Up For Review:
Office Politics (M+F, bdsm, humil)
Alexis would like you all to understand that this is an unfinished introduction to a story, and she's wondering if it's really worth pursuing. There are parts she likes, and parts she doesn't. (And yes she knows there's no actual sex in this part!)
I sat at his desk and relaxed back in an imitation of his posture, that self-assured, confidence of his that is so familiar to me. My feet were crossed at the heels, and my leather pumps rested softly on his matched desk set. I closed my eyes and sighed contentedly. He was in Guatemala for another week, touring a series of orphanages with a client. Some new televangelist needing a sob story to help bring in the donations. My boss was there to make sure that all of the claims he made to his followers on television fell into that category of "technically true." That's what he does, he keeps powerful people in power, keeps them out of trouble.
Not why I originally went into law, but it was a very lucrative way to make a living, and on occasion we were able to take on cases that actually did some good. It could be much worse, I reminded myself constantly. Before he found me I was slaving away in a storefront office, a tiny room trapped between a dry cleaners and a used bookstore in an almost-seedy corner strip mall. I hadn't had to defend a small-time drug dealer or a desperate DWI in the 3 years since he convinced me to join him. I let my mind wander, imagining his praise when he returned. I had just won an amazing pre-trial motion. Hopefully, it would turn the tide of the case. I fully expected a call from opposing counsel within the day, begging me to settle. Oh yes, life was better, much, much better.
However, the improvement in my professional life didn't begin to compare with the improvement in my personal life. When he found me, he not only discovered in me an extremely talented lawyer, but he found something else. One night, about three months into my association with his firm, he walked into my office and shut the door behind him. His voice startled me out of my focus - I was working late slodging through a particularly difficult opposing counsel argument - when he spoke my name. Something about the way he said it, the silk in his voice, I knew that this visit was something more than professional. "Trista, stand up please." I just stared at him, trying to process this odd request, so he repeated it, a bit louder this time. "Trista. I said stand up. I won't say please again." My brain cried out to my body, telling me to protest. Instead, I found myself pushing my chair out, standing. He nodded to me and said, "As I thought. Trista, come with me. Let me tell you how this is going to be from now on."
That was the start of it. He sat in the leather client chair in my office; I sat at his feet. In his steady, quiet voice he explained to me that he had found me, desperate in my cramped office, and he wanted to keep me.
I waited, perched on the edge of the sofa. I knew He would arrive soon, although I couldn't be sure of the exact time. At the sound of his knock I stood and opened the door for him. Without a word, He handed me a package and returned to his waiting car. I noticed that he hadn't turned the car off, and his silence spoke volumes. He was still angry with me, and I admitted to myself that I deserved his wrath. He had offered me this opportunity to regain his trust, to return myself to his favor. However, this was it - my last chance.
I quickly dress and walk to his car, locking the door behind me. From inside the car, he pushes the passenger door open for me, and I sit quietly, my head bowed and my eyes cast to my lap. My arms are held behind my back, and I use my hands to pull up the fabric of my cape. I can feel the cold leather of the seat against my bare thighs. I sit with my hands behind me, palms against the leather, my ankles crossed and my knees together. I a mockery of the prim lady-like posture that I'm exhibiting. Sitting in an almost Victorian manner, in an anything-but Victorian situation. My world narrows as he leans towards me and places a black silk blindfold across my eyes. From this point on, I can only feel the turns and straight-aways as he drives, taking me to a location he's uncharacteristically kept secret.
The car glides to a stop, and I can tell by the echoes that we're in a parking garage. I wait as he walks around the car and opens my door. I struggle to stand gracefully, hoping that he'll offer his hand. He remains distant, and I step out onto the pavement. When I'm standing before him, he motions with one finger for me to turn around, and he binds my wrists before firmly pushing me forward. When we reach a door he reaches around me to pull it open, and I can hear the difference in the floor under my heels. We've moved inside, and the sudden rush of cold from the air conditioner raises goose bumps on my bare flesh. I blink to let my eyes adjust as he removes my blindfold to let me take in my surroundings. A quick intake of air through my clenched teeth is my only reaction.
He's brought me to an office building. It's late and only the security guard is present in the lobby. I'm wearing only a dark cape, fastened at my throat. It drapes over my front, but it opens slightly with each step I take. I'm a bit wobbly on my heels, I'm not accustomed to 5" pumps, but he drives me forward. My hands are locked behind my back, cuffed at the wrist, then cuffed up, hooked to a ring in my collar, pulling, stretching my shoulders, but not overly painful as such. My collar is brown braided leather, high quality, but not fancy, very plain. I haven't earned the decorations yet. The security guard is a young man, working nights so that he can be home during the day for his children and his wife. He rarely sees a woman other than his wife nude, and he's never seen one bound and displayed as I am. He's flustered, not knowing how to respond to me, especially when he looks me in the face and realizes that he sees me every day, coming in and out of this building. You see, this is where I work. These are the people for whom I work. He looks to the man I'm with then back to me. Understanding dawns and his face changes. No longer does he look at me with respect, as a highly educated professional woman. He realizes that I'm nothing more than a bought-and-paid-for plaything.
My "companion" says to him, "your shift is over at midnight, is it not? Please, join us." I'm humiliated. I'll see this person, this "employee" every day after this.
With each step I take, my cape swings open, exposing just the slightest hint of my pale breasts, my clean-shaven pussy. We move to the elevator, and as the door opens, He whispers in my ear, "do me proud." I shudder at the implied threat in those words, the compliment that he believes I am capable of making him proud, and the fear of what happens if I don't. My stomach lurches with each floor as we ascend. 18, 19, 20 ...until finally we reach the penthouse, the private offices of my employer and my owner. As the doors open slowly, I'm struck by the difference in the office, the lights are dimmed, not the harsh office lights I'm accustomed to during the day ... My heel catches on the elevator opening and I stumble forward ungracefully. I hit the floor on my hands and knees, the carpet leaving small burns on my delicate skin. He bends down to help lift me up and whispers to me, "that does not make me proud, little one." And my insides fall apart. It's all I can do to keep from crying out in fear, but I know that my tears would spoil my expertly applied makeup and make matters that much worse. As I rise to my feet and steady myself, I gradually become aware of the people around me. Without raising my eyes to theirs (that would be disrespectful), I try to figure out who they are. Some are easier to identify than others. There is the last lawyer I embarrassed during a trial with an expertly written brief. The doctor whom I helped to best during a malpractice suit, the other adversaries that our firm has encountered, all of whom have probably referred to me as the "bitch" at one time or another. I know I'm good, very good at my job, and my arrogance has on more than one occasion colored my attitude and demeanor towards those around me. Towards co-workers and opponents. That's what got me here.
My Master whispers to me softly, "Little one, you have caused these men problems in the past. Although that is normally simply part of 'playing the game,' you have shown an unacceptable glee in it. You've shown very poor sportsmanship, and there must be some quid-pro-quo. In adversarial relationships, little one, it is vital that the involved parties recognize the worth of their opponents. You have failed to make such an acknowledgment. And, since you belong to me both professionally and personally, your lack of manners reflects poorly upon me. I have decided and they have agreed to allow this night to be my-our-reparations. You will be theirs tonight - completely. You must endure whatever they choose to do with you. And, since you've used your words so eloquently against them, you must ensure that your words remain quiet tonight. You will take what they have for you, and you will respond only with pleas for more. Your cries will be cries of pleasure. Your pain will be silent, or your pain will be increased. You have this opportunity to change your mind and leave, but understand that you will not only be leaving this room, you will be leaving me. Completely and forever. You will not be welcomed or allowed back in this firm, or in my presence."
He pauses, waiting for my response. I remain still, my head bowed. He gives a quick nod, takes my leash in hand and places it in the hands of a judge whom I assisted in having removed from the bench for ethical violations. And he leaves.
I'm brought to the conference room. The video equipment that we use for depositions is set up, several cameras, strategic lighting. I quickly realize that the room is lit in such a way that I will be completely visible. There will be no doubt as to my identity, but the identity of the others will be clouded. They will be protected; I will be exposed. Pulling my leash, I'm forced to climb to the top of the table, tottering a bit on my heels. I hear the cherry wood of the table scratch under my feet from my pumps and one of the men chuckles softly. A voice I recognize as belonging to a new associated to the firm says, "You know that she'll pay doubly for that when He sees the damage to the furniture." The others laugh evilly ...as though they wish they could see what payment he extracts, but knowing that they would rather not bare witness to my punishment at His hands.
My cuffs are released from the back of my collar, one hand is unhooked and both arms are re-clasped in front of me. My arms are raised above my head, hooked to a small ring set in the ceiling. I now understand why I was wearing the heels - otherwise I would never have been able to reach. As it is, I'm just barely touching the table with my feet. My cape, although still hooked around my throat, falls open around me. One man, standing on the table next to me, reaches up under my cape, pulling it aside and exposing me to the group. He reaches for a strip of crude silver duct tape and places it over my pussy, covering me completely from front to back. He whispers in my ear, "You were told to be shaved clean for tonight, were you not?"
Not trusting myself to answer, I merely nod. "Then we'll just see how good a job you did." And with that, he roughly, quickly pulls the tape from my private regions. Pulling skin and small hairs, leaving me scraped and reddened. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, small tears forming in the corners of my eyes. He laughs, shows the tape to the crowd, and rips my cape from my throat.
The night begins.