I swallow. “Discipline,” I say, in a hushed voice.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you…”
“Discipline,” I say, a touch louder this time.
He gives me an inscrutable smile.
“Very well,” he says. “Stand up and bend over this desk.”
I do as he says, my black pencil skirt stretched over my ass where my body’s at a right angle to the table. He puts a gentle hand out, cups my ass. I jump slightly. I don’t think he’s ever touched me before, perhaps save for a handshake at my interview. Contact with him makes me skin flush.
“I’m going to spank you five times, and I want you to count each spank,” he says, and then he gives my ass an almighty smack with no warning. I moan, then count one.
Smack… two. Smack… three. Smack… four. Smack… five.
By the time he is finished my skin is burning. My ass cheek feels like it’s on fire. He has impeccable aim; he hit the exact same spot every time.
“Pull up your skirt,” he says, gruffly. I do as he says. His cool, thin fingers feel the spot where my skin is red. Then his fingers pull aside my tiny g string and test my wet pussy.
“You naughty girl,” he says. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
I give a tiny moan of assent. I hear him pull something with a crinkly wrapper from his pocket and open it up, then I hear him unzip his fly. I turn round to see him unrolling a condom onto his smooth, beautiful cock.
“Turn around,” he says. I turn back. I’m face to face with his exquisite wedding picture on his desk. I look at a younger him on his wedding day as the modern-day version of him slides his cock slowly inside of me. I moan again.
He starts fucking me slowly from behind. He’s still wearing his shirt and suit trousers, which turns me on more. I feel flattered that he was so eager to fuck me that he couldn’t even wait to undress; plus, being naked from the waist down while he is fully clothed makes me feel erotically vulnerable.
He’s moaning while he’s fucking me, and I’m still looking at his wedding picture, wondering if his wife ever dreamed that one day he’d fuck another girl in front of it. All of a sudden, his hand reaches out and slams the picture face down, so we can no longer see it. I put my head down on the desk and it doesn’t take me long to cum from his dick inside me.
Finally, he cums, too, groaning loudly. It lasts for a long time; I wonder idly if he doesn’t have sex with his wife much.
“Stay in this position,” he tells me, and then he pulls out, whips the condom off and ties an efficient knot in it. I watch him go to throw it in the office bin, then think again; best not to leave evidence for the cleaners. He grabs a sheet of printer paper and crumples the condom inside it, tight, then throws it away.
“Ok, you can straighten up,” he instructs me. “Pull down your skirt.”
I do as he tells me to. He stands before me, takes my chin and kisses me. It’s our first kiss, and it feels magical.
“Do you feel effectively disciplined?” he asks me, when he pulls away.
“Yes,” I say, looking up at him, nodding.
“Good,” he says. “Come on then, Ms Hart; let’s go home.”
We walk out of the office at a professional distance from each other, but in the empty lift he fondles my ass cheek inside my form-fitting skirt. When the lift doors spring open, he wrenches his hand away like he was touching burning hot coals.
“Well, I will see you tomorrow morning, Ms Hart,” he says, as we start to make our separate ways to our cars. As I’m walking to my little Mini Cooper, he calls after me. “Oh, and Emilia?”
“Yes?” I call back.
“Don’t forget I have a meeting with Mr Owens first thing tomorrow,” he says.
“Yes, Mr Bichard,” I say, and I watch him climb into his bottle green Jaguar. I get into my Mini and fling my handbag into the passenger side seat. Then I start to laugh, disbelievingly. I can’t quite fathom what’s just happened.
I pull down the sun visor and assess myself in the mirror. My skin is clear, my slightly flushed cheeks pretty. My lips look full and firm as always. I blow myself a kiss in the mirror, and then I start the engine and begin the drive home.
Monday 25th June 2012
5.57pm
The Stables (Bichard/Bell residence)
It didn’t take him long to get home. For a while, unwilling to go in and face his wife, he sat in his car in the driveway of his home, a stunning grey stone mansion lit from the outside with an exquisite golden light. No one knew why it was called The Stables; they were nowhere near the countryside, and there was no evidence that horses had ever been reared even remotely close to the gated estate they lived on. In all likelihood, the property developers had named it that thinking it sounded upper-class and aspirational. Nevertheless, he loved that house. Four bedrooms, two ensuite. Enormous kitchen-diner. Basement swimming pool. Beautiful home, ugly marriage.
As he sat in the drivers’ seat, he suddenly realised there were white splotches around the fly of his trousers. Emilia had cum all over him. He felt stupidly flattered, but he also felt nervous. He needed to clean it off lest Aoife see it. He grabbed a bottle of Perrier from the cupholder and dripped it over his crotch, scrubbing. When he finished, the stains had practically vanished. Aoife never looked hard enough at him to notice anyway.
When he walked inside, Aoife was at the kitchen table, working on her laptop.
“Hi,” he said to her.
“Hi,” she replied shortly. She didn’t glance up.
“Good day?” Piers asked her, feeling uncommonly buoyant.
“Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do, Piers,” she snapped. “I don’t have time right now for a conversation.”
Pissed off, he walked to their giant, double-wide fridge, pulling out a tub of Thai food their housekeeper, Than, had made. Grabbing some chopsticks from a drawer, he made his way upstairs to his office and locked the door behind him, ready to resume his new favourite hobby; searching for Emilia’s social media. Uncommonly for a girl of her age, she didn’t seem to broadcast her life online like the rest of her generation did. He thought he’d found her, once, but it turned out to be an abandoned social page from when she was at college. He’d flicked briefly through the pictures, chuckling at her cute young face and her goofy expressions, but he’d tired of it quickly. He wanted to see the life of Emilia the woman, not Emilia the girl.
Sucking up noodles, he combed through page after page of Emillias on Instagram. Emilia was not a particularly common name; he felt he was sure to find her at some point. But redheads, brunettes, blondes and raven-haired girls flashed in front of his eyes and not one of them had the unique charm and essence of his Emilia. Defeated, he deleted his internet history and went to shower in his stunning wet room with its heated stone floors. He’d try again tomorrow.
From that point forward, it’s like a little game we play; the game of us. I’d telephone Piers thirty minutes to notify Piers that a client was due to come in to see him within thirty minutes, and we’d have quick, urgent sex in his office. Then I’d go out to greet the client when they arrived, the client none-the-wiser as to why I was slightly out of breath. Either that, or Piers would instruct me to come to his office when he was about to do a conference call, and I would get on my knees and suck his dick as he negotiated a larger sum for providing someone with fifteen feet of marble tile.
He started to buy me presents, too. He’d come into the office carrying boxes of stunning La Perla lingerie, then he’d text me instructions the next morning;
‘Wear the dark blue silk under your clothes today, with stockings.’
He’d surprise me with Fortnum and Mason pink champagne truffles, or my favourite Dior perfume. I loved the idea that he was using the money he shared with his wife to treat me. I wondered to myself how he managed to hide the purchases. Perhaps he took money out of the cashpoint, a little here, a little there, and then paid for my presents in cash. However, he does it, it turned me on. Being his little secret made me wet.
One very ordinary Monday, I’m quietly working at my desk when the front door opens. This is unusual, to have a caller with no prior appointment. When I look up, I see a tall, gorgeous woman with sharp-cut raven hair and celtic green eyes. She appraises me coolly.
“I’m here to see my husband,” she says, in a cut-glass accent.
“Of course,” I say with a smile. “I’ll call him now.”
When I get through to him, he tells me to come into his office. I know what that is code for. I beam at her.
“He’ll be able to see you soon; he just needs to speak to me first quickly,” I tell her. “Important work matters. Would you like a coffee? We have an espresso machine.”
“No,” she says, and she sits on one of the outer sanctum chairs, turning her attention to brushing non-existent lint off of her Gucci handbag.
Nice manners, I think. Did they teach you those in finishing school?
I go to his office and lock the door behind me. I go to sit in his lap, but he gently pushes me back onto his desk. He props me in front of him, with one leg either side on his chair arms and my skirt pushed up. He pushes my thong to the side and starts licking my clit in gorgeous, slow circles. His fingers tease me for a minute, then he pushes them inside me. I feel my orgasm start to build in slow, steady waves. When I eventually cum, I bite down on my fingers so his wife won’t hear me. Piers chuckles as I fall into his arms, depleted.
“You can send my wife in now,” he says. When I go out to usher her into his office, she looks pissed.
She stays in his office for a while, and I can hear low-level bickering. The sort of argument rich people probably have when they don’t want you to know they have problems. When she leaves, I watch her cross the car park from my window. I feel strangely fascinated by her. She doesn’t walk; she glides. She glides right into a silver Mercedes and speeds off.
I don’t know what’s happening in their marriage, and frankly I don’t much care. She’s the type to have grown up with gymkhanas and boarding schools and ‘family estates’. If they divorced, she’d bounce right back. Before long she’d find another husband, probably named Jasper. She’d get another inheritance and a diamond ring the size of a walnut.
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