The next morning, I stand before my closet with new eyes. The gray pencil skirt hangs exactly where I left it, but now it feels charged with significance. I run my fingers over the cream silk blouse, imagining Aaron’s hands selecting it for me, picturing how the fabric will cling to my curves under his watchful gaze.
As I dress, every movement feels deliberate, choreographed. I choose my underwear carefully—simple black lace that won’t show through the silk—and wonder if he’ll somehow know.
The office feels different when I arrive. Every step down the hallway seems amplified, my heels clicking a rhythm that echoes my racing pulse. I settle at my desk and try to focus on the Donovan revisions, but my attention keeps drifting to Aaron’s office door.
At 9:15, he emerges for coffee. His eyes find me immediately, conducting a slow, deliberate inventory from my face down to where the silk strains across my chest. That familiar smirk tugs at his lips before he continues to the break room. The brief encounter leaves me breathless.
My phone buzzes.
“Perfect. You follow instructions beautifully. The way that blouse fits you should be illegal in the workplace. I can see the outline of your bra through the silk – the black lace one if I’m not mistaken.”
I glance down at my chest, mortified to realize he’s right. The silk is more sheer than I remembered, and under the office lighting, the delicate pattern of my bra is faintly visible. I resist the urge to button my blouse higher, knowing that would only draw more attention.
“Yes, Master. The black lace,” I type back, my cheeks burning.
“Good girl. Now, here’s what you’re going to do. In exactly thirty minutes, you’ll go to the supply closet on the third floor. You know the one – it’s rarely used, tucked away behind the copy machines. You’ll wait there for me.”
My heart pounds like a drum as I devour his message, adrenaline surging through my veins. I attempt to concentrate on the project before me, but my mind is a chaotic whirlpool. After an agonizing twenty-five minutes of futile attempts to focus, I spring from my seat and stride urgently to the supply closet. As I shut the door with a sharp click, my phone vibrates with an intensity that takes my breath away.
“Hello, my little submissive. As you’ve noticed, this space is all set up for your next task. Strip naked, sit on the sofa on the towel, lean back, put your feet on the seat cushion in front of your pussy with your big toes touching, and spread your legs open into a Vee. Imagine I’m there, playing with your breasts and nipples, as you play with them until they’re hard and you’re turned on. Then imagine I’m massaging your slit and clit with my fingers and inserting them into you as you do these things with your fingers until you’re well aroused. Then, use the dildo or vibrator to do it yourself until you have an orgasm. Set your cell phone up before you start to take a video of the whole event, then send it to me.
Master”
I stare at the message, my chest convulsing as shock seizes my heart like steel-crushing bone. The supply closet roars into a blazing kiln, its suffocating heat leeching the chill of autumn through the thin walls. My gaze flickers across the cramped room: in the corner, a blood-red leather chaise draped in a pristine white towel; beside it, a row of cold, gleaming toys laid out like medieval torture devices on a silver platter. My cheeks ignite, humiliation scorching my skin, yet beneath the fire, a primal pulse throbs between my legs.
I clamp my jaw, slamming the door so hard the frame quakes; the lock’s click detonates in my ears. In seconds, my clothes pool at my feet. Naked, I sink onto the chaise’s cool leather, every nerve ending ablaze. His command replays in my mind—a dark refrain I cannot refuse. I prop my phone before me, the lens a single, unblinking eye.
Doubt claws at my spine: I’m at work, three floors above oblivious colleagues, hiding in this secret purgatory where one flimsy lock separates me from ruin. But his words surge through my veins, flooding me with molten daring.
My fingertips drift to my collarbone, tracing its slope as if it were his rough palm. A shudder rakes through me when I cup my breasts, thumbs circling my hardened peaks until they stand erect, beacons of sudden obsession. The closet air is razor-sharp against my overheated skin, but it’s nothing compared to the inferno pooling between my thighs.
“Sir,” I whisper, voice raw as torn velvet, a marionette’s bow to his will.
My hands tremble as they slide lower. I arch, offering myself to the camera’s impassive stare. Vulnerability claws at my chest, but it’s drowned by a tidal wave of lust. My fingers carve twin trails down my stomach, summoning goosebumps in their wake.
When I touch myself, wetness soaks my palm. A gasp rips free as pleasure arcs through my nerves, and I summon visions of his massive, calloused hands guiding mine. Slick and insistent, my fingers slip inside me, probing and teasing just as he ordered. My eyes flutter shut in rapture, but I wrench them open—he demands to see my face, every tremor of my undoing.
“It’s… so fucking good, Sir,” I moan, plunging two fingers deeper. It’s exquisite, but it’s a pale echo of him.
Desperate, my other hand lunges for the vibrator. The moment its buzz kisses my clit, my world tilts off its axis.
The silicone slides in precisely, each slick inch stoking higher flames. I arch my back, sweat glistening on my skin as the leather beneath me grows sticky. I crank the dial down, hunting that incendiary spot where exploding stars ignite behind my eyelids.
“Master,” I groan, louder than wisdom allows in this cramped cage. “Oh God, Master.”
My hips buck against the device with animal fervor, chasing the mounting hurricane of pleasure. My fingers twist the controls, driving vibrations deep while my thumb circles my swollen clit with merciless precision. I’m on display—herself for him, for the camera, for the phantom of his presence that fills every heartbeat.
The orgasm crashes through me without mercy, a tsunami obliterating my defenses. My cry shatters the hush, raw and fierce. My body spasms, contracting around the buzzing intruder as waves of molten bliss radiate from my core. For a suspended instant, I’m weightless, adrift in pure oblivion.
Reality slams back as the vibrator drones on against my hypersensitive flesh. I fumble, shaking, and finally kill it. Silence descends, broken only by my ragged breathing and the distant thrum of office life beyond the door.
Shame blooms hot even as exhilaration simmers in my veins. I snatch my phone and cut the recording. Through bleary eyes, I watch the playback—horrified and electrified by the wanton woman on screen, face flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed. Is that me? A slave to a command I cannot resist, risking everything for one taste of submission?
Without hesitation, I send the file, dread, and longing knotted in my gut as I watch the loading wheel spin. The deed done, I scrub myself with tissues from my purse, dress in trembling haste, and study my reflection in a compact mirror. My cheeks still burn, my eyes too bright. I look exactly like what I am: a woman undone at her boss’s command.
I slip out, glancing down the hallway before rushing toward the elevator. My phone thrums in my hand.
“Beautiful. You exceeded expectations, Submissive. Hearing you moan ‘Master’… I’ll replay it in every meeting today.”
Heat floods my face. The elevator doors slide open to empty metal silence.
“Thank you, Master. I hope I pleased you.”
“You did. Now clean up properly in the bathroom and return to your desk. Act normal. But know this: I’ll be watching, remembering how wet you were, how desperately you cried my name.”
My pulse hammers as I dart into the ladies’ room on the second floor, splashing icy water on my wrists and neck, trying to douse the fire. In the mirror, a stranger stares back—lips swollen, eyes luminous, a glow no powder can conceal. I spot-conceal the traces and reapply lipstick with trembling precision, reconstructing my professional façade.
At my desk, I dive into the Donovan files with forced concentration. But every time Aaron strides past—the curve of his shoulders, the grip of his hand on a coffee mug—I feel it: a live wire zapping straight to my core. He never meets my eyes, yet I sense his awareness, tracing me in the open office, recalling every moan, every quiver I sent him today.
