Friday, 21 October 2011

The Secretary

You know that feeling of being caught in a situation and you are just going with it? If you look back at it, you realise the sheer ridiculousness of it but at the time, it seems fine. This was exactly how I felt being on my knees, picking rice with chopsticks off a floor in a hotel bedroom, and being whipped every time I missed a grain. By a complete stranger. It felt fine.

I was playing at being a secretary and that was part of my training in dealing with Asian businessmen. Who, apparently, can be very forward in the sexual advances they choose to make towards female workmates.

But back to the story. I ask you what kind of man would arrive to a date with a bag full of rice and chopsticks. Well, it would be a city accountant, with a massive secretary fetish. So well versed in the game that I was ordered to arrive with a CV and dressed in a 'fuck me dress' (a picture was attached to the email he sent me prior to the meeting) I decided to disobey both orders. The CV thing was ridiculous. How on earth do you write in a fetish secretary CV anyway.  Fantastic ability to pick mail off the floor with your teeth? The dress he suggested was ghastly, cheap and not secretarial at all. Never understimate my ability to disobey. So I arrived CV-less, wearing a high waisted pencil skirt and a gorgeous minimal black Prada shirt buttoned up to the neck, a sheer Agent Provocateur body suit, stockings and 5 inch Gina heels. And a pair of glasses. If Helmut Lang dressed secretaries, they'd look like me.

I did. When I saw him I was disappointed. A podgy faced accountant. But you know what? I knew that I was ready and I wanted the experience so I just went with it.

He got up.

Mrs Smith? (that was my name)
Mr Jones (that was his)
Would you like  drink?

And from then on  it went.

He left me at the bar and ordered to join him in 5 minutes. I was furnished with the room number. Fine. I followed.

In the room, I was interviewed. Strictly. To my online profile.
"So, you are fiercely intelligent?"
I cringed. But I replied
"Yes I am"
"Oh well fuck you' I thought.

I could feel him standing behind me, his cock straining at his trousers. I brushed my bottom against it repeatedly, when answering the questions. Oddly, I knew it was an equals' game. He made me recite the rules.

Him: Rule number one Mrs Smith
Me: The brand must be maintaned at all times.
Him: Rule number 6 Mrs Smith
Me: Remain dignified under all provocation.
Him: And are you dignified?
Me: I am trying to be Mr Jones.
Him: Let me see <his hand between my legs>

I am wet, I know it and he knows it. And that's when punishment starts.

Whip lands on my arse. Unforgiving. He leans over me and says 'If any of it gets too much, all you need to say is Harry Potter'

And he whips me, again and again. I get massively turned on by it. I am all fours, dripping wet, each stroke making me more we, longing for him to fuck me.

And back to the original story, he says " And now, you clever clogs... why don't you pick this" and spills the rice grains on the floor. And I am picking the grains off the floor with the chopsticks, and for every one I miss, there is a whip landing on my arse. It hurts. A lot

But fuck me, I am not going to say Harry Potter as my safe word even if I were to be skinned alive.

And in the end he succumbs to me. I get turned on my face, over the bed. He tells me to open the packs of condoms. I do. With my teeth. He starts fucking me. I like it. I can see he is looking at my face. I come hard. And so does he. Spasming and reaching out. Grabbing the sheets.

And then we relax. On the bed, And he is just the little podgy accountant. And I am the girl that just walked in.

'Shit, you are hardcore. I thought I would be whipping you till Christmas before you say the word"
'I fucking hate Harry Potter. I would never say that'

I get off the bed and notice the whip. A fancy suede pink number. I loook at him and say 'What the fuck? A pink whip? Are you gay or something?

And then I leave.

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