Dominatrix in the Corner Office

Literotic asexstories – Dominatrix in the Corner Office by SusanSelton,SusanSelton
Dominatrix in the Corner Office

Other than wearing a locking chastity device over his fully developed erection, the boy stood perfectly naked in my presence, as submissive as a mannequin – like all males should comport themselves whilst before a woman. The fingernails of my right hand had been grazing his testicles for several minutes, only occasionally halting their mesmerizing rhythm. The boy was clean-shaven and young – because that’s how I like them, or rather, what I insist of my boys. I felt the bloated testicles of my ‘boy du jour’ tightening up, so I resorted to lighter scratching.

“Self-control is a terrible thing to lose,” I purred.

The first set of music hadn’t finished playing and the vanilla scent of the candles was already pervasive throughout the living room. There was something ritualistic about boy’s night. The long switch quietly sat on a petite glass table at my side, as did a mixed bourbon drink. Tonight, I changed into a snug blouse, a leather miniskirt, and black pointy shoes with long metallic heels. My slender legs gracefully extended over the three-legged footstool before me. Only periodically do I wear these shoes to the office — they seductively creak when I walk, and this elicits unwelcome chatter from the men. I also restrict my skirts and dresses to knee-length attire. Tonight’s pantyhose, however, were glossy and crotchless.

Boy’s nights are special occasions.

I am forever catching men of all ages lasciviously eyeing my long, toned legs — these and sheeny hosiery consistently draw in those meandering eyeballs. The pathetic male gaze also rests on my shapely ass. The men at the office were mostly ex-military, and the higher the rank, the bigger the chip on their shoulders, but that didn’t prevent me from stopping them dead in their tracks.

Andrew and his predecessor both admitted, that with just a glance, I routinely left them with painful bulges in their trousers. I have an hour-glass figure, and in heels I stand well over six feet tall — and I always wear heels. I rarely wear slacks, however, and when out of the office, I opt for riskier clothing choices.

Semiformal events at the swing dance club allow for this, even at the country club, just south of the city. Initially, my goal was to be the second sexiest dressed woman present — no woman wants to be the party skank. Then I realized that a sultry look, bordering on vampy, is acceptable when presenting oneself as doe-eyed and demure. But this of course was a ruse. Going through moderate breast enhancement surgery in my thirties improved my self-esteem and gave me a more attractive appearance. But it’s my sexy legs and ass that reduce men to glassy-eyed meat puppets.

Even back then, my dominatrix aspirations were brewing.

Casting my vision up from what I was reading — a report regarding hydraulic valves, I stared the naked boy straight in the eyes, maliciously digging the pointed tips of my fingernails deep into his burgeoning balls. He gasped, momentarily, then looked away. I resumed grazing my nails over his hairless testicles; the flesh of his penis was pressing through the crosswires of the cage, but he was no closer to losing his self-control than before. This evening my nails were painted in scarlet red, my red lipstick equally contrasted against my dark skin, and my hair arranged in long woven braids. The make-up, as always, had to be flawless.

Clutching the switch, I applied several well-deserved strikes to his bare buttocks, then to his testicles. Discolorations left on boys’ lily-white asses by the postage-stamp-sized tip always amused me and served as physical reminders of the nature of our relationships.

I can never lose control, and a lady always keeps them guessing — and she also always keeps her nails polished and sharp. Moreover, boys stand at attention until directed to do otherwise, metal cage or no metal cage. Several trigger words from this document struck me — ‘hydraulic’ and ‘valve’ — among them. They would come in handy at tomorrow’s staff meeting.

Staff meetings took place in the conference room, adjacent to my corner office where dozens of framed diplomas, certificates, and commendations lined the walls. Upon hearing the trigger words, Andrew’s lower lip would always seductively quiver — then he’d ask to borrow the key to relieve himself. “Go and worship the black woman,” I usually whispered, with a haughty smirk.

The boy worked down the hall, in records, but now we were in my home, him waiting on me hand and foot. Andrew was twenty-two years old when hired, but after my daughter Kelsey aced the ASVAP test and departed our Virginia home for Texas, and after the other boy’s departure, I took the relationship to its next level, on my way toward becoming a full dominatrix.

Lean and wiry, Andrew possessed delicate facial features and tussled light brown hair. Maybe he weighed 135 pounds soaking wet. His immediate predecessor, the same age but of lighter complexion, was similar in size.

Both boys had delectably tight asses and were easy to physically overpower when necessary.

On our first evening together at my home, midway through reviewing a stack of documents, I directed Andrew to remove his trousers, citing the comfort it would provide him. Ridiculing his boxer shorts, by the second get-together I had him wear one of several ‘two sizes too small’ stretchy backless male undergarments that I purchased just for him. During our earliest make-out sessions — kissing and petting — these stringy, stretchy pieces of ‘playwear,’ as they are advertised, grew to encouraging proportions.

These ‘at home’ get-togethers followed initial weekly one-on-one meetups in obscure, dimly lit bars — where a boy’s hand could discreetly slide up and down the pantyhose leg of a woman twice his age and nobody would notice or care. And what perverted things Andrew confessed to me: a pantyhose fetish, a desire to be in locking chastity, and so much more. “Tell me all the naughty things you want a grown woman to do to you.”

Mentoring a boy is always a process.

Whilst sitting in my living room, with Andrew attired in playwear and me wearing outfits that oscillated from leather miniskirts paired with thigh-high boots, to form-fitting bodysuits, to restrictive ‘dominatrix-light’ affairs, the boy’s hands were no longer permitted to freely roam up and down my sheeny legs.

Those preliminary confessions were solicited for a reason. One day the stretchy playwear was confiscated and thereafter the boy was forced to walk about my home completely naked. Then it became continual locking chastity — and the metal cage was unyielding.

It always mortified Andrew when he lost his self-control whilst locked in chastity, as it did his predecessor, who was additionally fitted with an electric butt plug. What should a woman expect from the male of the species? Helplessly, they harden up when aroused, agree to any demand — regardless how ridiculous, and when led about by their idiot sticks, finally ooze out in a most indecorous manner. When done properly, stimulation is both reward and punishment, and soon, punishment becomes its own reward.

If I were to release the boy from his locking device, ‘the big hand’ would spring to the one o’clock position, or at least this was my experience in those early days when I called Andrew ‘my walking towel rack.’

I directed Andrew to be a good little boy and ‘freshen up Auntie’s bourbon and cola,’ after he dimmed the lights and put on the second set of music. Boys this age have nice asses, but looking at a naked boy never aroused me — unless perhaps it’s a sustained look during an intense session with a remote control to an electric butt plug in one hand, and a large glass of bourbon in the other, which is almost enough to make a woman lose herself.

Seeing those red postage-stamp-sized squares walking through my living room raised my spirits.

For me, love-making begins with lip-to-lip kissing, and this is what I required from my boys as a part of foreplay — which I suppose itself is a ritual. Bourbon also moistens me up. With my pantyhose legs crossed at the knees, I rubbed my shoes up and down the boy’s thighs, and repeatedly over his chastity device.

“The spikey heels turn you on, don’t they you little pervert? You know you want to kiss them — you want to suck the spikes.”

Submissively, Andrew maneuvered himself to kiss the shoes, sucking the spikes as well. Seeing a woman traipse upon these phallic representations seems to arouse males everywhere, just as working for a woman has the dual effect in males of a desire to please, but a resentment to serve. Andrew’s kisses worked their way up, over the ankle-chain and chastity key, then to the calves and knees.

“I suppose you want me to unlock you,” I scolded. Then a sharp switch to his ass. Then another. Then half a dozen more. “You like having your bare ass swatted; look, that miserable cock of yours is bursting through its cage. Does anyone else know what a little pervert you are? You want me to tell them?”

The boy’s kisses became more aggressive, moving up my thighs, all the way to the miniskirt’s beckoning hemline.

In a softer tone I added, “Auntie wants more than kisses tonight.” My knees, however, remained tightly held together. This was Andrew’s cue to feel my pantyhose legs, and he made good work of it, also humping his chastity cage against my ankle, which I bounced up and down with him.

Picking up the report in my left hand, in my right hand I waved the switch. “You need to learn about hydraulic valves,” I chided, applying two swift strikes to Andrew’s buttocks. Proceeding through the document, each time I came across the word ‘hydraulic’ or ‘valve’ I administered a strike to the boy’s ass.

The boy continued humping my ankles and I continued reading, and swatting. Then he started leaking — and I knew that at tomorrow’s meeting, when hearing the trigger words, he would leak there as well. “Self-control is a terrible thing to lose,” I repeated, continually swatting the boy’s ass with the switch.

He pushed his face under the miniskirt’s hemline and the tip of his tongue just reached my vagina, playfully teasing it with every other lick. Yes, self-control is a terrible thing to lose, I thought. I could physically overpower him, if necessary. Yes, I could definitely overpower him.