The scent of wet leather drifts to my nostrils as I clamp my teeth around his belt and wail, the searing heat from the stripe of wax on my exposed breast racing to every nerve ending that matters. I choke back the safe word behind the unforgiving loop that stretches around my head from the corners of my mouth. I'm a big girl, and asked for this; begged, even. I want to please him. Show him how much I trust his judgement to test my limits. How much better I am than his doting wife who's definitely not on her knees wearing just panties in the office a few doors down the hall.
Momentarily embarrassed for drooling, I slurp, head lolling, cinnamon hair dusting my bare shoulders while the belt's clasp bites into the back of my skull. The breast splashed and peppered in drying red wax fades in and out of focus. There's no denying it's pretty. Each dot reflects the desk lamplight; matt, unlike the twinkling tips of the bar piercing through the erect nipple that he's avoided.
So far.
As if my vision belongs to someone else, my gaze drifts to the other breast, dappled where he'd dripped and rubbed ice from the bucket on his walnut desk. My senses struggle to comprehend such contrast. Hot breast, cold breast, and the collision between that permeates my delicate skin.
When he pulls back from my proximity, I look up, our eyes connecting. I plead, flashing him the look. Everything I hate to become – needy and desperate – yet crave when he's near.
He smiles, a glimpse of neat teeth. "Not yet."
I groan through the leather strip and eye his cock ahead of me, twitching below the point of his necktie at the control he exhibits. I'll admit his power is a large part of the draw. But I also know that when he calls to tell me to wear the stockings, heels and not much else to a meeting, that I wield all the power.
My mind jolts to the last time we were together. Me, stood on the desk, while he sat behind it in the plush leather chair, my fingers buried in my snatch for his hungry stare. Wetness drizzling to splash on the desk's baize inset as I panted above him. I loved the way he just sat there, again in his shirt and tie, stiff cock gripped, stroking to my lewd display. And I loved the way he groaned against my slippery pussy when I stepped from desk to chair, straddling his upturned face.
I'd gripped the back of his head and held him to my centre as I shook and cursed and gushed over his stubble. Surprised the maid hadn't said anything about the wet stains on his shirt. Maybe she knows. Or maybe he's doing her too? Wouldn't surprise me. That cliché pinafore costume shows a little too much leg and bust to be purely functional. Plus, he's magnetic. Unpredictable. Alluring and dangerous.
Pain catches me by surprise, zipping from my breast to inflame my pussy, drooling juice into my tanga panties. Pastel blue at his request, so I can easily gauge your readiness, he'd said. My drawn-out moan bounces off the stripy wallpaper of the soundproofed office. The seclusion has saved me a few times. Like when he clipped on a studded collar and made me kneel in his office chair as he lashed my bare behind with the very belt currently in my mouth. Each crack on increasingly pinker flesh was followed by a howl, then a beg for more after the heat dissipated.
As my head dips once more to manage the sting, the thick carpet on which I kneel deadens my laboured breathing. The swirling floral pattern of reds, blacks, blues and creams has disguised a multitude of sins and fluids we've spilled in the pursuit of whatever this is. Lust. Need. Power. Control. I know he'll never leave her, even though I'm better in every way. Younger. Fitter. Certainly dirtier. Yet I still do it. Still crave his command, despite no prospect of happily ever after.
Stupid? Maybe. But I can't escape his gravity. He's the antithesis to my stressful and structured profession. An outlet. Everything with him is about now. About the moment. About every crushing, devastating orgasm he rips from my battered body as I surrender. The validation and celebration of just being. I want the marks. Need to feel like I've been thoroughly fucked for days after. I want my hair yanked, my cunt spanked, bites and nibbles and perfect aches to be replayed whenever I move or sit or comb my tresses.
After placing the candle back in the holder on the desk, the rattle of stirring ice disturbs the quiet office. He brings half a cube to my lips. Presses it into the gap between the leather and my teeth, the intense cold making me gasp. He points to my other breast and I angle my head so rivulets of the melting cube drizzle to snake from my collarbone down the gentle slope.
More rattling. The clink of ice against his teeth this time. He trails a warm fingertip over my hair to sweep a lock behind my ear. Continues to trace along my jaw, down to hot breast. Takes his time dot-to-dotting the wax then brushes my nipple with the faintest touch.
Grabbing its silver bar, he pinches and pulls, stretching the flesh and loosening some of the dried wax. I gasp before emitting a sharp yelp when he lets go and immediately slaps my breast, sending the wax tumbling to the carpet. Mere echoes of its existence remain as haphazard red tracks on my skin that he follows with his fingertip, then cups me. Squeezes. Strokes. Soothes. Almost apologising for the outburst.
God it’s exciting.
He sinks to his knees in front of me. Glides his fingers back up to my hair, then around the back of my head to bunch it in his grip. Tugs down. I jerk to meet his intense gaze, those caramel irises hiding all manner of dark thoughts I can only hope he unleashes on me.
With my neck exposed, tits skyward, I know I'm to become an offering. A prize for the taking.
I drip.
He yanks harder, arcing my back until my mane brushes my calves. Freezing kisses skim from my lower lip down over my chin, nip my neck, then hover over cold breast, his icy breath condensing on my skin.
I shiver.
Anticipation is everything with Nathan, starkly different from the pace of his life. Beyond these walls he makes snap decisions; within them, there's an unhurried grace. A fluidity. Like he knows the perfect pause to heighten my need. That delirious delay.
I shut my eyes.
Expecting his lips enclosing my peak I'm surprised as only his breath remains detectable; measured, yet faster than a minute earlier. Snapping my eyes open I catch the reason for the pause a fraction too late. He's retrieved the candle, poised over hot breast, and tips at exactly the same moment he wraps his lips around the nipple of its sister and lashes his icy tongue against me.
There's nothing I can do but shudder, held taut between his grip and the physical limits of my skeleton. My body screams to make sense of the conflict and I vocalise on its behalf. A guttural groan rolls through my throat as the wax and ice brand my skin, culminating in a single word:
"Fuck."
Except it comes out as Hhhhuck because of his belt.
Barbs of pain flash through me and I can't tell the difference between the intense heat and the cold tendrils that traverse the sensitive capillaries of my nipples, swirling their way to sting my pussy like startled jellyfish. Incredible warmth floods my groin and it takes a moment to realise it's not just heat but wetness too. I moan when he bites the nipple; grips the tiny bar and tugs, amplifying the need that oozes from my slit to stain my underwear.
I know he adores when my panties are transparent. When my arousal coats the gusset. When he eyes me and can no longer hold back. There's usually a sublime moment where his manner darkens, like I've infected him somehow, and he snaps. Pulls. Hauls me into position by whatever he can grab, sweeps stationery from his desk, shoves me onto it and buries his face in my underwear.
Fuck, to be eaten that way as I cry out and come and come after all the torment is pure heaven; listening to the filthy squelching of him sucking my juices from the fabric as I deliver a fresh supply from within. Sharing me while I convulse and quake in his animalistic grip on my thighs, until I'm a soaked, gasping mess. I can only hope that's in my near future. But with him, well, anything's possible.
He lets go, hands and mouth gone, leaving my body a tangle of want, but I don't move. Remain arched for him like a good girl, knees spread on the carpet, head tipped back, trembling with lust. Unsupported and unrestrained, I let my hands drop to the floor, wrapping fingers around my ankles, clutching, pulling down as far as I can to exhibit further. Yoga has its benefits.
The locked double doors that appear upside down in my predicament lead to the corridor. They blur and sharpen as I hold myself open. Ice rattles once more and I stiffen as his firm hand cups cold breast. Colder now there's a melting cube in his palm. He rolls and pinches the flesh, tweaking and pulling. All I can do is gasp and slobber through the belt, saliva dripping back over my cheeks to the carpet between my feet.
Then nothing.
The weight of silence in the opulent office masks employees scurrying along the corridor, and Laney in her sensible skirt, blouse and flats clattering the keyboard beyond the adjoining door to my left. It leaves only me presented at the centre of this cocoon. His lair in which I'm willingly trapped. God, what would my colleagues think if they could see me this way?
His voice cuts the quiet, baritone and edgy. "Do you want to come?"
"Aha."
He runs his cold thumb up to my cheek and scoops a stream of drool. "Would you like to tell me how much?"
I nod.
His hand slips behind my head. So does the other and he cinches the belt a fraction until the pin disengages. After tenderly freeing the leather indented with my teeth marks, I flex my jaw, head still tipped back. The buckle clinks.
"Well, Tess? Would you like to come?"
"Yes!" I hiss. "God yes."
The smile in his voice is undisguised. "Is that all you have for me? All that hard work for a mere yes?" His voice steels. "Maybe this will improve your focus."
I barely have time to tense before the belt cracks and the fire in my cunt ignites. I scream. An honest-to-goodness, piercing scream and I know the tip of the belt is going to leave an imprint on my pussy lips. The sting is insane, even through the soaked material. It eddies, heat spreading and as it races north to stiffen the peaks of my chest, I spit, "Fuck."
Nathan's palm slithers over my panties to soothe and pat the strike point, and it reminds me of just how drenched I am. He lays his finger along the crease for an extended moment then paints a wet line all the way up to my chin. "I'll ask again. Would you like to come?"
Having his fingertip so close to my throat thrills me. I shiver. "Fuck, yes, Sir. Please let me come. I ache for you."
He draws a line, side to side across my neck. "That's better." My spirits soar at the prospect. "But no."
Deflated, I try not to let it show. Although he's been inching me towards release for fuck knows how long, I'm well aware he can stretch it out for as long as he pleases. He's blocked his diary for our "meeting" and told Laney to hold all calls. And if I crack before he gives me permission there's no telling what he'll do. Probably leave me hanging. And I can't take that. Not with the state I'm in. Acquiescence is the fastest route to release. "Thank you."
The tip of his finger walks my jaw again. Up to my mouth where he dips it in and I suck hungrily before he draws a wet arc from shoulder to shoulder via my collarbone.
"Once more, my beautiful little slut." He rakes the belt across my wet panties and pats the leather tip to my clit a few times. Pauses, then punctuates each of the next five words with a fierce snap of the belt to my sodden underwear. "Would… You… Like… To…" I barely hear the word Come over my wailing.
Fuuuck.
Such heat, such pleasure racks my jolting frame with each strike. I almost draw blood from my lip to prevent the orgasm ripping through me, clapping my knees together and squirming as the final lash bites. The belt remains captured between my clamped thighs as I rock my hips, gasping.
"Please… fuck. Ohhhhh, so close… Pleeease let me come, Sir. PLEASE!" I stifle a sob as a tremor seizes hold and I fear my body is going to betray me. My resolve hangs by a single thread, with Nathan the puppet master. And he knows it.
The belt is tugged free of my legs and clanks when it lands on the carpet. A pair of hands grip my tits hard. Massage. Pinch as I writhe my exposed frame under him, on the cusp of madness. His hold splits, one hand riding the hourglass and taut belly to dive beneath the elastic of my panties into my sopping cunt, the other curling up to clutch my neck.
I take a hurried breath just in time before his chokehold prevents it. Two – maybe three – fingers split my bare folds and hook inside as he barks, "Come, Little Kaninchen. Come for me."