The padded bench is cool against my knees, heels digging into my bottom. The occasional draught down here only serves to remind my dripping pussy that it's exposed beneath the ridiculous maid pinafore he dressed me in.

It's quiet. Suspiciously so. But he does this from time to time. Makes me wait. Lets me reflect. Anticipate.

My jaw aches and my bare breasts are peppered with saliva that drools from around the slender carbon fibre crop clamped between my teeth.

What am I doing? What is this?

Degrading is what it is. I'm a toy. A pet. Nothing but a plaything for his whims. And yet… that frisson of nervousness deep in my gut has been gradually spreading and consuming me since he went upstairs. Warming me, to the point I wish I could remove the ruffle, its ties dusting my cleavage with every rise and fall of my chest.

But of course I can't. Not because he said I can't, although that would normally be enough. But because my hands are tied in the small of my back. And not with rope or twine or a scarf or his belt that I've previously had the considerable pleasure of lashing my bottom.

No, that would be too easy.

He brought me down here. Stood me in the centre of his… basement he calls it, but sex dungeon would be more accurate, and walked around me. Complimented me on my choice of skirt. The maroon blouse with the scoop neckline. My push-up bra. The heels that accent my shapely calves.

Then he calmly told me to remove them all, item by item, slowly circling and making appreciative little noises like a CEO reading a favourable stock report.

When I was unclothed, he paused behind me. I resisted the temptation to flinch every time the air moved or he breathed out. But sometimes my body reacts to nothing because there's always something to take me by surprise. A brush. A flick. A touch. A spank. A pinch. A bite.

I shiver at the recollection of him just… existing behind me. Try to lap at the corners of my mouth, but only manage to dislodge more saliva that dangles and splatters onto my chest, slithering across the straps of the PVC harness that keeps my tits jutted forward.

The costume is ridiculous. Tawdry and yet somehow classy. He had it ready for me. Stroked my skin, trailing his fingertips all around me as he circled, leaving goosebumps in their wake, until he paused in front of me. Regarded me up and down as someone would a famous painting, finally sinking to kneel and gazing up at me, more like a deity.

Pooling the tiny skirt and pinafore at my feet, he encouraged me to step into it. The rustling garment felt somehow cheap as he slithered it slowly up my legs, but each inch made me more of a princess, his gaze unwavering on my naked pussy until it was obscured by the fabric.

He didn't stand immediately. Took his time. That’s the most maddening thing about him: the patience. He dressed me in the harness, tightening the buckles by my shoulder blades, ensuring my hair was brushed free first. It's the little things that undo me most, psychologically. His attention to detail. His care. It makes the outbursts of controlled violence all that more powerful.

After securing the ruffle, the bow silky against my throat, he stepped back. Circled me again and again. Adjusted this. Smoothed that. Made the CEO noises.

Then picked up my panties.

Unrolling them, he exposed the gusset, both of us focusing on the sticky circle of arousal that stained the turquoise material. He tutted and I coloured, cheeks flushing as he brought my scent to his face and nuzzled it. Inhaled, before rounding me.

The roughness of him yanking my arms behind my back was a shock compared with the tenderness up to that point, and I gasped. Bit my lip as he cinched the fabric around my wrists and tied them. Tight.

Silence.

Then his breath in my ear. “Are you going to be a good girl?”

I nodded.

“Excellent. This is your last chance to back out. Say the word and this ends right now. Otherwise…”

He left it hanging and I gulped before finishing the sentence, voice almost not mine. “I'm yours.”

I stopped short of adding, “Sir.” I don't know why, I just… haven't got there yet. It's difficult to explain. He's probably more than earned it, and he reminds me every so often but doesn't insist. Maybe one day.

No other words were spoken. They were unnecessary. I let him lead me to the bench in front of the St Andrew Cross. Let him kneel me on it like some priceless vase, adjusting me for the perfect angle, the perfect amount of thigh revealed beneath the frilly hem. I let him trail the crop up and down my leg, hip, tummy, breasts, and then position it widthways in my mouth.

“Bite.”

And here I am. A nobody housewife from the suburbs across town, loving husband putting the kids to bed, all of them oblivious that when I return I'll be marked, glowing, fulfilled and sore.

Tonight I'm: at a work do, so don't wait up. The lie came too easily and that's the problem. I need to get back this evening to maintain the cover story but I'm being made to wait. Stewing in my own juices, drowning in my thoughts of what’s going to happen.

Will he tie me to the cross and use the whip? Fuck that stings. I squirm. Drip. Last time he used it he only made two lashes. That was it. All the evening's anticipation for just two savage strokes. Diagonal. One administered from each side of my body, across my tits, forming a red X that took days to fade.

He even called me into his office and made me lift my blouse and bra to show him the marks while he just sat there like we were conducting some regular appraisal. Anyone could have walked in.

Two lashes, perfectly placed, before he’d eased the whip handle into one of my bound palms above my head, trailed his fingers down my arm, my side, around my hip and dug them up inside me as I wriggled and twisted and begged to cum.

He didn't let me. Brought me to the edge, time and time again, until the heat almost tore me apart. The bastard merely untied me and sent me home a soaked, horny, frustrated mess, forbidding me from cumming.

And I'd listened. Obeyed.

Sleep was fractured and I swear I was still dripping as I snuck out of bed and dressed for work in the bathroom to avoid questions. The welts were obvious and there would be no satisfactory explanation. I had to ride it out. Buttoning up the blouse, I winced as the floaty fabric dusted the marks, each brush a reminder that swirled and warmed me.

I was his.

Yes my heart belonged to my husband; but my body, my sex, my very essence was Leon's.

Why did I do it? What was I missing? Sex with André was fine. Loving. Tender. Everything it should be. He worshipped me. Made me breakfast in bed. We went on walks hand in hand. Watched the occasional sunset on date night while Marie looked after the kids. It was idyllic. Perfect.

And yet… sometimes I didn't crave perfection. Sometimes I wanted raw, animalistic, crazed fucking. To have my hair pulled, my bottom spanked. To be called a filthy slut as he squeezed my throat and filled me with cum, collapsing into a sweaty heap on the hotel floor, hearts pounding, alive.

I must be broken. No sane human would stand in some else's office, their tits exposed while the guy who whipped them barely paid me attention.

He glanced up from the laptop, expression warm, unlike when he gets that glint in them. When I know I'm in for it.

“Don't just stand there, Bethany. Cum. Or… do you want to wait longer?”

“What?”

“Cum.”

“Now?!”

I swallowed. Wondered how he did it. This magic that somehow made me drip within moments of him issuing a command. I've spearheaded multi-million pound deals and dealt with crabby executives in stuffy board rooms, yet one word from Leon reduces me to a soggy-pantied jumble of need.

He tilted his head. “I have a meeting in ten minutes so you'd better hurry.”

I stared. Barely believed my hand obeyed. While one kept my tits exposed, the other scrabbled to hitch up the pencil skirt and dug into my knickers. I was wet and I gasped at the contact. Slithered one, then two fingers inside and began fucking myself, obscene squelches proving how much I needed it.

My palm scuffed my clit and I ground it a little, jaw dropping. Then harder, snapping my mouth shut and drawing in air through gritted teeth. Masturbating was one thing when alone. But being watched? Doing it for him? In his unlocked office? In the middle of the day? Off the charts wetness.

The familiar hum of orgasm began to build, starting where my fingers dove. I slipped them free and scissored them either side of my nub, desperate for the pleasure to swamp me. Heat radiated, no, Mr Evans from my Physics classes would correct me: heat travels via conduction through a solid. It spread outward, prickling my abdomen and soft gasps pinged off the office walls.

“Wait.”

I froze. “What?”

“Spank yourself.”

“WHAT?!”

“You heard.”

I stared again. Realised he was serious and plucked my wet fingers free. Raised my palm behind me and landed a splat on my underwear, conscious that the office wasn't soundproof.

A smile spread on his chiselled features. “What good is that if I can't see?”

Was he for real? Jesus.

Sighing, I turned around, tugged the flimsy garment to my knees, bent forward and issued another flat-handed stroke to my behind. The crack was louder than I expected and I blinked as the warmth connected with the glow from masturbation.

“Again.”

I knew better than to question. Heat from the embarrassment spiralled South from my face to merge with the blush beneath my handprints. Lifting my palm to show intent, I brought it down hard and whimpered as the pain raced through.

“Good girl. Now cum.”

I didn't need telling twice. Whipped my hand from my bum to between my legs, gyrating my rear towards him as I plunged two fingers in and crushed my clit hard.

After a handful of thrusts, the climax rose swiftly. Rumbled. Spilled, and I trembled in front of him, muted sighs echoing and gradually fading to mimic the ebb of orgasm.

Restoring my modesty, I turned to him, a little disheveled and red-faced. He beckoned with one finger and I stepped forward as confidently as I could muster. Leaned over his desk to provide him a deep show of cleavage.

His hand rocketed out to cover mine and he grabbed it, lifted it and brought it to his face. Opening his mouth, he fed my fingers in and sucked the juices clean; a slow, deliberate act that did nothing to stem the mess in my panties.

With a smouldering look, he dismissed me and I reached the door handle just as Trent did from the other side. I let him pass before scurrying out to the sanctity of my own office, praying the scent I left behind wasn't strong enough to detect.

A draught from the old coal chute across the basement tugs me from the reverie. The memory has brought fresh wetness and I know there's a puddle forming on the padding between my splayed thighs. Of course I can't wipe it up. It's no doubt what he wants anyway. That knowledge I'm his, and I need him to know as much as I need release.

It's fucked up. I know I could end it. Know I should end it. It's not fair on André. But the rush, my God the rush. The sting of the crop—the same one held tight between my teeth—is branded into my memory long after the marks on my bottom fade.

His words, his encouragement to push me beyond any level of pain and twist it into desire and longing and begging is like a drug I can't escape. And the sheer gravity of his hugs afterwards are beyond measure. When he wipes my tears with his thumb and tells me how beautiful I am. When he holds me, cradles me and strokes dark locks of plastered hair from my forehead and whispers how I complete him. It both undoes and rebuilds me.

How did I fall from prim housewife to painslut so easily? I'm just an ordinary girl and he's just… someone from work. Someone who caught my eye because of the way he looked at me. Something, I don't know, dangerous yet alluring in his mannerisms.

There were conversations by the water cooler about nothing much. The latest merger or acquisition. The state of the economy. How Jake and Larissa made a cute couple. Innocent stuff. It wasn't the words that grabbed me, it was his delivery. Calm. Measured. Precise. Always attentive.

It was also the way he occasionally came up behind me in the small kitchen, placed his hands on my shoulders and moved me to one side so he could reach into the overhead cupboard for the coffee. Holding onto me a fraction longer than he should. Exuding control. It made me shiver.

Perhaps the start was when he moved me that one time and I resisted. Stood my ground and threw him a cheeky grin over my shoulder before acceding. He'd paused. Raised an eyebrow. “Coming between man and coffee? I ought to put you over my knee.”

I guess blushing and averting my gaze wasn't the wisest course of action. Because soon the talk wasn't just about work but personal life too. What human traits I admire (integrity) or loathe (arrogance). What I got up to in my spare time. Whether I'd like to accompany him to a sales convention. Whether I'd like to have him bite my neck and fuck me against the back of the hotel door before our clothes even came off.

Well, okay, the last one kind of happened organically; we didn't talk about it. Not until after, while we lounged naked on the bed, the stench of sex fighting the smell of room service as he pinched and twisted my nipples with one hand and made me cum, again, with the other.

Fuck, he's addictive.

My needs might have deeper roots. I mean, I couldn't even have proper sex dreams. Prior to Leon, the last one I had was about George Clooney who rocked up at my house, took his shirt off and re-grouted the bathroom. That was all he did, and I was screaming at myself to seduce him. Maybe I decided I was a lost cause and the universe heard my calling. Delivered me Leon. I haven't had a bad sex dream since.

I have no idea what he'll do with me today. The uniform is new. Usually I'm naked. Maybe role play? Perhaps I'm meant to have dusted his office or cleaned up and missed a spot so he'll punish me. That's how these things work, right? It's new territory for me.

How would he punish me? Presumably the crop, otherwise why give it to me? It must have…

The door latch clicks and my whirling thoughts screech to a halt. I'm not even sure why I stop breathing until I exhale loudly, his footsteps measured and steady on the wooden rungs. He's all in black. Jeans. Polo shirt. But barefoot and he pads across the linoleum. Appraises me. Strokes my cheek.

“Good girl. Thank you for waiting.”

“M’shokay,” I manage.

“I trust you were comfortable enough?” I nod. I have pins and needles in my legs, but compared to some days, this is The Ritz.

He holds out his hand and helps me off the bench. I'm unsteady like a newborn deer but he supports me until the feeling returns to my feet. Then steps away.

“Have you been having naughty thoughts? The bench is soaked.”

I nod. He scoops up a fingertip full of my wayward juices and brings them to my lips. “Tongue out.”

With some effort, I push my tongue past the crop body without dislodging it, and he paints juices on me. I swallow. I'm sweet. Needy.

“Do you like wearing this outfit?” I give a gentle nod. “It's very fetching. I especially like how it shows off your…” Sliding both hands up my body, he cups me. “Amazing tits.”

He squeezes them and I moan. “Shhh,” he warns and slaps one.

“Mmmm…oww.”

He slaps the other, harder. “Hush.”

I somehow swallow my outburst.

*That's better. We're going to play a little game.”

I squirm, stomach churning at thoughts of what it might be.

“We're going to pretend you've not been as virtuous as you look. You've stolen from me, see? Something precious. And I'm afraid you need to be punished.”

My heart flutters, pulse ratcheting.

“Yes. I think the only thing is to teach you a lesson. A spanking. Turn around.”

I shuffle in a semicircle to face the bench smeared with my arousal, hands still secured in the small of my back.

“Bend over a little.”

With suddenly pounding heart, I do as he asks. The skirt rides up to reveal my bottom to him.

“That's perfect. Mmm you're so beautiful. It pains me to do this, so there's a catch.”

Uh-oh. There it is. The unpredictability that jolts both my nerves and excitement. I breathe hard through my nose.

“Don't let go of the crop. Or I'll use it. And I won't be gentle.”

As I'm processing what he said, a spank lands. And it's not a common or garden tap. Not even like the one I gave myself in his office. No, this is a bona fide fierce slap that echoes around the basement and I almost lose my grip on the crop, fumbling it between my lips and catching it again, biting hard to stem the pain.

I hiss and he rubs to soothe the strike point. Pays attention to the warmth. Pulls away.

Time stretches. I sway, mainly to invite the cooler air to caress the glow. Flinch a few times in response to the swish of his clothes and when I expect his hand to make contact. It doesn't and I relax. That's when he strikes.

“Owwww…hhhuck.”

Heat tears through my rear. My pussy leaks. Leon notices and taps my inner thigh. I obediently spread my feet apart so he can slide his hand between my legs, coating his palm with juices. The sound of him licking it clean behind me has me wetter.

He gingerly pats my pussy. Rolls his hand up to take in the curve of my rump. Pulls back. I tense.

Nothing. I release and tense again quickly to catch him out, but he does nothing. Then, just as I'm about to relax, he lands a harsh spank on the opposite cheek.

I cry out from around the crop. Bite it hard and concentrate on anything but the throb. He steps around me and, the moment before he reaches under to grab my tits and twist them, I spy his jeans tented in the dim light. So hot that he's turned on. I crave his dick, but don't have to time to dwell on it before the pain of him tweaking my nipples registers.

“Ohhhh.” It's more a sustained exhalation.

Letting go, his absence takes a while to fade, mingling heat unsure which path to take through my body.

He walks around me. Strokes my back. Trails his hand all the way to what I assume is now my very pink bottom and issues an immediate spank.

I thrash my head. Almost snap the crop in two with my teeth. “Hssshhh.” My hiss comes from nowhere. Another spank lands and I lower my head. Jesus, that one stings.

Tensing my frame, he launches a volley of slaps until I'm quite sure I won't be able to sit. Maybe that's the point. So he can revel in my discomfort tomorrow at work.

Despite the heat, despite the pain, my pussy drips and he slithers his palm in to collect my arousal and smear it over my reddened buttocks. I groan. Doubly when he stops and crosses the room.

When he returns, he slides the rectangular freestanding mirror between my feet and pushes it forward. “Perhaps you'd like to see the emerging beautiful slut too? Watch her transform. Soar.”

God I'm a state. My eyes are wild. Drool hangs from my chin and splatters the mirror surface. My bare pussy is soaked, and will probably follow suit any moment. He instructed me to shave completely for the occasion, and now I know why.

“See that? See how free you are?”

I nod. Saliva hits the mirror.

“Now watch.”

I take a deep breath. Tense my bum. Wait.

Wait.

Wait some more.

Breathe out.

Wait, focusing on the glimpse of his legs I can see reflected beyond mine. Anything for a hint of when to expect the next strike.

Nothing. Just abject need corkscrewing inside me. The anticipation of the evening building and buildi…

CRACK!

“Nnngggg.”

CRACK!

“Hhuuccckkk.”

CRACK!

One cheek smarts red and he switches to the other. Pauses to swab both with his palm that he slicks once more with my duplicitous juices, a temporary respite from the heat.

Tears well and I blink them away to splash onto the mirror. I take in my form. He's right, I am free. Somehow. Bound and punished, heart racing, I have surrendered and it's the most liberating experience. No pressures. No concerns. Everything forgotten except the singular moments as the throb follows each spank and dissipates.

He picks up speed and I wail through the crop handle. Then he slows. Slows. Soothes and I snort through my blocked nose. Dip my head.

I sense the end, which tears me in two. Part of me can't wait for the pain to subside, the other part wants it to go on forever.

He rubs my bottom. “Bethany, Bethany, Bethany. What am I to do with you? You come into my life at this time. This crossroads. When I'm reeling from my failed marriage, and you...”

He launches a colossal spank. “Steal.”

Another stroke. “My.”

I cry out as the next lands. “Fucking.”

There's a pause. I snivel. Drip; mouth and pussy.

Through gritted teeth, he hisses. “Heart.”

I'm not sure if it's his words or the fact the final slap lands squarely between my legs, up against my sodden cunt, but tears spring from my eyes and I gasp.

Too late to stop it.

Almost in slow motion, the crop tumbles from my mouth and clatters onto the mirror surface, bouncing once and rolling to a stop diagonally between my feet.

My bottom throbs. My pussy smarts. I can't stop sobbing. Not from pain, but from sheer emotional release. And I haven't even cum.

He slides his arms around me and pulls me upright. Unties my panties and half turns me to cradle against his chest as I shake and paw his polo top. He strokes my hair and whispers, “I love you.”

The tears flow harder. “Leon,” I sob. “Don't, I can't… you know I can't.” 

“Shhh, I know. But let's pretend things are different. For today.”

We barely move. His chest beats hard against my damp cheek. I'm safe. Somehow I'm safe in his arms. Everything else glows or burns, but it doesn't matter. What matters is this moment. This lifting of burdens. Of not lying about who I really am. Of risking it all in the pursuit of pleasure and understanding and raw energy that can't be caged much longer.

As my sobs lessen, we gradually part and he lifts my chin. Kisses me with such tenderness I want to burst.

“Come on. Let's get you upstairs. I need you to cum for me.”

I manage a weak smile. “I'm certainly not going to argue with that.”

“Good." He smiles. "And then,” he stoops to pick up the crop, “well, rules are rules.”