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What a Slut Needs - Ch. 2

Her first day in the office...with Him.
"Good morning, Ms. Miller," he smiles.

It's her first time in his office. Tui, his secretary, had summoned her.

"Good morning, Mr. Carrasco," she beams, determined not to let what happened to her yesterday ever happen again. If Tui can work with him without swooning, then so can she.

"Have a seat," he says, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "How are you this morning?"

"I'm well. And you?"

"Just fine, thank you."

His blue eyes seize her just as they did when he took her hand before the staff meeting. She feels herself slipping again already, but then fortunately gets a reprieve when he looks away for a moment to gather some papers on his desk.

Furtively, she scans the many plaques and mementos on the wall behind him. He's clearly an accomplished man, but one photo instantly clenches her cunt. It's one of him standing in riding clothes, smiling next to a saddle horse...one hand at the bridle, his other holding a riding crop at his side. "So he's a horseman," she muses to herself just as he interrupts.

"Ah, here we go. I have a few things I would like to get your input on," he begins. "I understand you've been here for a number of years and know just about everyone, and everything."

Looking down, she blushes at his compliment, lets out a soft 'thank you', then adds, "I've been here two years, and previously worked in the Philadelphia office for nearly five. Though I'm sure I don't know everything, I will do whatever I can to serve all your needs."

Her skirt is riding up on her crossed legs higher than usual. She wonders if he knows what effect he's having on her. How damp her knickers have already become? How deep the itch is in her cunt?

"Good, that's all I could expect," he responds with professional detachment...giving no sign that he picked up on her clumsy double entendre.

His questions are concise. She answers them just as concisely, elaborating when he asks. He has a quick and absorbent mind, that much is clear. No beating around the bush, no hidden agenda, no idle chit-chat nor the aimless meandering she often got from his predecessor.

From time to time he shifts in his chair and she pictures his Masterly cock and balls shifting with him. He's a large man, but trim, with a matador's grace. The kind of man all women, especially sluts, swoon over.

When he's done with his questions, he asks if she has any for him.

"I don't...Sir," she lies. "Not at the moment."

In truth she'd love to ask, even beg, to be his slave, have him use her like a whore right here across his desk. Instead, she savors the word "Sir" fluttering past her lips...and fancifully imagines that tiny seed of her submissiveness wafting into his brain.

"Is there a Mr. Miller?" he asks, still looking into her eyes.

"No Sir," she replies, trying to hide her elation that he would ask such a question...and her sadness that the meeting has now come to an end. She hesitates as the idea of throwing herself at him enters her mind, then quickly fades. "I've done it!" she thinks. "Made it through a meeting with him without completely dissolving into my knickers. Better to let it go at that."

Back at her desk, she's asking herself, "Did he pick up my hint? He's so focused on his work, does he ever think about anything else?" In her soul she knows he must. She also knows that beneath all that professionalism is the Master of her dreams. He just has to be. No one could be that sexy without having all the sluts he wants.

"That must be it," she concludes. "He has a dungeon full. All of them slaves to his commanding voice and his to-die-for cock."

While her knickers were not completely soaked in his office, they are now. She needs to get to the ladies room. And get is what she does. Past Tui and past the others, she makes her way quickly, praying she'll get there before it shows through.

One stall is taken, the other is not. In she goes in a rush, relieved she made it in time; tries to dry her knickers with toilet tissue but discovers the futility of that. Then, being mindful of the person in the adjacent stall, she carefully takes them off, hangs them on the hook in the hope they'll dry more quickly. And sits dejectedly for a pee, her clit throbbing beneath her.

"Jesus, what he does to me," she thinks to herself. "How can I go on like this?"

When the other person flushes and moves out to wash her hands, she sees through the gap along the door that it's Marcy. Of all people she's the last one she would want to know of her plight. It would be all over the office. A bit of a slut herself, Marcy is also a bitch, the kind she wants nowhere near her new Master. The thought of her with him is unbearable, deepens her longing. Oh if he were only here now, how she would surrender to him, beg him to bind her, use her, give her the lashing she craves. By the time Marcy leaves, her pussy is dripping into the toilet.

"Master, my Master," she whispers, her finger lightly grazing her clit to tease herself. She imagines him pulling her head back by the hair, gritting in her ear, "You think I don't know what you are? I know a slut at first glance." His voice shivers down her spine, his words gush in her cunt. Impeccably dressed in a smart suit and tie, he's all business, totally in control, totally irresistible. She spreads herself on the toilet seat, imagines offering her clit to his finger, though it's hers that actually wriggles on the slimy nub.

"You need to be taught a lesson, little slut. Openly tempting me in my office like that."

"Yes, Master, discipline your slut," she calls to the sterile room, her pussy filthy with lust. Her own aroma fills her nostrils, she's a slut in heat, beholden now to his every whim.

Forcing her finger to her mouth, he makes her lick her own juices while he scolds, "You're a dirty whore, aren't you!"

"Yes Master...only for you."

Then snap! His crop stings her inner thigh. That first, imagined sting from her new Master is so sweet, and so expert. He knows her already, knows exactly what she needs.

"Is there a Mr. Miller?" repeats in her head. She realizes he couldn't have cared less what her answer was. He only wanted to see her reaction. That was more telling than her lame double entendre.

"You're going to obey, aren't you, little slut?"

"Yes-s-s-s," she concedes, delighted to hear him call her that.

"Yes, Master," he corrects.

And she quickly apologizes, "Yes Master. Of course. I'm so sorry."

With her hair twisted in his grip, he flicks closer to her open cunt. "Beg for my crop, little slut. It's what you need."

"It is, Master, please give it to me, hard!"

The snaps come harder and ever closer to her dripping cunt.

"Spread wider, show me you need more."

Eagerly she spreads, relishes the stings flooding her senses, imagines her finger is his as it molests her clit. "Oh Master, please. Punish your whore."

His crop pauses to pat at the edge of her pussy, as if measuring its mark. Then onto the outer lips.

"Ooh, ooh," she mewls, her arousal rising even higher.

"I require my sluts to have tight cunts and full pussy lips," he declares, "and nasty but obedient clits."

She closes her eyes, basks in his words. His smile in the photo haunts her. That crop too, the spoon now caressing her clit while he soothes, "My little slut craves pain, doesn't she?"

"Yes, Master, please..." she begs softly.

Towering over her, he flicks his crop directly on her clit with precision and just the right force. His once professional detachment becomes professorial; she becomes his student.

"You have many things to learn," he says sternly, "the first being that you must obey your Master without fail."

"Yes, Sir," she replies, gasping with each flick.

"And you may cum only when told to do so."

Suddenly hearing footsteps coming down the hall, she squeaks a frantic "Yessir", wishing he would hurry up.

Instead, sensing her anxiety, he slows the pace, pats and teases. "Oh fuck", she moans as he toys with her. "Please hurry, Master, please." 

But as the footsteps come closer and closer, he only chuckles, "No slut shall ever have control."

Then his flutter of feathery snaps to her clit overwhelms her. Oh that smile, those eyes, that wicked, wicked crop. She holds on...holds on...trying not to cum. Until...

His grip tightens her hair to her scalp; his voice echoes deep in her cunt.

"CUM," he commands.

And a sudden, raspy, orgasmic screech escapes her throat. Her eyes roll up, she shudders, "Ooh-o-o-ooh," just as the ladies room door opens, and a pair of unfamiliar heels come clopping on the tile floor and into the adjacent stall.

"Holy god almighty," she thinks, dizzy and still shaking, "How can I go on like this?"

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.


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