'You will hate me because I am- by any measure - a nasty person. Come to think of it, I hate me too. But to be honest, I really don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. If I did, then I wouldn’t be sharing this with you. So, let’s get on with it.

This all happened last October. This is as much detail as I can recall...'

PART ONE

Wigmore Street, London W1. 16th October 2024. 17:45

As I approach the tall, red brick Victorian building, I can feel a physical sensation of excitement. Anticipation is making my heart pound like a jackhammer, and I can feel it palpably through my long, black coat. My hands are unconsciously clenched deep within my pockets, my shoulders hunched. My mind swirls like the autumnal wind on this chilly, breezy October late afternoon. When I get to No.42, I clear both granite steps in a single leap and reach for the familiar, cold, oversized, brass door handle, burnished by the grasps of a thousand hands. The sophisticated, ornate details are the unmistakable tell-tale signs of old money and privilege. I pull the handle, but the large oak and glass door is unyielding.

The resistance is unexpected.

Slightly confused, I look around. I take one step back and impatiently reach for the doorbell under the polished brass plaque for Ricco Cucine. I depress the white ceramic disc twice, but cannot hear any feedback whatsoever. Confused further, I peer into the large showroom through the polished glass, my hand shielding my view from the reflections of the street behind me. It is empty. Not a sign of anyone.

Turning back to face the street, I study the scene as a way to focus my mind and to manage my deflation. All around are throngs of people, the brightly lit shops and offices, and the dull thrum of traffic. People on their way home from work after feeding on the cold nipple of commerce, or maybe on their way out for the evening to spend the money they don't actually have. It all reminds me of one of my favourite words. Sonder. 'The realisation that each passer-by is living a life as vivid and complex as your own- populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness'.

Wigmore Street is at the core of this thriving, wealthy part of London, and this is why I am here. I fit right in, but right now I can’t even get access to this luxury kitchen showroom. I glance at the Speedmaster on my wrist, 5:45 in the evening, and it’s beginning to get dark. It’s exactly the time we had arranged. Odd.

'By the way, in case you are wondering, I am Jack. I used to work right here, in this showroom. This is all so familiar. I now work for a competitor along the street. Kitchens are my world, my life. I started here as a kitchen fitter. I was promoted as the company recognized my obvious talent and incomparable people skills, to the point where I was soon appointed Executive Head here at Ricco Cucine. That is, until I was headhunted by the company I now work for...'

My almost onanistic reverie is interrupted by the substantial click of the door lock behind me. I turn, and a woman is opening the door, one hand turning the latch, the other pulling the reciprocal handle on the inside. She opens the door, smiles, gestures for me to enter with her left hand, and stands to one side, an exaggerated tilt to her head.

“Hello, do come in.” She holds out an elegant hand, “My name is Pamela,” she says with a slight upward intonation.

“Hello Pamela,” I reply. I allow the tiniest of smiles to register at the corner of my mouth, but more out of habit than emotion.

We shake hands briefly. I feel the large rings on her fingers. Her palm is warm, slightly moist, but her handshake is firm, confident. The silver bangles on her wrist jangle gently. As I step inside the showroom, the familiar scent of Sandalwood and Patchouli is the first sensory signature. Pamela closes the door behind me, and the latch self-closes with the satisfying cluck of quality. The noise and bustle from the street are immediately nullified.

I am in a cathedral of calm. This is where I belong.

“Yes, my apologies. We didn’t have any other appointments for the showroom today, so I was downstairs in my office,” she says, smiling. “So welcome, how might I help?”

I smile, and at the same time, quickly breathe through my nose and nod my head slightly. I fix her with my gaze. After a slight pause, I say, “Well, I’m looking to replace my kitchen, and I’m looking at this company plus a few other brands along here,” gesturing gently with my hand toward the street.

“I’d like to spend some time looking at what you have in the showroom. You know, surfaces, features, accessories, and… details.” I add, with just the tiniest innuendo.

“Of course,” she replies, “please take your time, and when you need more information, I’ll be just down there in my office. There is much more on display down there.” She emphasises ‘on display’. Pamela raises an eyebrow and points to some wide open-plan steps that begin in the middle of the showroom. I can see the offices on the floor below.

“Here is my card,” she says. The card is crisp, white, and minimal.

“I’m Jack,” I say, “Thanks.” I hold her card up for emphasis.

If we were in a play, the whole scene would feel hopelessly overacted.

Pamela is, at first glance, aged around forty-five, but it’s hard to tell exactly. She is a little below my height, with large dark hazel eyes behind black framed Prada glasses. Her dark brown hair is cut into the style of a long bob that flicks up at the ends, and she has expertly applied full makeup. She wears an immaculate, well-fitted, grey skirt suit over her, shall we say, ‘fuller figure’. She has the look of a high-class estate agent or, exactly what she is, which is the Executive Head of the London showroom of an exclusive Italian kitchen company, Ricco Cucine (or so it says on her business card).

'Well, Pamela, you have finally got what you have always wanted. This was my job here once, my role, my world. I was the rooster of this showroom, I was on top of everything, the customer relations, sales, the communications, everything. And on top of you, too, Pamela, literally. That is, until I left, to go to the German company, to the job you applied for, too. And you don't know that I know that, do you, Pamela?'

As she walks away towards the stairs, my eyes follow her; her walk has a very subtle bounce, an energy, or even the slightest of twerks as if she were on a catwalk. Before she gets to the first step, she looks back, just in time to see that I am still observing her. She seems unperturbed, pleased even, and takes the first step with one hand on the guardrail and then pauses. It’s as if she were going to say something further, but she decides otherwise and proceeds down the stairs.

From a distance, I see her elegantly sit down at a glass desk, and before she can look up to see me, I move out of her line of sight to pretend to look at the showroom displays.

The showroom on this ground floor level is laid out with four different kitchen styles, each with its own set that has been beautifully dressed by a stylist. This includes flowers, appliances, props, and even some fruit. The first one I come to has always been my favourite- a dark stone, modernist, masculine, linear kitchen. As you might expect, I know a lot about modern high-end kitchens. This showroom reeks of insouciant money, where tens or even hundreds of thousands of pounds are spent in an instant, on a whim. The atmosphere is luxurious, immaculate, sensorially evocative, and beautifully styled. I loved it. I still do.

I slowly descend the stairs, which curve around 360 degrees to the basement level. The showroom down here is surprisingly large, extending much further back than upstairs. To the left are the open-plan offices, where Pamela sits alone, tapping at a large iMac, and beyond are cloakrooms. To the right are two or three kitchen displays, fully styled and equipped with accessories, appliances, and utensils. The lighting, although artificial, casts a luxurious illumination across the space, adding to the seductive sense of exclusivity, design, and quality.

I notice that the lighting upstairs is now dimmed; the only light is in the basement. I assume this is because it is now the evening and the showroom is closed for the day. Pamela has adjusted the lighting from a control panel near her desk. I can see by the tiny green LED on her Apple display that she is finishing a video call with someone, probably a customer.

So. I am alone with Pamela. Or should I say, alone again.

After a minute or so, she rises from her Eames Soft Pad chair, straightens a crease in her skirt with her hands, and places her glasses on her desk. She walks over to where I am standing. The slow ‘clack, clack’ of her heels on the oak parquet floor is a very sensuous sound as she approaches.

I am studying an enormous white Carrara marble-topped kitchen island, complete with a huge integrated sink, a Vola tap at one end, and a professional Bertazzoni hob with gas burners at the other. This island alone is larger than most kitchens in lesser houses. It would fit easily into my new house, though.

She smiles at me but says nothing and stands with her hands splayed on the same marble countertop as me. Her head was sexily tilted to one side as before. I am well aware of her alluring eroticism, a sexual confidence that women seem to accumulate as they get older. The overhead lighting above her exaggerates the soft shape of her breasts and creates a cascade of refractions from her jewellery.

As I run my fingers over the smooth, cold countertop, I bend slightly to see the marble at an angle as if to appreciate the finishing on the edges. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Pamela has moved further forward and is now so close to the corner of the unit that the material of her skirt is touching. She moves further forward still, so that the corner is now making an indentation on her skirt and pushing it slightly between her legs. And, so subtly, she very slowly pushes her groin up and down against the corner of the marble. She is now inches from my head.

'Ok, wait, wait.  I should explain. Pamela and I had a long, frenzied affair. I was Executive Head, she was Head of Marketing. Pardon my language, but she was also my bitch, my slut. We fucked her at her home, in hotels, once in my car, but never here, though. Sex with Pamela was always kinky. She is ravenous, messy, she shouts and screams with lust, she’s insatiable; she is a heavy spurter, and she loved me to fuck her arse more than anything else that we did. But this is a new experience, here, in this showroom. It was her suggestion, by the way. She sent me a text out of the blue last week, and just the thought turned me on.

Anyway, I told Pamela about my new job after a trip to Milano Salone last year, when we had already fallen out over something stupid. She was aghast that I was leaving, but now I realise she was, in fact, apoplectic because I had got the job she also applied for. She said, there and then, that I was making a massive mistake and that I would soon regret it. She’d been drinking her favourite tipple, vodka and lime, so I just shrugged it off. She was so angry, though, incandescent with rage. I’ll never forget it.

The CEO of Ricco Cucine was also a factor, a complete wanker called James. He was the reason I wanted to move away from Ricco Cucine in the first place; we never did get along. And as soon as Pamela started calling him Jim on the phone, I knew something was afoot. I assumed, and in hindsight I guessed correctly, that Pamela was also fucking James.

Anyway, my departure was fraught, and I had to leave without any references from this company, which made things far more difficult for me with the officious German company I now work for. In fact, to be honest, the move has been disastrous. The new company seems not to trust me, as if they suspect something is not right about me, something I can’t put my finger on. I’m almost certain it has something to do with Pamela, or maybe James, too.

So anyway, out of the blue, Pamela texted me last week. I was surprised, a little inquisitive, and turned on massively when she said we should have a goodbye fuck at the showroom. Maybe I should have been a little more savvy, clued up, but she is such a fantastic fuck, and she is obviously totally obsessed with me. So here I am…

My motivation? I want to humiliate her, teach her a lesson. Get back at her for making my life harder. And if possible, get back at that fucker James at the same time.

I want to get them both sacked.'

 PART TWO

“What do you think”?  Pamela says softly.

I slowly stand. I look her directly in the eye but ignore her question.

“Are you ready?” I ask her slowly.

She hesitates. “Yes, I am ready,” she eventually replies, almost in a whisper. Suddenly, there is a sense of electricity in the air, a sexual static. Just like the old days.

Slowly, I reach out with my right hand and gently touch her beautiful face, my fingers around the side of her neck, my thumb tracing a circle around her mouth. I gently press my thumb onto her plump lips and gently rub her lipstick, smearing it across her cheek, her lips slightly distorted by the friction. I insert my thumb into her mouth, gently pulling it open, and I rest it on her beautiful, white teeth. I can see her soft, wet tongue bathed in crystal clear spittle. Her dark eyes are fixed upon mine, excited, submissive, and expectant.

I slowly begin moving around behind Pamela, and she follows me with her eyes. My left hand is now following her neckline, where I arrange her hair gently behind her ear. Her earring dazzles in the artificial light. I progress until I am directly behind her. She then turns her head to face forward while a smile forms at the corners of her mouth. I am just an inch away from my body touching hers. I lean forward and I inhale her scent. She does not move. My nose touches her neck, followed by my mouth. I kiss her gently; her skin is warm and smooth, and I breathe in slowly. She tilts her head up slightly, exhales softly, and I can feel her goose pimples on my lips.

I rest both hands on her hips, and I move forward so that my body is now gently touching hers. She will be feeling my hardness on her buttocks. I kiss her neck again, her head is tilted back further, her hands then take mine, and she pulls them around to her stomach. I use this as a prompt, and I move them up to her large, soft breasts. I forcefully massage them through her bra and clothing while I nuzzle her neck. Pamela tilts her head up again and groans very softly. She then moves her hand back between us, to my groin, as she searches for my cock through my trousers.

“Stop,” I say, “I did not give you permission.”

“I am sorry,” she replies quickly, withdrawing her hand, “please forgive me.”

“Place your hands on the marble surface,” I instruct, and she does so.

“Tell me why I am here, Pamela,” I whisper in her ear.

“Because I am your slave,” she whispers back.

“And what will I do?"

“You will use me. I am your property, your slut, your toy. I need you, I want you to control me, to teach me.” There is a slight tremble in her voice, not of fear, but of anticipation.

"So you will do exactly as I say?"

“Yes, anything you say,” she says, her voice breaking very slightly.

I take a step back. I place an open hand at the centre of her back and I push very, very gently down. Pamela slowly bends further over the cold work surface, her legs slightly apart, her hands spread on the marble.

Softly, I say, “Place your face flat on the marble.” She obeys, briefly hesitating as her cheek makes contact with the cold, smooth surface. With her face flat on its side, she can now see me behind her. She is bent over completely, fully clothed, her breasts pushed out to her side, her buttocks now presented like a deeply erotic Comme des Garçons pillow.

I crouch down behind her, my hands stroking her arse through her skirt, and I then caress the backs of her thighs. Then, moving lower to the seam of her skirt, I slide my fingers of both hands under the material, my thumbs outside. I begin to slowly push her skirt up. From the hem, inch by inch, side-by-side, up it rides. Her sheer tights enable a smooth, bronzed transition. She wiggles her arse to aid me as I push her skirt upward, past her suspender-style tights, until her full and beautiful arse cheeks appear. I push her skirt up to her waist, where it bunches up. I feel the heat radiating from her cunt on my face as I kneel behind her. I inhale the scent of sex. I stare at her beautiful, fake-tanned buttocks, dissected by tiny, lacy, black panties. This incredible sight is on full display, illuminated by the lighting like a pornographic studio shot. Every dimple, goose bump, and crease in her skin is exaggerated in its awesomeness.

Without a word, I stand and I take my right hand and rest it on her arse, palm up. With my middle finger, I push into the recess between her legs, pressuring against the thin lacy material. I gently rub my finger up and down. Pamela responds with a wiggle of affirmation and a slight push backwards. She breathes deeply and looks back at me, looking, searching for instruction. I feel the heat from her on my hand, followed by a syrupy wetness through the thin material as I increase the pressure of my finger on her.

I rest my left hand on her lower back, and with my right hand, I hook my forefinger under the thin gusset of her panties, pulling them over and away from the plump purple peaches of her vulva. I touch her gently at first, cupping the soft bulge of her cunt, and then I push my middle finger into her up to my second knuckle, deep into her moistness. She shudders, breathes out hard, and flexes her abdominal muscles in appreciation. I push my finger further into her so that my palm is now resting on her labia. I can feel her warm internal muscles contracting around my digit.

I pull my finger out slowly and dribble my saliva on her cunt, and I then insert my index and middle finger together into her, as if my hand were a pistol. She gasps out loud again but says nothing. Her sticky wetness makes insertion effortless. I spread her juices around her peachy labia and arsehole. I slowly finger-fuck her, my thumb resting on her anus, she moans into the marble, her eyes wide, staring straight ahead. After several thrusts, I slowly pull my fingers from her, reach forward to her face, and touch her lips with my glistening fingers. She knows what I want her to do. She opens her mouth, and I push both fingers into her, bending them around onto her tongue. She closes her lips around my fingers as she tastes herself. I slide out my fingers and smear her juice, saliva, and remaining lipstick over her cheek and into her hair.

I stand up. She stays still, looking backwards, straight at me, breathing heavily. Her wet lips are slightly apart, her perfect teeth glistening through a smile so debauched, so expectant, that for a moment I so want to fuck her.

But I must not. Not yet. I have plans.

PART THREE

I stand. I wipe my hands on the back of my trousers. Taking a deep breath, I look around the display. I open a drawer - such a smooth action - and inside I find what I’m looking for.  A pair of silver metal Katto kitchen scissors sits in the drawer tray. I take them out and rest them on the marble work surface, “clip, clop, and I then close the drawer. I pick up and open the scissors; the light catches the stainless steel blades. I gently slide one cold steel blade under her panties, which are stretched over her hip, and ‘snip’; the fine material pulls back by itself under tension. I cut the other side, ‘snip’. I place the scissors down. I begin to pull her panties through from the back, and what was the front slowly pulls through her crotch, soaking wet.

I raise the black, sodden, lacy panties to my nose and inhale her scent. A heady mix of oysters, champagne, and saline. I then carefully roll her panties into a rough lozenge shape and lean forward again, my left hand next to her. She moans in anticipation. With my right hand, I push the rolled panties against her engorged vulva. She gasps. With my thumb, I begin to push the material into her, bit by bit, one soft push after another. Pamela opens her legs an inch or two further, her warm, moist cunt offering little resistance until only the tip of her black panties is visible, dangling between her succulent outer lips. Her eyes are wide open, consumed with lust. I pick up the scissors again.

“Remove your shoes,” I whisper.

Pamela hurriedly kicks off her heels backwards, and they skid across the polished parquet wood floor into the darkness of the rest of the showroom. Without them, she seems even more vulnerable, and for sure lower. This time, I insert a blade under the straps holding up her bronze, sheer tights, 'snip, snip', until the tension in the material suddenly relaxes. I kneel, with my face an inch from her buttocks, her panties still visible inside her cunt, and I again feel her heat on my face. I gently pull down the sheer material from her soft, smooth inner thigh with my fingers inside the nylon, past her knees, and she lifts her foot to allow them to be removed completely. I do the same with her other leg. I cut the tights into two stockings with the scissors.

As I stand up, I throw her now stockings onto the counter. I grab her buttocks and dig my fingers into the soft, voluptuous, generous mounds, pulling her cheeks wide apart with my thumbs. I then kiss the bare, coloured sphincter of her arse. She squeals in anticipation and excitement and involuntarily puckers her star. I point my tongue and push against her resistance until the tension lessens and I can push in further. Pamela squeals again and gently rotates her arse while pushing against me as I insert my tongue, rimming her, spitting into her hole for lubrication. I lower my tongue to push gently at the tiny black fabric hanging from her cunt.

I then stop, stand up, and wipe my face with a blue and white glass cloth from nearby, which I then throw to the floor. I pick up the tangled, gossamer-thin stockings on the surface next to her face, then walk towards the lighting controls near Pamela’s desk. The overhead lighting for this particular display is bright and is the only one in the basement showroom that is visible from the street. I turn the dimmer brightness all the way down, leaving just enough light but making it more difficult to see from the street. I am aware some passersby may have been able to see the events of the last ten minutes, but when I look up, all I can see is the movement of people hurrying by.

I look across at Pamela. She is obediently in the same position, her hands flat on the marble worktop, her torso bent over, her naked arse illuminated, and her legs apart. A beautiful, erotic, and surrendered image. Her eyes fixed on mine.

I return to the island. With her stockings, I make a tight knot around each of her wrists, a tiny knot the size of a pea, and a loop tight enough that she cannot remove it even if she wanted to. The other ends I tie to the Vola tap, the other at 45 degrees to a Bertazzoni hob control. I pull them pretty tight. She is now restrained, her arms out straight at right angles. All this time, she has her eyes fixed on me, the same gaze of anticipation, of arousal.

I walk slowly to the other side of the work surface to where her warm, tanned arse remains invitingly on show. I bend down again to kiss her sphincter. She moans gently. I pick up the black threads of her panties, dangling from her labia, and slowly pull them, bit by bit, out of her. Pamela groans in pleasure. They are soaking wet, and after about halfway out, they drop out by themselves so sodden are they. I collect them in my hand. I lean forward.

“Open your mouth,” I say.

She obediently does so. I lean closer, her mouth invitingly agape. Gently, I push her wet panties into her mouth, my fingers probing and pushing. She chokes slightly, perhaps at the volume, perhaps at her state of arousal. Her moans are now muffled but heightened in their volume. Again, I leave a tail of lacy underwear dangling from her lips.

I stalk around the scene. Looking at her, her eyes following mine, her absolute abandon so arousing. My erection in my trousers is aching to be released. Not yet.

“So, Pamela, let’s look around. What will we find?” I say out loud. Pamela can say nothing, but her eyes sparkle under the lights.

I pace around the kitchen set. Bottles of herbs, spices, and liquids are displayed along a back wall. There I find a tall green bottle of Barbera Sicilia olive oil, with a stainless steel funnel pushed into the top. Exactly what I need. I return to Pamela, who has managed to turn her head to follow me around the showroom, her eyes glued to my investigation of accessories. I look down at the gorgeousness of her vagina on full display, and her tan-coloured sphincter winking back at me, defiantly.

I begin slowly dripping olive oil onto Pamela’s arse, it drips quicker than I anticipate, and it quickly gathers into a rivulet in between her cheeks, flowing over her asshole and in between her cunt lips, and onto the oak floor. As it is cold at first, Pamela slightly twitches at the coolness on her skin. I put the bottle down and, with both hands, I begin to rub the oil into her butt cheeks and between her legs. I massage her thighs, rolling her flesh like putty in my hands. She groans in pleasure at the expert movement of my hands and fingers. She glistens in the overhead light, her cunt an oiled, open, inviting cave. Her sphincter was a puckered and slicked star from an erotic cosmos.

I begin to rub my thumb into her asshole, pressing down with my thumbprint. The skin around her sphincter resists at first, then slightly depresses, then parts. I push my thumb into her and begin slowly massaging her inner arse. I insert two fingers of my left hand into her cunt, effectively double penetrating her. I finger-fuck her with one hand and massage the oil into her arse with the other. She begins to buck, to thrust backwards onto my hand. She moans and snorts through her nose. Her orgasm is approaching; she almost dances with her lower torso as I thrust my fingers into her. She orgasms. A high-pitched groaning fills the void of the showroom. Her cunt and arse are heaving together, clasping my hand in ecstasy. She pulls at her restraints, she’s on tiptoe, and she gushes onto my hand and onto the floor.

Pamela, then depleted, relaxes again onto the countertop. Her eyes closed, breathing rapidly through her nose. Her cheeks flushed, her tanned legs now streaked with her own passionate fluids.

I almost feel gratitude to Pamela for that pornographic show, 'such a devoted and obedient bitch and as horny as fuck' I think to myself. I also feel a dull pang of guilt. She has no idea what I’m planning tonight. I brush this from my mind as I look around the showroom. I’m not finished yet.

I approach the open drawer again. Inside are various utensils, the kind of thing you’d expect in an upmarket kitchen. I pick up a black silicone spatula. I bend it in my hand. I show it to Pamela, her eyes betray her apparent calmness. I rest the spatula on her arse cheek and then tap it gently. And then I bring it down onto Pamela's left buttock with a ‘thwack’. I strike again, ‘thwack, and thwack’. She recoils, lifting her upper torso off the marble, her legs buckling at the knees. Pamela would be shrieking much louder with pain and pleasure if she didn’t have a mouthful of panties; instead, she lets out a muffled, shrill grunt, her eyes watering. Her cheeks now have five or six rose coloured spatula-shaped welts. After half a dozen swipes, I throw it across the showroom floor, and it silently finds a resting spot somewhere in the gloom. I softly massage her buttocks again with both hands, with lashings of olive oil that drips and runs down the back of Pamela's thighs.

I’m beginning to make a mess of this showroom. I smile.

In the next drawer down is what I was really looking for. I pick up a Bosch battery-operated hand blender. By turning it on, I notice that the body vibrates pleasingly, and the slight grinding noise it makes alerts Pamela. I show the blender to her, and she makes no sound.

"Fuck it," I say out loud. I'm bored now, and I toss the blender nonchalantly onto the floor. It skids and crashes as it disappears into the darker parts of the showroom. For the first time, Pamela looks up, alarmed at the noise of the appliance disintegrating. She hates mess and disorder in the showroom to the point of OCD, and my destructiveness will have made her very angry. That in itself is a turn-on for me; a sexually irate Pamela is a sight to behold. And to enjoy.

In the drawer are several other candidates. Among others are a ribbed honey spoon, a pot brush, an ice cream scoop, a meat tenderizer, and various items with handles. In the next drawer, however, is a smooth, stainless steel rolling pin, about eighteen inches long and the diameter of a cucumber. It is cold and hard. It has soft, rounded ends. Being metal, it is ideal for pastry making, I think obliquely. This is just right. I lift it out, and it’s heavier than I thought it would be. There is a dull clunk of metal on marble, ‘clink, clonk’ from each end of the rolling pin as I place it next to Pamela’s face. So that she can clearly see it. She stares at it, eyes wide open, and then up at me.

“Pamela?” I say, with an exaggerated upward intonation. She looks at me, confused, and then, very slowly, she shakes her head.

'Oh come on, do you really think I’d fuck her with a rolling pin? I’m a bastard, not a sadist. No, I have other plans.'

PART FOUR

I let the rolling pin roll around a bit, a few inches away from Pamela's face, while I decide on my final intentions. I conclude that now is the time. Pamela looks relieved and relaxed as she realises I have no intention of fucking her with a rolling pin. A slight smile returns to her face. I lean over and kiss her soft cheek, her panties still in her mouth.

I stand and reach for the belt on my trousers, then the zipper. Like a hosepipe - wriggling and unwinding with the pressure of water - my cock is finally released from my briefs as I pull the front down. I am not surprised at all at how hard I am already, and how much pre-cum has appeared as a clear liquid on my purple helmet when I pull back my foreskin and squeeze my erection. Pamela’s look of alarm at the rolling pin threat is now replaced by the familiar leer of lust. I walk behind Pamela, lean forward slightly, and begin to wipe the head of my cock around Pamela’s gaping vagina, the syrupy goo mixing instantly with the less viscous fluids smeared around her. I run my slippery cock between her ass cheeks, running a crude course from front to back, the warmth from her cunt making me even harder. I withdraw, I clumsily kick off my shoes, remove my socks, and then kick off my trousers. I remove my white briefs, damp with pre-cum.

Then, I’m still not sure why, I leap onto the marble work surface with one foot on either side of prone Pamela. Something inside compels me to stand and open my arms out wide. I shout out loud, “I FUCKING OWN THIS!” to no one in particular. I throw my head back triumphantly, a broad smile on my lips. My cock is at a lewd angle, dangling in the air. A frenzied, ridiculous sight if you were passing in the street and looked into the showroom.

I jump down and study the vision of surrender before me. Pamela knows what was coming next; for her, this must be the main event, and she raises her pelvis a little as an invitation, an acknowledgment of what was to come. My cock, engorged with pent-up lust, dangling obscenely in the air, is about to get its patience rewarded. I place the purple head, slick with pre-cum, at the entrance to Pamela’s sphincter, still slick with olive oil. I circle it, nudge it, my intent obvious. Delicious sounds of viscous fluids from us both mixing in a delicious recipe of lust.

I am at the perfect height to the counter top and Pamela's gorgeous torso. I lean forward and I push gently, her star resisting, not quite ready to accept the intruder now banging on her door. I insist on my cock’s behalf and push a little more. Looking down, I can see and feel Pamela’s sweet asshole begin to stretch slowly, and then all of a sudden, my helmet disappears. Pamela gasps a muffled, guttural, feral exhalation of both pleasure and perhaps discomfort, mixed like the horniest cocktail and strained through the soaking filter of her panties. Gently, I begin pushing my length into her, the skin around her hole stretching further, shiny, crimson, but accommodating. Every thrust and every retreat creates the same sweet sound of slick fluids combining. Each thrust becomes easier as Pamela’s asshole releases, relaxes, and reciprocates. Soon, I am close to my stomach, touching the peachy softness of her buttocks. Pamela, gasping and grunting, spits out her panties to enable her to take a deep breath and scream, “FUCK ME YOU BASTARD! ”

I grab Pamela tightly by the waist with both hands and begin a rhythmic fucking that is as glorious as it is short-lived. She screams again, a scream so fundamental that it makes me jump. "Fuck, FUCK!" She writhes under me, shaking and juddering in ecstasy, and I feel Pamela’s warm fluids flowing down my own legs. Oh, she has come! I almost pull out as my own orgasm has appeared almost instantaneously, but it is already too late. The crescendo of pleasure engulfs me, too, a wave of ecstasy mixed with adrenaline and pleasure. I thrust my cock into Pamela one last time, shouting at the top of my voice. “YES, YES, FUCK YES !” I throw my head back, I feel my spunk explode as a torrent, flooding, spurting, a release of so, so many abstract things into a single carnal moment.

After a few seconds, I collapsed over Pamela's warm, soft body. I can feel my cum leaking, so I lean up and slowly pull my cock from Pamela’s throbbing, twitching, reddened arse. Cum flows like a stream down past her cunt and onto the floor. I feel like collapsing. Instead, I lean across Pamela’s panting, exhausted body, still tied by her restraints. I stroke her hair, I kiss her ear, her cheek, her lips. Her eyes are closed. I kiss her eyes. She is lying very still on the marble countertop.

I know what I must do now. I must keep to my plan. I hesitate.

I stand, the ridiculousness of my undressed state suddenly obvious.

I offer her water. She nods feebly. I walk over to the Sub-Zero fridge, where I know there will be some Evian. I return to Pamela, and I cup her face in my hand, and I tip a little into her mouth. She swallows without opening her eyes. Her breathing is heavy and directed into a pool of her spittle and fluids on the countertop.

I search around the floor for my things, and I begin putting my clothes back on. I look down at Pamela, who has now opened her eyes and is looking straight at me with no discernible expression at all. I pause. Then Pamela speaks for the first time in a while. “Okay, Jack, could you take these off now? They are quite tight,” says Pamela, gesturing at the restraints with her head. She raises herself off the marble surface of the island, onto her elbows. The tights are at their tightest now.

Instead, I walk towards the light panel near her desk, and looking back at her, I turn the lighting for the island back up to normal showroom levels. Pamela is now illuminated perfectly, her beautiful face speckled with my cum on her arse and on her clothing, her wrists tied to the taps and hob, up on her elbows, her skirt bunched up around her waist, her tanned buttocks gleaming in the spotlight.

“So come on, Jack, untie me.” A slight annoyance is now blistering her voice. She looks up to the street level nervously. She probably also wants to wipe the fluids from her face, get dressed, and fix her makeup.

She is now furrowing her brow. I ignore her as I adjust my clothing and put my shoes back on.

“Ok, Jack, untie me now.” The annoyance in her voice has become a slight alarm. “Come on, Jack, it’s not funny. C’mon. It's getting uncomfortable.”

I ignore her. I turn my back.

She shouts, “Jack, wait, WHAT? Untie me.”

I don't look at her. I walk toward the stairs.

“JACK! Fucking untie me, where are you GOING!” She wrestles with her restraints, tugging at them. “NO, JACK, WAIT !”

She won’t be there for long; soon, the cleaner, Mrs. Smith, will be here. She will release her. But I don't care, I’ve got back at her. That’s enough. Or maybe I should text James so that he can find her.

“Goodbye, Pamela,” I say sarcastically as I turn for the stairs.

I climb the first three steps from the basement, but I pause and turn around to take a final glance at the scene of devastation in the now illuminated showroom. Suddenly, strangely, Pamela has stopped shouting; she seems almost suddenly calm, her mascara is streaked, her hair sexily ravaged, her eyes wide open and fixed on mine. I’m a little taken aback if I’m honest. If I didn't know any better, I’d say her glinting eyes are now almost mocking me. Her mouth, streaked with lipstick and fluids, is radiant, almost in a smirk, her bright white teeth a slim band of iridescent jewellery. She is on her elbows, looking straight at me, and she then scans around the showroom and at her desk.

I tear my eyes from her, unsettled, and view the now dishevelled kitchen showroom and displays. Utensils are scattered around the floor, the lighting is picking up the reflections of the fluids on the surfaces, and the floor is scattered with the debris of lust and underwear. In the gloomy, monochrome light around Pamela’s desk, only the green LED on her computer remains, like a beacon of normality amid the craziness of the past hour.

I try to smile to myself, but a sudden chill envelopes my consciousness, and a sense of unease begins to wash over me. Not of guilt or regret, but of something else. Dread? It’s something I can’t quite identify. 

I exhale and tear my eyes away from Pamela. I turn and slowly, silently climb the remaining steps toward the ground floor. It is now late evening, and the streetlights are lit, partially illuminating the darkness of the showroom. Just a flicker of a blue light rebounds on the tall Victorian ceilings, and all is eerily quiet and calm now. I can hear nothing from the basement, yet did I just hear Pamela say something?

I reach for the door latch and take one last look at my former place of work, where I was most proud, most happy. Where I was somebody.

I turn the latch to open the heavy door to walk out into the cold, blustery street. The wind bites into my face, and the familiar noise of the bustle of Wigmore Street assaults my ears. 

A blinding flash momentarily startles me. The flickering blue lights have now become an angry, flashing, insistent, and blinding acid blue light. I realise immediately that it is generated from the roof of a white car, which has just pulled up abruptly. I raise my hand to my eyes to shield them from the visual assault. I can just make out the lettering on the yellow and blue chequered side of the car, I spell it out to myself…

P. O. L. I. C. E.

PART FIVE

'So yeah, remember the tiny LED on Pamela’s Mac, you know, when I first went into the basement showroom? Fuck, I should have known, it’s an indicator for the internal camera on her computer. Well, that camera was recording and sending live video to whoever she was talking to earlier.

It turns out that person was James.

They duped me, they set me up. I’m such a fucking idiot. What have I done?

They obviously planned to get evidence to blackmail me or something, but when James saw how things were developing with Pamela, he spotted an even better way to get at me; he called the police.

So here I am, on sexual assault charges, in this cell. Whatever happens now, I have lost everything; my job with the German company will be the first thing to go. I’ll probably end up in jail too.

So, they got me. Both of them.

But you don't care, do you?