The Luckiest Man In London

A lot of luck goes into every situation. The odds of meeting the people you interact with in your life are actually close to zero. All their parents needed to do was turn down a different street, and you would never have met your best friend.

Which is why having Rachel lying across my bed, her wrists bound to the bedposts by two silk scarves, a red handprint already printed on her perfect arse, makes me such a lucky guy.

A chocolate bar wrapper sits on the pillow in front of her. I'll get to that later.

I didn't even know Rachel that well for the first six months of my job. She works in the accounts department, and I only ever visit if I am dropping off receipts, or querying an invoice.

I certainly noticed her though. She has blonde hair down to her shoulders, blue eyes which draw you in every time, and an a body designed for modelling swimwear rather than working in an office. I know I've mentioned this already, but she really does have an the most amazing ass. She usually wears suit trousers rather than a skirt, and it looks like two scoops of ice cream wrapped up like a Christmas present.

We got to know each other slowly. She started smiling when she saw me, and as I am sure most guys would agree, that is all you need to get someone in your head. I was singly back then, and I'd say about three out of every five of my masturbation fantasies involved that blonde head bobbing back and forth around my cock.

And other stuff. But we'll get to that later.

The Christmas party provided the perfect opportunity to expand our relationship. We went to a bar for pizzas and cocktails, and Rachel ended up on the table next to me. Our table was fun, with Steve and Rosie from HR, always up for a laugh and drink. We were on our third margarita when some tables were finishing their first.

My luck was in again. Both Steve and Rosie have kids, and excused themselves halfway through to the night. Rachel and I were tipsy by this point, and we chatted and laughed about work related stuff, then onto more personal things.

People started to get their coats and leave about eleven, and Rachel asked me if I wanted to stay for one more drink. Our hands were locked together by half eleven, by twelve we were in a taxi back to her house, tongues down each other's throats.

Rachel turned out to be a demon in the bedroom. There was no causal drink on the sofa with a bit of fondling and snogging. We were straight into her bedroom, our clothes on the floor in minutes.

I've had one night stands before, and they are usually a drunken missionary affair in darkness that ends which thanks to alcohol end without ejaculation. But Rachel did something novel for this kind of encounter. She hopped naked onto the bed on all fours, and lifted up her bum to reveal a gleaming wet pussy.

'Please fuck me,' she says.

I told you I was a lucky guy.

Soon I'm pounding her from behind, and I considered that the closest physical encounter we've had up until this point is when our fingers have brushed when passing her a piece of paper. Before this evening our longest conversation has been tax software. Now our sweat mingled together on each other's bodies, and with every thrust she let out a moaning squeak that nearly makes me explode.

Which I did eventually. After she climaxed around me for the second time I couldn't help myself, and shot a huge burning load deep inside her.

We collapsed in a panting heap, bodies wrapped around each other, the air steaming with exercise and musk.

And again, for most of the sexual encounters of my life, that would be the end of the night. But we had drunk a lot of tequila, and and I couldn't help but think about something. When Rachel climaxed for the second time, she screamed something into her pillow, which sounded like

'Thank you master.'

And I'm certain that what's made me tip over again.

We dozed, but then after a while, she turned that perfect ass towards me once again, and seemed to me to wiggling it back and forth. The alcohol convinced me to give those cheeks an experiment slap.

The noise rung out with a meaty thwack across her bedroom, and I knew I may have gone too far.

Rachel turned to me, a look of shock on her face. Then it turned into a smile.

'You can do that again if you want,' she said.

By the time the clock hit two thirty she was bent over my lap, crying out louder than she ever did during our session.

Outside of work she hasn't referred to me of anything apart from Master ever since.

I won't bore you with all of the details of our relationship. We are two kindred spirits. Sometimes we just have marathon sex sessions with nothing kinky apart from the volume. Sometimes we watch a movie and eat Chinese. Mostly however, we spend our time working on the other side of our relationship.

Let me give you some examples.

One day Rachel popped round, curled up on her knees into a ball, and let me us her as a footstool for over an hour. Then she got up and left without saying a word.

I still order a newspaper once a week. This is so that Rachel can fetch it, put the paper between her teeth, and crawl down the corridor, up the stairs, and into my bedroom on her hands and knees. The paper isn't small, and she has to open her mouth as wide as a basking shark to keep it steady. She places the paper in my lap, and curls up in her pyjamas at the bottom of my bed. I read the news from cover to cover, Rachel's drool staining the front and back pages.

We decided to use a remote controlled love egg at work. I stood near her office desk, and chatted to colleague of ours, my hand crammed into my pocket. In my fist was the remote. We had said I was going to five her little jabs throughout the day, but I kept my finger on the button, and didn't let go.

Rachel's face twisted into a dozen different contortions, and her orange painted nails dug into the paperwork on her desk. She even tried crossing her legs, that only made it worse. The colleague on the table leaned over, one eyebrow raised.

Rachel nodded her head, and I honestly thought she was going to come right there in front of the whole room. I continued chatting to my colleague about last month's invoices, never taking my finger off the button.

Eventually Rachel scampered to the toilet, out of range of my control. Five minutes later she trotted back her desk, the device wrapped in toilet paper in her hand, head down. I walked away without catching her eye, and ignored the twenty texts she sent throughout the day beginning forgiveness.

That evening when she walked straight into the bedroom, bent straight over the bed, and pulled her trousers down. I left her waiting in that position until the end of my programme, then gave her a spanking that turned her ass crimson. She squealed with every impact, and continued to implore me to forgive her.

The next night we had the most incredible sex of my life.

Her one peccadillo I never considered before was rimming. It's never been something I've been into before, but Rachel loves it. Sometimes she sticks her tongue so far down my ass I think I am going to see her tongue stick out between my teeth.

I've started making lunch for her I drop her lunchbox to her in the car park. Our agreement is that she must eat everything in there, and nothing else during working hours. I never put anything disgusting in there of course, but we mix it up. Sometimes I craft luxury lunches of smoked salmon sandwiches, freshly pressed orange juice, and Belgian chocolates. Sometimes it is just a bit of ham between unbuttered rye bread, a bottle of water, and a biscuit. It's got to the point where she has to eat lunch alone because it's so embarrassing.

I excelled myself today. I padded out her lunchbox with tissue paper, so the insides felt a lot more full than it actually was. When Rachel opened her lunchbox, inside was nothing but a single cream cracker.

There are a couple of vending machines at the front of her office. Rachel used to get a chocolate bar from there, before we started our new routine. They are in view from my cubicle, and I looked up every thirty seconds.

I spotted her about half an hour after lunch. She sprinted down the corridor, coin already in hand, and fumbled it into the machine. When the bar dropped down, she wrenched it away with the fervour of a starving dog, and stuffed it into her mouth there and then.

I gave her another fifteen minutes, so she thought she had got away with it. Then I texted just three words.

'I saw that.'

So that brings us pretty much to date. Rachel is still bent over the bed, quivering with excitement, waiting for the fun to begin. What she doesn't know is that the spanks with my hand were just warm ups. I've got a riding crop hidden under the bed.

I am the luckiest man in London.