The Executive Floor -Short Story. (Redux)
Far too busy undoing his belt and pulling his trousers down around his ankles.
Then his underpants.
Pale blue with a dark waistband. It was obvious that a woman purchased the stylish garment for him as, judging by his appalling tie; he had no fashion sense at all.
His arse looked white and vulnerable and then he mumbled again.
I leaned over him, lips close to his ear.
‘Did you say something?’
His face was mashed against the desktop, thinning hair tousled and the tips of his ears were red.
Blushing from shame.
How very nice!
‘Don’t,’ he croaked.
‘You don’t mean that,’ I chuckled.
‘No. I do. Please…don’t…’
I folded the hem of his suit jacket back over his waist, revealing the bright orange lining. Another example of his terrible taste.
Of course, he was helpless. Both hands cuffed to the chain that was locked to the legs of his magnificent antique desk. The desktop had a green leather inlay with fine gold filigree edging.
Very swish, very expensive.
Although, stylistically wrong.
Out of place in the modernistic office on the top floor of the boring, gleaming steel and glass skyscraper that bore the name of his father.
I doubted if the fool would ever have anything named after him!
Still, nice desk.
He mumbled into the desktop again.
I smacked his bottom. The flesh of his arse felt warm and wobbly against the palm of my hand, even through the cream cotton gloves I wore.
‘Try to speak clearly, dear boy,’ I said as I prised his feet further apart with the toe of my shoe. Carefully, of course, not to scuff the toe of the shoe as I was wearing my favourite Roger Vivier heels. I had a small cocktail party to attend afterwards.
‘I’ve…I’ve changed my mind…’
‘Good for you,’ I said, removing his belt from his fallen trousers with a flourish.
‘N…no, I’m serious…’
‘So am I.’
I gripped the belt firmly and stepped back. It was important to maintain the correct distance between the target and yourself.
‘Please,’ he said, heading turning frantically as he tried to see me. ‘Please…no…’
Smiling, I surveyed his situation and looked around the office. It was, perhaps, the largest office I had ever seen with a framed oil painting of, I assumed, his father.
His father frowned down at us as if he was not impressed with the scene unfolding before his disapproving eyes.
There was a framed picture on the desk of a middle aged woman with fat, pursed cheeks – obviously, the wife – and she also appeared to disprove.
Vanilla all around.
‘I believe we settled on fifteen strokes of the belt?’ I asked, swinging the belt a few times, feeling the weight. The belt was italian, probably from Firenze.
‘No! Please…no…someone will come…’
‘I don’t care.’
‘They…they’ll see me…’
‘I’m afraid that’s the idea.’
‘But…but my reputation…’
‘…will be in tatters. Oh dear, how sad! Here we go.’
He yelped like a child when the first three strokes crisscrossed his bottom. The flesh rapidly turned pink and with several more strokes, blossomed into a satisfying scarlet.
Pausing to regain my breath, I listened to his blubbering whimpers as I carefully checked his penis.
‘Dicky is hard,’ I announced. ‘And you wanted to stop! Silly boy.’
‘Please,’ he blubbered, ‘no more…’
‘Seven more to go, dear boy. I’m afraid I am in a bit of a hurry. A friend of mine is showing her paintings at a gallery and I promised to be there.’
The next three were delivered in rapid, stinging succession.
I have a good arm.
Even in a designer cocktail dress.
My bracelets rattled a bit but I thought that added a rather nice texture to the rhythm of the belting.
However, I definitely did not want to ladder my hosiery so I kept back from his thrusting legs. The kicks were a little pathetic as his trousers and underwear effectively hobbled him.
‘Nearly finished,’ I called cheerfully as he whimpered and blubbered on his desk.
His arse was striped beautifully with red angry welts that he would feel during tomorrow’s board meeting.
Then, just as quickly as it begun, it finished.
I threw the belt onto the desk so it lay curled near his face and thrust my hand between his legs.
His small penis quivered in my hand and the moment I squeezed it, he ejaculated.
As he shuddered on the desk, I milked him effectively and then released him.
Peeling my wet gloves off, I dropped them onto the desk near his face.
‘You owe me another pair of gloves,’ I said as I unlocked his cuffs.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
Sheepishly, he stood up as I gathered my handbag.
‘Pull your trousers up, Morris,’ I scolded. ‘And who is your tailor, for god sakes?’
‘Ah…I have a man on Saville…’ he said, pulling his trousers up.
‘Get a new one. Who bought the underpants for you?’
‘Really? That surprises me. Enough chit chat, must run.’
‘I’ll…I’ll…ah, thank you, Carmenica. I really needed that…’
‘Obviously,’ I smirked.
He offered the envelope and I put it into my handbag. There was no need to count it.
‘Have you really retired, Carmenica?’
‘Afraid so, Morris. Don’t even live in London anymore. I just did you a favour. Look, must dash.’
‘Will you call me next time you come back?’ Morris asked plaintively as I moved to the door. The entire floor was deserted as it was almost 8:00PM.
‘If there is a next time. Bye.’
I hurried through the dark office. As I waited for the lift, I saw him standing by the desk and slowly putting my soiled gloves into the desk drawer.
The lift arrived and I quickly moved inside.
The lift doors closed on the executive floor.
First published 2009