“”
My mistake with the widget codes had not only earnt me a spanking and a detention from Miss Taylor, but also a further five days locked in my cage. Moreover, this extension included a weekend, and I found that especially difficult to manage without seeing Miss Taylor and without being subjected to her rod of iron. And by the time I returned to the office on Monday morning, I was almost crawling up the wall with sexual frustration. I was praying that this was the day I would not put a foot wrong and she would allow me a night unlocked from my cage.
The signs were hopeful. She was cheerful when she saw me and asked if I’d had a good weekend.
What was I to say? I hesitated for a few seconds before answering. “Not bad, thank you, Miss Taylor,” I replied. “But… er… it’s causing me a lot of discomfort.” I pointed down at my groin, hoping she’d understand me without me spelling out my exact dilemma.
She returned a sweet smile, asking, “Discomfort? What do you mean?”
Obviously, she knew what I meant. “The cage, Miss Taylor. It’s proving too much. Will you please unlock it today?”
“Oh, that! I’d forgotten you had that on,” she laughed. She had to be lying, but I gave a forced smile in return. “If you can avoid any big mistakes today, Mr Blakely, then I’ll unlock it before you go home.”
oooOOooo
I survived the day without any momentous blunders. That’s not to say my day was perfect, but no mistakes were made that might have impugned what Miss Taylor considered to be her reputation for competence. Her strategy for improving my proficiency was working—and my release was in sight…
Just before 5 PM, I went into her office, my penis already trying to enlarge in anticipation of being liberated. I was aware of precum leaking out.
She locked the door and gave me one of her sweet smiles. “Trousers down, Mr Blakely, and your tights,” she ordered, speaking in a soft voice.
I did what she said. She moved closer to examine me. “Well, your legs are neatly shaved, but what’s… what’s that wet spot on your panties, Mr Blakely?” she asked. “Have you been leaking again?”
“Er… yes, sorry, Miss Taylor,” I replied, with an impending sense of doom.
“That’s… not very nice, is it?” I was detecting a change in her voice. It was becoming more sultry and, at the same time, her respiration rate appeared to be increasing. It seemed she was becoming excited by my predicament and was intending to make the most of it.
“Have you not heard of pantiliners, Mr Blakely?” she asked, with a familiar glint in her eyes. “Surely, you know what they are?”
“Er… yes, Miss Taylor.”
“Then you need to start wearing them, Mr Blakely!” she declared, her voice now a decibel louder.
I looked forlornly at her, hoping that she might show some pity.
“Buy a pack on your way home tonight, Mr Blakely, and wear one tomorrow. If, this time tomorrow, I can see no leakage, then I’ll unlock you. Please realise, Mr Blakely, I would love nothing more than to free you tonight, but that would be rewarding bad behaviour, wouldn’t it?”
I understood perfectly. There was to be no release for me that night and I had to do better the next day.
Making my way home, I stopped at a supermarket, loading a basket up with groceries I didn’t need and slipping in a pack of pantiliners. Miss Taylor had once again humiliated me, but the act of buying a feminine hygiene product was arousing me, and, by the time I got back to my flat, my knickers were sopping wet.
oooOOooo
I survived another night locked up, but with my sexual frustration increasing still further. The following morning, I was sure to put a pantiliner into my panties, positioning it to catch any leakage and folding over the wings to secure it in place.
It was difficult to concentrate on my work that day, being always fearful that Miss Taylor would find some other excuse to keep me locked up for a further period. But I survived without major mishaps, and, at 5 PM, I nervously presented myself for inspection. She ordered me to strip from the waist down, and her eyes focussed on my groin. She gave a satisfied nod on noticing no wet spots.
“Well done, Mr Blakely,” she commented with a grin. “You’ve followed my advice. It wasn’t difficult, was it?”
I felt a strange sense of pride at being simultaneously complimented and humiliated by this beautiful young woman.
She gave me one of her knee-buckling sweet smiles, as she pulled up a thin gold chain from around her neck. On the end of the chain was a key. She dropped down onto her knees in front of me, an act which did nothing to calm my excitement. Moreover, being able to peer down her shirt, to catch a glimpse of white lace, served only to exacerbate my situation.
Gently, she held the padlock between two fingers, inserted the key into the lock and then clicked it open, but leaving it in position. “There you go, Mr Blakely. When you get home you may remove the cage, and do whatever it is you need to do. When you’ve finished, put it back on and snap the padlock shut. Okay? I’ll check tomorrow.”
I nodded my agreement, having lost the ability to speak.
Once in my flat, I stripped off, removed the device and masturbated, thinking of Miss Taylor and Miss Smith.
The following morning, I jerked off again before my shower and then, without a second thought, relocked myself into the cage. How could Miss Taylor have such a devastating influence on my life that I was willingly imprisoning my penis, not being sure when I would next be unlocked?
oooOOooo
The next few days passed slowly, and I was more determined than ever to not make mistakes in my job if it meant a further delay in being released from my cage. But, inevitably, it wasn’t long before there was another cock-up.
An irate Miss Taylor summoned me into her office. “Mr Arkwright has called me,” she announced, as I stood in front of her desk. I felt my stomach sink at the mention of the foreman’s name. “Do you remember that he asked you to order one hundred ten-millimetre widgets that fit onto other widgets?” She passed me a piece of paper on which was written a code number. My stomach dropped a further notch—it was an order placed by Miss Lawson, not that that would save me from Miss Taylor’s wrath.
“Do you know what he received, Mr Blakely?” I dreaded to think, but she wasn’t waiting for me to give an answer. “He received ten widgets each measuring one hundred millimetres! One hundred millimetres, Mr Blakely, one hundred millimetres!! Can you picture how big they are?”
Yes, I could, but I wasn’t sure she was able to because, to stress the point, she stretched her arms out wide, much like an angler exaggerating the size of her catch.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“You’re sorry? I thought my methods were working because you were improving but now this. It’s unacceptable, Mr Blakely. I’ve told you, you need to up your game, but you’ve been asleep on the job. A hibernating dormouse who’s taken an overdose of sleeping pills would be more awake than you are!”
“Yes… I guess so,” I replied, trying to get my head around the analogy.
“You and I are supposed to be a team, Mr Blakely, and it’s the team that suffers when you mess up.” She shook her head in exasperation at my ineptitude. “These acts of utter stupidity need to stop.” She took a deep breath before continuing, “I don’t enjoy punishing you, Mr Blakely, but your incompetence has left me with no choice.”
Why couldn’t she, for once, admit she did get enjoyment from it? She knew it, and I knew it!
The anger from her voice had vanished, and I detected that familiar sparkle in her eyes as her body reacted hormonally to the prospect of punishing me. I had provided her with an excuse that she had been looking for.
She sat pensively for a minute or so before asking, “How would Miss Smith have dealt with you?”
“Erm… she’d have put me in detention, probably writing out lines,” I replied.
“Then that’s what we will do, Mr Blakely. Stay behind after hours and write out two hundred times ‘A one hundred millimetre widget is bigger than a ten millimetre widget’. Write the numbers out in words. I will sacrifice my evening to stay behind to supervise you.” I felt my penis spasming as I recalled similar detentions supervised by Miss Smith.
oooOOooo
Five o’clock came and I reported to Miss Taylor to begin my line writing. She told me to sit in her office chair behind her desk and gave me a pad of A4.
“Off you go,” she commanded, and then she perched herself on the desk, alongside me and barely a foot away. She crossed her legs, which pulled her short skirt further up, exposing more of her toned thighs, lightly covered by glimmering black nylon. My mind flashed back to those times when Miss Smith, when she would sit facing me, also displayed acres of skin.
“Come on, Mr Blakely. Start writing! I don’t want to be sitting here all night.”
How was I meant to concentrate on writing with this sexual distraction next to me? Needless to say, my penis was in some discomfort as I began writing out the line.
“No!” she exclaimed, screwing up her face. “First write your name at the top—and the date.” She jabbed an index finger down on the paper, showing me where the top was, should there have been any doubt in my mind.
I started a new page, doing what she insisted and then again began to write the line.
“No!” she hissed. “First draw a margin and then put the number of the line into the margin. Are you sure you wrote lines at school, Mr Blakely?”
I began a fresh page, only then to be admonished for my untidy writing. “Good grief! A drunken spider who’s dragged two broken legs through a puddle of ink would have achieved a neater job than you’re managing!”
She swivelled a little to face me, her legs still crossed. As I endeavoured to write more neatly, from the corner of my eye I could see that her skirt had ridden up still higher. Any moment, her panties might pop into view and I was convinced she was aroused. This thought was a major distraction and, what’s more, I was sure she was aware of the effect she was having on me.
Inevitably, I made another mistake. “No!” she yelled, impatiently. “That’s not how you spell widget! The God’s sake, Mr Blakely! How do you not know how to spell widget?! Cross that line out and write it out properly—twice!”
I did what she insisted and resumed my scribbling, writing as neatly as I could, trying to ignore her presence. But then she stood up and moved behind me, her breath bearing down on my neck and her fragrant perfume wafting up my nose.
“You’ve made yet another mistake, Mr Blakely,” she pointed out, leaning forward so that a breast brushed against the back of my head. “Cross that line out and write it again, twice,” she insisted.
Her breast stayed in contact for longer than would occur by accident. The disruption was causing my penis to swell further, pushing against the immovable sides of its cage. My pain was increasing, and she was doing nothing to stop her breast rubbing against my head. As I leant forward a little, so did she, keeping contact.
I had to say something. “Please… Miss Taylor!” I exclaimed, unsure of the correct etiquette.
“What?” she snapped, feigning ignorance.
“I… I can’t concentrate when you… you know…”
“What do you mean? … Oh! Do you mean I shouldn’t lean forward, Mr Blakely? You don’t like it?”
“Yes! No! I mean, yes, I like it… but it’s distracting me.”
“Did Miss Smith ever lean forward like that?”
“Yes… yes, she did.”
“Did she get you worked up? I bet she did, didn’t she?”
“Yes, like you’re doing now, Miss Taylor.”
“Were you rather I wasn’t here? Would you prefer to complete your lines at home?”
“No! I like you being here. Honestly, I do! But you’re sending confusing messages. I don’t expect my boss to press against me like that.”
“Oh! But you think it’s normal for your boss to make you wear lingerie and a chastity cage, I suppose?”
“Yes! No! You’ve got me all mixed up. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
I couldn’t see her face, but I could picture she was smiling at the havoc she was causing with my emotions.
She moved from behind me, went around to the other side of the desk and leant forward, her face now adopting a stern expression. “You’re all at sixes and sevens, Mr Blakely. I’ll go and sit in a comfy chair while you finish your lines.”
She was right! She had me completely muddled—one moment she was punishing me and the next she was flirting. And then it dawned on me. It was all about control! She could do whatever she wanted, and I was powerless—willingly powerless—to challenge her.
“Why have you stopped writing, Mr Blakely?” she asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I resumed my task.
I seemed to spend most of the evening completing my lines. Occasionally, I sneaked a glance at her. Sure, she was sitting in the comfy chair reading a book, but, at the same time, one hand was down her skirt and probably insides her knickers. She had to be fingering herself. This did nothing to aid my concentration, and, several times, I made mistakes which I corrected without her ordering me to.
Eventually, I was able to call out, “I’ve finished, Miss Taylor. Would you like to see them?”
Knowing I was looking in her direction, she quickly withdrew her hand from inside her skirt, wiping her fingers on the fabric of the comfy chair. Then, after a moment’s thought, she responded to my question with a smile, “No, Mr Blakely. Why would I want to see them? That might give you the idea that there was some useful purpose behind the exercise. Just put them through the shredder.”
I felt a flash of anger realising she had wasted my entire evening, but then my penis gave a reassuring jolt as I recalled that serving her—wasting my time for her—was what I craved most. How could I be angry with her?
She gave me one of her coy smiles.
oooOOooo
Life at work settled into a pattern. Miss Taylor kept me on a tight rein, keeping me locked up, sometimes for as long as a fortnight at a time. Lingerie inspections were a frequent event, where she would get me to strip off while she admired my body. Yes, admired! Her behaviour increasingly told me that she found me attractive when I was dressed in female undies. Physiological signs gave the game away—the increase in her respiration rate, the dilation of her pupils, the subtle flushing of her face, the way she locked her eyes on me, the erection of her nipples, the change in her voice… They were all signs of sexual arousal.
Obviously, the way she treated me turned me on as well, but being locked up prevented me from fully enjoying the experience—at least not until she allowed me to spend the occasional night uncaged.
Always, she kept me on tenterhooks, sometimes flirting with me and teasing me, often admonishing me, other times punishing me and occasionally praising me. There were spankings from time to time, sometimes detentions and frequently corner time sessions. Always, she dangled the carrot in front of me that she wanted me to “exceed her expectations”, code for me to perform cunnilingus, but never did it happen. Always, I seemed to fall slightly short of her expectations.
I began to realise that she owned me. I was so smitten with her that I craved for her attention, in whatever form it was given.
Nonetheless, the productivity of our small department slowly improved, and fewer major disasters occurred. It became increasingly unusual for Miss Taylor to receive furious calls from Mr Arkwright, and there were fewer wrong deliveries to customers. I had to admit that her strategy of utilising my submissiveness to improve my competence in the office was turning out to be inspired.
Indeed, the improvements were so noticeable that Miss Taylor was able to find fewer reasons to inflict punishments. “Your abilities are getting much better, Mr Blakely,” she explained. “But I’ve been thinking… You might start getting sloppy again and we might start to see a drop off in your performance. So, I propose you receive a weekly spanking to help keep you focussed, Mr Blakely. What do you say to that?”
“Er… you mean a sort of regular maintenance spanking, Miss Taylor?” I replied, my penis becoming ecstatic at the prospect.
“Exactly! It’ll keep you on your toes!”
And so that’s what she introduced, every Monday morning, usually topped up by a session facing the wall afterwards. The spankings were painful, but lying over her bare knees as her palms pounded my buttocks was worth it.
The days and weeks passed by, me enjoying my submission to her and she clearly relishing her domination over me, but I still never managed to “exceed her expectations”. Moreover, despite her sometimes flirting with me, never did she ever reveal her body to me in an overtly sexual way. The most intimate parts of her anatomy remained hidden—they were regions that I could only imagine in my mind.
oooOOooo
After she’d been in post for about three months the company underwent a major upheaval. We were taken over by a bigger concern. Our Board of elderly male directors was hastily replaced by a fresh group of dynamically minded individuals—much younger, and a mix of men and women.
Then changes began to happen. Managers were summarily fired and replaced with new executives whose views and attitudes were more aligned with those of the new Board. But, somehow, Logistics avoided the purge… until…
One afternoon, I went into Miss Taylor’s office with a form she needed to sign. She was sat behind her desk, her head in her hands. She looked up at me. Her usual bubbly expression was gone. Her eyes were red and her mascara had run down her face.
“What’s… what’s up?” I asked.
She looked up at me, seemingly struggling to express herself. “I’ve… I’ve been sacked,” she announced.
“Nooo!” I retorted, genuinely upset for her.
“Yes, Mr Blakely. The Board say I’m not qualified to do the job.” She stared at me with pleading eyes. “But I am qualified. I’ve got a degree, Mr Blakely.”
This was not the time to remind her that her degree was in English Literature, and we were an engineering company. “Yes, you have, Miss Taylor. You’re well qualified to be manager.”
“And I’ve got you as my deputy, Mr Blakely, with your encyclopaedic knowledge of widgets.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I replied.
“I’m leaving at the end of the week and they’re going to appoint you to replace me.”
“No way!”
“Yes, it’s impossible to understand, isn’t it, Mr Blakely?”
“It certainly is, Miss Taylor.”
“I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off, Mr Blakely. This has been a shock, and I can’t concentrate on anything at the moment.”
“I understand, Miss Taylor,” I replied, “you need to take it easy.” Despite her obvious sadness, she flashed me one of her sweet smiles, stood up and, for the first time ever, gave me a peck on the cheek, causing my penis to suffer a seizure inside its tube.
She left me to it. I had work to do, but not the usual widget work.
oooOOooo
The next morning, Miss Taylor waltzed past my desk a changed person. Her smile had returned, along with her scintillating personality. “Follow me, Mr Blakely,” she commanded, beckoning me with a finger. “And lock the door behind you.”
She took off her jacket and sat herself down on one of the two comfy chairs, leaving me standing, as was always the case. As usual, she was dressed in a short skirt, this one being navy blue, topped with a fine white shirt that pressed itself against her boobs.
She smiled up at me. “I’m being kept on, Mr Blakely! I’m no longer fired!” she announced. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
I nodded in agreement.
“You intervened on my behalf, didn’t you?”
“Er… yes, I couldn’t bear to see you leave, Miss Taylor. We’re a team, aren’t we? So, I met with a couple of the directors yesterday.” She looked up expectantly at me, waiting for me to continue. “I told them that you’re indispensable. I explained how the efficiency of the department has soared since you joined. I said that you were a great motivator. We’re making fewer mistakes—production is now going more smoothly, and customers seldom need to raise complaints. I said it was essential you stayed on, otherwise I was sure we would drift back into our old ways.”
Her smile had transformed into a grin. I could tell she was delighted by how events had unfolded. “I told them that whilst I understood everything there was to know about the different components—the widgets—you were the brains behind the operation, looking at the big picture. I told them that you and I were a team, Miss Taylor, but obviously I didn’t spell out the details of—”
“Thank goodness!” she interrupted with a laugh. “I’m indebted to you, Mr Blakely. You’ve exceeded my expectations! Yes?” My penis gave a thump as she uttered those words. “You’ve earnt a reward, Mr Blakely.”
“Oh, God!” I exclaimed. “Thank you, Miss Taylor!”
“You will have to be blindfolded, Mr Blakely. There are some parts of a girl’s body that submissives should never be allowed to see. It would destroy the magic, Mr Blakely, and we don’t want that.”
oooOOooo
She pulled a thick black scarf from her bag along with a pair of tights. “Turn around, Mr Blakely,” she ordered. I did so, and she wrapped the scarf tightly around my eyes, obscuring all light. “Hands behind your back, Mr Blakely,” she continued. “I don’t want your hands wandering.” She proceeded to secure my wrists together using the tights.
There was then a short delay while she got undressed. Then I detected her falling back onto the comfy chair. “Come on, Mr Blakely, you’ve got work to do.”
I turned around, dropped down on to my knees and wobbled over to where I remembered the chair was positioned. Her heavy breathing told me I was getting close, and then I was able to pick up the scent of her arousal.
My lips closed around her already-wet labia, and I used my tongue to play with them. She responded with a jerk and then tenderly grabbed my head in her hands to ensure I remained in close contact. I continued to explore her pussy, discovering the location of her aroused clitoris which I delicately brushed with my tongue. Her reaction told me I had hit the right spot.
I continued my ministrations for several more minutes, becoming bolder, maintaining contact with her clit for longer and pushing my tongue into her vagina. She responded positively, her body twitching and her respiration rate increasing further. Still her juices flowed, rewarding me with their sweet taste. She began murmuring incoherently, and then there were some snorts. Her hands gripped my head tighter, grinding my mouth into her sex.
My penis was trying to burst from its constraints, and I was in much pain, but I had to continue—I wanted to continue. Then it happened! Her body began to jerk up and down as a massive orgasm overtook her. It went on for ages, and I did all I could to prolong her pleasure.
As she came down from her climax, her breathing was heavy and her voice, when she spoke, was raspy. “My God, Mr Blakely, you… definitely… exceeded… my expectations. In more ways than one,” she panted.
I remained on my knees while she regained her composure. Neither of us spoke for a while and then she asked, “Did… did you wish you could have done that with Miss Smith?”
What sort of question was that? “Er… that was never going to happen, Miss Taylor,” I laughed.
She returned a giggle. “It might still happen, you know! You see… Miss Smith is my mother’s sister! We share a house!”
What?? I had trouble processing what she was saying, but it explained the similarity in their appearance and possibly their personalities. “I’ve told her all about you, Mr Blakely. And she clearly remembers you. She still teaches physics, but she’s not met any more students like you, Mr Blakely. You were a one-off!”
“Er?”
“Why don’t you come and live with us, Mr Blakely?”
“Erm?”
“You could be our slave. You’d like that, Mr Blakely, wouldn’t you? There could be a whole new skill set to teach you—cleaning, laundry, ironing, cooking, gardening… the list is endless. Miss Smith is still very strict, and we could use our special methods to encourage you to learn, Mr Blakely, and at, at weekends, you could wear a maid’s uniform! Yes?”
Oh, my God, I would love that! “Yes, yes, I will be your slave, Miss Taylor!” I impulsively replied.
I was still blindfolded, but I could sense one of her sweet smiles was directed at me.
THE END
