked black in silhouette. Glancing at the table she saw a few more hours stretching before her. She couldn’t help but consider her options; which of the eager volunteers could she persuade to proofread the rest of her work. That might do for the night. But she couldn’t leave yet. Sighing she ran one finger down the paper, and started ticking off flawless paragraphs.

Her degree had been in Art History, and this was not the work she had imagined doing. But she made good money. Cash had always been seductive. And independence. Despite her deviance.

She shook her head, trying to rid her mind of any lingering filth. This work had to be done.

Beneath the desk, she crossed her legs, feeling the nylon tops of her stockings slide together. She bit her lip. It was too delicious to be ignored. The day’s outfit had been chosen carefully. A grey pencil skirt that clung to the shape her hips and narrowed beneath her curved bottom was paired with a white blouse, identified as expensive by it’s flawless tailoring. There had been a jacket, but more than just the building’s heating had demanded she remove it upon arrival at her office. In the dim, grey light the shirt was perfectly respectable, concealing her completely. On another day the sun might have cast beams across her body, exposing her upper half to happy clients. Above the top button, her slender neck was bare, her cascading, dark hair clipped neatly at the back of her head, stylishly turned up in the French fashion. Just an inch below, beneath the collar of her blouse, she smiled to remember the red love bite that adorned her white skin; a keepsake from nights of frenzied passion.

She had ticked far too many paragraphs. Wrenching herself to the immediate importance of her position, she flipped back, certain that she must have missed errors. Scanning over the work she had ignored, she discovered six mistakes and underlined them dutifully, correcting them where appropriate.

Of course, the red mark on her collarbone was the least of her hidden sins. He had dressed her, but had started long before she left at 9am. In the early hours of the morning he had awoken and peered at her innocently sleeping body, his eyes dark with mischief. His erection ached as he pushed himself over her, commanded by utter self-certainty. Fucking her to consciousness he had none of the tenderness most lovers share in warm mornings, preferring to wake her to the knowledge of his ownership. Love could wait for farewells. Once awake he had begun his precise markings.

She shifted in her seat and reached for her water, sipping it, hoping the cool liquid would soothe her heated body, but her mind was far beyond her, reliving the sensation of being dragged across his knee. It made her gleeful to remember how he spanked her, his broad palm covering one buttock at a time with pink handprints. Even now it made her wet as she moved and felt the ache still radiating from each cheek. And the dampness between her thighs was inadvisable given the bare state she maintained beneath her conservative skirt. She had requested knickers, but he had simply laughed as he dragged the delicate material of her stockings up over her knees, and placed a few more blows on her rosy ass, for good measure. Before she could gasp, he pulled her up – by her hair – and stood her before him, forcing her to present herself to him. He considered her, his face not betraying any hint of emotion, as he chose his next weapon. From his side of the bed he drew a black pen. She stood between his knees as he scrawled his words across her body.

“Master’s” was inked above the bare mound of her cunt. Possessiveness was something she had heard countless friends complain about. In their case it was the basis for all problems. For her, the fact that she belonged to him was the most divine truth she knew. On the expanse of white flesh that was her gently convex stomach, the word “fucktoy” was expertly penned, just a few inches below the “whore” and “slut” that adorned her breasts. She admired the calligraphy, clearly drawn by the hand of an artist. It never ceased to amaze her that an artist, a painter, in this day and age, could make such a good living. Equally, his deft skill made her wonder that he wasn’t more widely known. But this was the nature of worship.

He wasn’t done. Forcing her to her knees, he applied tight rubber bands to her nipples, causing them to harden and stick uncomfortably out, all day long. This was her true torture. While the clear protrusions of her bound nipples had gone numb hours earlier, she knew the pain that would course through her when they were released, as the feeling began to return. She bit her lip, and shivered with terrified delight. And now she ached, knowing the wet patch that was surely blossoming on the back of her skirt, displaying her wanton agony.

Self-awareness had won out, and the pleasure tingled in her fingertips, making her handwriting uneven. She looked at the clock, weighing up the consequences of finishing early. It wasn’t an option, but the crooked words were bad form.

A knock on the door, made her jump. Her focus hadn’t gone, but been shifted to her arousal, and the sound pulled her from her reverie.

Without waiting, he pushed the door open and slid, seamlessly, into the room.

A smiled curled the corners of his lips. He knew her state simply by looking at the pink flush of her cheeks, the gentle opening of her mouth.

“Are you ready, little one?”

This entry was posted in Fiction, Lustful, Rough, Spanking. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Protectorate

  1. LittleMonkey says:

    This little one is ready….for more. Delightful tale.

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