One Hour With Sir (Ch. 01)
soppingwetpanties
This story literally flowed off the keyboard and onto this page. I hope you like it.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.
* * *
Midtown Manhattan, West 59
th
Street
Friday, 9:00 p.m.
I'm your average, run of the mill female partner in a testosterone fueled big case litigation firm. I'm being facetious of course, because making partner in a law firm as a woman is particularly challenging in my field, where jury awards can routinely run in the tens of millions of dollars. I parlayed my Ivy League law school degree into an associate position in a well known Midtown law firm, and worked insanely long hours, sacrificing my social life in the process, for the coveted brass ring.
I was running lead on the defense of a multi-million dollar products liability claim, the result of a relationship I cultivated with general counsel to a mega-insurance company. The coordination of the case took every ounce of my energy and every available minute of my day -- that is except between 10 and 11 p.m. on Fridays. That's the one hour that is involuble. That hour belongs to Sir.
I'm in charge of my life and spend most of it moving expensive chess pieces for multi-national corporations, but for this one hour I make no decisions and think about nothing but pleasing Him. Most of what I do for him is sexual in nature, but some tasks I performed were as simple as fixing Him a perfect cup of coffee.
I'm sure you're wondering why I do this. I could give you the history of my childhood, including profiles on my parents, but that would be a waste of time. I do it because I love it. For the same reason that at age 38 I'm still unmarried and spend almost every waking hour as a top flight litigator. Because I love it. It's as simple as that.
I'm getting ready for Him now. Shaving all of my body hair. Cleaning myself thoroughly, including an enema. I want to please Him in any way He wishes to take me. As I wash myself, I carefully work the area around my nipple rings -- small golden hoops that Sir gave me for our third anniversary together. Then my hand runs down my left leg, to the small tattoo on the inside of my left ankle, an infinity symbol. Another gift from Sir as a sign that we'll always be together.
In some ways this part of the routine is the most pleasurable, knowing that within an hour I'll be on my knees in front of Him. The anticipation is every bit as delicious as the session itself.
* * *
Midtown Manhattan, West 59
th
Street
Friday, 9:40 p.m.
I'm checking my make-up one last time. It's the one adornment Sir allows me to wear. My chestnut brown hair is plaited in the back, reaching down just past my shoulders. My white linen blouse and black pencil skirt are still on hangers with the dry cleaners' plastic still covering them. I roll up my nude silk stockings, the old fashioned kind with the seam in the back, and attach them to my white garter belt. I'm not permitted to wear a bra or panties.
I put on my blouse and skirt, careful not to wrinkle either garment, and then slip on my black pumps with four inch heels. As the final step, I open my jewelry box and take out a diamond studded collar, a gift from Sir when I pledged myself to Him. I glance in the full length mirror in my walk-in closet and am pleased with what I see. Slender build with muscle tone that reflects my three times a week workouts with my personal trainer, "B" cup breasts, and a curvy line from my hips down to my legs, accentuated by the lift from my heels. I throw on my Burberry raincoat, not because it's cold outside, but to cover me from prying eyes.
I exit my bedroom and walk into the large common area of my penthouse apartment. It's dark in there, which allows me an unimpeded view of Central Park from the fortieth floor. I can see the taxis below, jockeying for lane position on 59
th
Street, and the shadowy figures of people taking a late night stroll through the park. Out there, to the north and east of the park, is Sir's brownstone on the Upper East Side. Goosebumps rise on my skin at the mere thought of Sir, and my personal place of worship.
I drink in one last look of the view, then pick up the bag of freshly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, my tribute to Sir, which I deliver without fail at the beginning of each session. It's Sir's weakness, one of the few that I'm aware of, and one that He allows me to exploit.
The building elevator opens in my apartment. I push the call button and wait impatiently for the elevator cab to arrive. Now my adrenaline is starting to pump in my body as I know moments from now I'll be in His presence. I never know what he has planned for me, and not knowing only adds to the excitement.
The elevator door opens, and the dark, wood paneled cab is empty and quiet, but for the gentle whirring of its ventilation fan. I push the button for the ground floor, and thankfully the elevator doesn't stop until it reaches the bottom.
I step out of the elevator into the building's expansive lobby, a large cut glass chandelier and a gorgeous floral arrangement on a round stone table beneath it dominating the center of it.
"Good evening Miss Martin-DuPont," the uniformed night attendant greets me.
No one ever calls me that. I'm Catherine to my business colleagues and Cat to my friends. I like the sound of my last name. It sounds regal, which belies my middle class upbringing by my second generation French parents.
"Good evening Charles," I reply. Charles is one of the regulars, having worked for this building's management for the five years of my tenancy, and is a good looking man, married with two young children. "How's Maddie and Frankie doing?" I ask out of both politeness and curiosity.
"If you have a moment...". He pulls his phone out and quickly finds a picture he wants to show me. Maddie is the older girl, looking to be about eight, and Frankie is the younger girl, not more than five. They're adorable and he knows it.
"Must get it from their mother," I tell him.
He laughs. "Have a good evening Miss," he replies, using his white gloved hand to open the door for me. I can sense his eyes watching me as I walk through.
I step out to the sidewalk. There's a few people walking past, paying no mind to me. The traffic on 59
th
is heavy, not surprising for a Friday night. There's a black limo idling by the curb. It's Sir's car, and Norman, his regular driver, is standing on the sidewalk with his hand on the handle of the open rear passenger door.
"Good evening Cat."
I get into the back seat, carefully gathering my coat and skirt underneath me before I sit in the spacious rear cabin. The black leather bench seat is slippery, and I have to catch myself before I slide forward. There's a cut crystal glass on a small pull down table that holds two fingers of a fifteen year old Scotch, neat.
Norman comes around the car to the driver's side and gets in. I watch the people walking by through the heavily tinted windows. I let my coat fall open, knowing the folks outside can't see me, though Norman can in the rear view mirror. He's probably in his 50's, hair graying on his temples. He's ruggedly handsome, tall, lean and muscular. I shift in my seat so I can see him in the rear view mirror, and my eyes meet his. He's looking at my breasts, prominent in my sheer white linen blouse, and his extended gaze makes me wetter.
"Ready to go Miss?"
I fasten my seatbelt. "Yes Norman," I answer. I take a draw of the scotch. The smooth, mellow burn calms my nerves. I lean back in the seat, my eyes focused outside, watching the cars and people passing my window and dreaming about what Sir has in store for me.
* * *
Upper East Side, East 84
th
Street
Friday, 9:58 p.m.
The car slows to a stop in front of Sir's brownstone, a three story affair on a private tree lined street. My heart is racing as Norman exits the car to open the door for me. I get out, pulling the flaps of my coat together even though there's no one on the street to see me. I have the bag of cookies in one hand and Norman's hand in the other as he helps me up the stairs, us both being mindful of my stiletto heels on the narrow treads of the aging concrete.
"Have a good evening Miss," Norman tells me as he lets go of my hand and pushes the doorbell for me. He returns to the car and an instant later is gone.
I stand at the door, a wooden door with a large glass inset, and look through it under the illumination of the porch light. Moments later a woman opens the door for me. I don't recognize her. She's wearing a trench coat similar to mine, and I can see a fancy leather collar around her neck. She must belong to Sir as well. I suspect she's not wearing anything underneath her coat, as she answers the door in her bare feet. She's young, much younger than me, my guess is mid-20's. She's demure, a narrow face and nose framed by shoulder length blonde hair. We make eye contact for a moment, but then her eyes drop lower.
"Sir is waiting for you," she announces, holding the door open for me to enter.
I thank her and follow her up the stairs. We pass Sir's study on the left, with the lingering scent of cigar smoke, before arriving at his "playroom" on the right. The usually locked door is open. The woman lets her coat drop to the ground before she enters, revealing smooth pale white skin and a lithe body, almost waifish. I do the same, letting my coat drop on top of hers. Wordlessly, she goes to the far corner of the room, kneeling on the dark hardwood floor, in her "present" position. I kneel next to her, still fully clothed, with the bag of cookies sitting next to me.
* * *
Sir's Playroom
10:02 p.m.
My eyes are trained on the doorway. My heart flutters when I see Sir confidently stride in, holding a snifter of brandy and wearing a silk brocade robe. He's tall, well over six foot, dark wavy hair, a pleasant face with a two day growth of beard, broad shoulders and muscular arms. His brooding eyes flick over to me to acknowledge my presence.
"Good evening Cat," He says to me in a deep voice.
A shiver goes up my spine. I'm used to standing in front of judges and juries in a packed courtroom, but the mere utterance of my name by Him makes me tongue tied. I gather my wits.
"Good evening Sir."
