Smoke twirls around the study like a dancer, mixing with the dark colors of book spines, conversing with the scent of old pages. In the corner of the room a record player spins out Russian jazz, a thick sound, full with hard consonants and endlessly stretching vowels, strident from the wail of the balalaika.
A woman stretches back in her armchair, clad in a rich smoking jacket the color of red wine. It's the end of the day; she's exhausted from her work. It's hard to be the breadwinner, but at least it makes her feel entitled to a nice cigar and some alone time at the end of the day. With every puff she takes she sinks further into the chair, her jacket coming loose, just barely revealing her black undergarments.
She's just about to put her feet up on the desk when she hears footsteps on the polished oak of the hallway. Her maid. A raw, exhilarating prospect wells within her from the mere sound of his heels.
"Finally decided to do your job, huh?" She gets out of her chair and crosses the room to meet him, nylon stockings gliding against the smooth wood.
"Yes ma'am," he says obediently. He's the same height as her, an inch taller from his shoes, but she carries every inch higher than he. Her maid slouches ever so slightly in her presence in a natural state of submission.
"Good, it's taken you long enough to get down here. Can't imagine doing the dishes would take that long." The image of her maid scrubbing plates with vigor, skirt bouncing with the effort of his movements, causes heat and energy to bubble within her.
"Yes, sorry ma'am, I'm here to dust your shelves now." His eyes can barely rise to meet hers, but if they did they would stun her, as they held an incredible power over her, like the airy pull of an impending storm.
She watches wordlessly as he fights to put on a show for her: toned, hairless calves shapely in his heels, the little grunts when he dusts the topmost shelves, the tent in his skirt glaringly obvious. Her mind reels with the need to take and have.
"Lower."
Her maid scrambles to dust the bottom shelves, knees cold on the wooden silk of the floor. He's on all fours, skirt riding up to reveal a pink thong.
She takes a fistful of his hair and pulls.
"Seems to me like you were born to be in this position." She slides her stocking-clad foot along the curve of his back, watching him shiver.
"Stupid slut," she muses. Her foot gently taps the bulge at the front of his skirt. "So hard for me, and all you're doing is dusting shelves."
He gasps, a sharp, narrow intake of breath that spurs her on.
"I wish you could see yourself right now," she begins. "Your tiny ass in the air for me, pathetic cock standing at attention in that little dress..."
He shakes visibly, struggling to hold back his whines.
"It's alright, slut. Go ahead and moan for me. It's not like you can humiliate yourself even more than you already are." She regards him with eyes narrowed and pupils dilated, feeling a rich sense of pride and delight at his suffering.
Her arm reels back like a pitcher's and slaps his ass with force, the sound of her hand meeting his skin sharp in the echoing chasm of the office.
She continues her abuse, his initial shout breaking into staccatoed whimpers as she breaks him. The repeated spanks make his ass glow an angry red, his soft pale skin warm under the smallness of her hand.
"Too hard for you, slut? I can't imagine it would be. You're such a fucking pain whore. You want it harder, don't you? You want bruises, baby? I'll give them to you. I'm going to make it hurt so bad you think of me every time you sit down."
The power of her own words thrills her, the confidence they bring make it easier for her to dominate him even more.
She teases him now, tracing his abused ass with her finger, slowly and gently, then withdraws her hand quickly as if to spank him again. She watches his body contract in anticipation of the blow, but it does not come, instead she continues to rub his ass with soft movements. Once he's used to the calm pleasure of it, she whacks him again, the hardest strike yet. Tears well in the corner of his eyes.
"Ma'am! Ma'am, it hurts!"
"That's the idea, you stupid slut. I guess all the blood in your brain went to your pathetic little dick instead." She swats at it and he whimpers in pain.
Her hand begins to work his balls, squeezing them tightly, roughly stroking his dick in the other.
"Do you wish you were rutting into the mattress instead, slave? Wish you were ruining those expensive panties I bought you with your sticky, useless come?"
He murmurs ever so slightly, not really an answer, just a bubbling sound from his throat. She spanks his ass savagely, ready to mount him with aggression. Her hand leaves his dripping cock to prod at his asshole.
"Jesus Christ, you've already worked yourself open for me, you've been waiting for this, haven't you, bitch? What were you doing, fingering yourself while you were doing the dishes? You're fucking disgusting."
He watches her stick two fingers in her mouth to wet them, and then shove them into his tight ass with no semblance of control, pumping her manicured red nails in and out of him with force.
"Doesn't that feel good, angel? Feeling my fingers in your ass, you dirty boy?"
"Yes, ma'am, fuck yes, I feel so full--"
"Excuse me, what did you just say?"
