He almost didn't notice the box. It was plain--black matte, no label. Tucked in with his interoffice mail like it belonged there. The red tissue paper gave it away. A signature, of sorts. He locked his office door before opening it.
Inside, nestled like a threat dressed as a gift, was a cock ring. Smooth black silicone. Two rings. One for his cock and one for his balls. Sleek. Flexible. And the pad at the base was clearly remote-controlled.
Beneath it: a folded piece of heavy cardstock, her handwriting sharp and deliberate.
You'll wear it for the rest of the day.
You'll think of me every time you shift in your chair. Every time you want. Every time you don't.
I'll know if you take it off.
Yes, it's remote-controlled.
No, you don't get to ask when.
Do your job.
Don't come.
You come when I say you can.
--Mistress Juliet
His hands shook. He was already hard. He slid off his chair, checked the lock again, then unzipped. The air felt sharp against his skin. Everything in him buzzed.
He eased it on, slow and careful. First the large ring around his balls and the smaller one tight around the base of his cock. The pressure was immediate. Firm. Present. Her.
By the time he sat back down, he was sweating. His computer pinged.
CONF ROOM 3 -- Simmons brief. Witness is here. 10 minutes.
His mouth went dry. He adjusted himself and stood, every movement now mapped against the silent pulse between his legs. He smoothed his suit. Picked up the filewand walked out the door.
Every step whispered the same truth:
She owns you.
And she's watching.
The witness was sweating. So was he, but for entirely different reasons.
