The Pleasure Principle

James is a cruel man— something I've been well aware of from the day he hired me. I've watched the pitiless way that he deals with unsatisfactory employees. Tears don't sway him. Even when he isn't angry, his smile is far too predatory to be endearing (although the truth is, it never fails to make me squirm). Power and confidence exude from every inch of his sturdy, lithe frame.

I'm drawn to him like a moth to a flame— I've always had a weakness for men with power, and it's gotten me into more trouble then I'd care to admit. There's just something about men who know how to get what they want that I can't resist.

My entire life, I've been hyper-aware of my own sexually submissive nature. I like men who take control of situation because it removes some of the stress. For a long time, I was ashamed of my desire to submit. I viewed it as regressive to the feminist agenda, and rather old fashioned, but still... I couldn't seem to shake the desire.

I've had fantasies about James from the very beginning. The firmness of his handshake was enough to make my heart race when we first met. The submissive part of me immediately recognized his dominance and I wondered if he could sense it too. There was definitely an intrigued gleam in his eyes.

For the next couple months, I exceled in my new position; drawing the attention of my superiors who praised my work. I could tell that James was proud of me, but he remained distant, and that distance depressed me.

One day, I'd wandered into his office while he'd been out, and noticed a picture open on his desktop. It was of a woman, half-naked and tied up, with bruises and welts visible on her exposed backside. Her mouth was open in a kind of hit-me-again drool, eyes half-closed with pleasure. I should have felt repulsed, but instead I found myself strongly intrigued. What did it feel like to be that woman, I wondered, to have another person be so firmly in control of your body and your pleasure? I wanted to know.

In addition, knowing his dark and wicked tastes were compatible with my own really did a number on me.

I couldn't suppress my desire; no matter how hard I tried, other men simply wouldn't do. He'd taken root inside me.

James. He'd invaded my headspace, making regular appearances in my nighttime fantasies. James. The thought of his handshake did more for me than the thought of my first kiss. James. The man I desperately, desperately wanted to notice me. Infatuation was the only way to describe it.

I tried subtle flirtation, and what some might call my feminine charms, but I couldn't seem to get the reaction I wanted from him. Several of my other coworkers did, however, begin to notice me. Sometimes their reactions bordered on harassment, but I always managed to shut them down. Say what you will, but I am not a pushover.

But James... how to get him to notice me, to want me? It felt like high school all over again: the pining and the angst. I felt foolish. Finally, I decided to try going all in.

The slutty secretary routine... It was a common fantasy for most men, and one I decided to try making into a reality. That night, I went home and dug through my modest wardrobe, searching for something that would do.

For the most part, I dress fairly conservatively at work. After all, it is a professional setting. I'd wondered for a while if that was part of the problem. There were other girls who dressed far more immodestly than me, so naturally they got more attention. Maybe that was the trick.

On the floor of my closet, I found a lovely red satin blouse that had been a gift from some miscellaneous aunt or another who'd bought it a size or two too small. Pair that with a little black skirt, stocking and my black stilettos and I looked like I was about to star in a porno. Perfect.

My imagination ran wild with all the possibilities of the next day and I hardly managed to sleep.

I dressed in the morning with more enthusiasm than I'd mustered in years, finding a spring in my wobbly, stilettoed step.

I arrived at work a little early, seating myself neatly behind my desk, acutely aware of how tightly stretched the blouse was across my chest. I loosened another button, noting the splendid appearance of my cleavage. The skirt was riding up past the tops of my thigh-highs and I resisted the urge to pull it down.

Punctual as ever, James strode into the office at exactly nine, stopping first to speak with Nicole, the receptionist. I fiddled with my shirt for a moment, and then tried to make my self look busy as he began to walk my way. Just as he crossed in front of my desk, I leaned forward and purred "Hello sir," looking up slyly at him through my eyelashes. My hand rested coyly on my exposed chest, trailing along the skin in a most suggestive manner. "Is there anything I can help you with today?" For a moment, I enjoyed the look of shock on his face, but my enjoyment quickly soured as his look transfigured to one of anger. He didn't return my greeting, but instead stormed off to his office and closed his door a little too loudly.

I was stunned. My plan had gone completely wrong. I'd made him angry instead of pleasing him! For a second I wanted to throw up. Had I just ruined my only shot at winning his affections?

For the rest of the day, I worked in abject misery, waiting for him to step out so that I could apologize and hopefully make amends. He didn't leave his office again that day. I grew increasingly worried as the day drew to a close. Had I caused some kind of irreparable damage? I didn't think that what I'd done had been too extreme, but maybe it had really upset him. I knew that he respected me as an employee— people said he always spoke highly of me— and maybe my display had damaged that respect. He didn't respond when I knocked his door, even though I knew he was in there, and by the end of the day, I was in such a state that I decided to barge in and apologize. I couldn't stand the thought of his displeasure.

At five o'clock, as the rest of the office gathered their things, I gathered my courage.

His door is unlocked. I open it without a knock, not giving him the chance to turn me away. He is facing the window when I enter, his slender, strong hands folded behind his back. I start to speak before he turns around, the apology pouring out of my mouth. As I'm speaking, I notice that his hand has tightened noticeably around his wrist, and his shoulders are shaking with— Anger? I can't be sure.

"Sir—" I fumble, unsure of myself. "I just... I want to apologize for my behavior earlier. I realize that it made you uncomfortable and I was wrong to do it. It was unprofessional and I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I just thought..."

"You just thought what, Sara?" His voice is sharp, and even feeling as badly as I do, I can't help but feel a thrill run through my body. God, the things I'd let him do to me! I mumble, embarrassed.

"Louder." The command cuts through me.

"I..." I take a deep, hesitant breath, "I thought that maybe you would finally notice me, sir. I've... Had feelings for you for a long time, and I thought maybe if I dressed like, you know... then maybe..."

"I don't think you realize what you've done, Sara. I am not a good man to get involved with. The things that I want... You wouldn't like them. I've done my best to keep our relationship strictly professional, although I'll admit, you've made it very difficult."

So he does want me! "Sir, I—"

"Don't call me that," he interrupts. There is a tremor in his voice and I can see his control waning. I pace to his desk, so that I'm no more than a few feet away from him, and press my body against it, enjoying the hard press of the wood on my soft skin. "Sir" I make a point to say it "If I've done something to upset you... then shouldn't you punish me?" I see him stiffen. "You could even tie me up, just like the girl in that picture." He turns on me in an instant, and his hand connects with the side of my face with a stinging slap.

"How did you know about that!" there is more rage in his voice than I've ever heard before. I'm stunned.

"I— I—"

"You were snooping!" he snarls. My hand is against my face, where he struck me. I should be terrified, or enraged. He had no right to hit me, but... I liked it. I like seeing him angry. "What else did you see?" His hands wrap around my wrists, pulling me toward him.

I gasp. "Nothing that I didn't like." He drops my arms and I am disappointed. He steps quickly back and away, and I see that his face has gone blank.

"I shouldn't have hit you. Shit." He massages his temple.

"Sir," I push off the desk and move towards him.

"No!" He commands, raising a hand to stop me. "Don't come near me. Can't you see I'm bad for you? I've hurt you."

"What if I told you that was what I wanted?" the words tumble out of my mouth. "All my life, I've wanted someone like you. Someone who could fuck me the way that I needed to be fucked."

"Damnit Sara, you're making this difficult." I can see that his resolve has almost cracked.

I drop to my knees in front of him. "Please sir."

He wrenches me back to my feet in an instant, pressing his mouth against mine with a violence that robs of my breath. His hands are rough on my flesh, feeling me through the fabric of my blouse. I am weak against his advances. Feeling the frantic staccato in my chest, he smirks against my lips, fully aware of his power over me.

One hand winds into my long hair, and with sudden force, he yanks my head to the side, exposing the pale arc of my throat. I inhale sharply. At first his touch is gentle enough, just the press of his lips on my skin, but soon he becomes more insistent and I feel the sting of his teeth.

"Ow!" For a moment, instinct kicks in and I try to push him off, but he's too strong for that. His grip on my arm and my hair is like iron. Rough and fast, I find myself flattened to the wall, his body hard against mine. I feel my knees get weak and buckle.

"I'm going to fuck you," he whispers in my ear. "I'll take you how I want you, and for as long as I want you. Do you understand?" There isn't a bone in my body that won't consent to his abuse.

"You're not a good man," I whisper.

"I know," he whispers back, his lips trailing across my skin. "And I also know that's why you want me so badly. Good men are no fun." He bites me again, and this time I don't fight it, enjoying the sensation of his hard teeth on my soft, tender skin. One hand massages my throat, just hard enough to hurt. "Do you like to be told what to do?" I nod, half choked. "Good."

`James releases me, and strides over to his brown leather office chair. Seated, he looks as sleek and polished as the cover of a business magazine. Comfortable, he rests his chin on one hand, and then twirls his other. "Spin around for me." I oblige, turning slowly, enjoying the heat of his gaze on my body.

"Fucking perfect. Come over here now." I do, my steps quick and nervous. My skin still burns from the heat of his hands on me, and I want more. "I want you to bend yourself over my knees. I think it's time to punish you for your behavior today, Sara."

"Yes sir." I settle myself across his lap, and my little black skirt rides up high, barely concealing the curve of my ass. I can already feel a slight bulge in his pants, and the thought of his hardening cock, combined with the feeling of his hand exploring my flesh makes me shiver deliciously. He pinches and squeezes, massaging my cheeks firmly. Occasionally, a fingertip grazes my pussy, feeling the growing dampness of my lace underwear. I buck against his hand, wanting him to be firmer with me, to touch more of my body. Without warning, his hand comes down hard on my backside and I squeal with surprise. I can feel him tense with pleasure at the wanton noise. He hits me again, harder, and the sound reaches me before the pain does. Three more smacks, and my flesh is burning hot and red. He pauses, running his fingers over my skin.

"You have the most perfect ass..." He kneads into me with his fingertips. "I've wanted to put you over my knee and spank it for months." Just as the ache in my backside has begun to subside, he hits me again, so hard that I cry out in a combination of pain and pleasure. My hand squeezes the side of the desk, steadying myself. Again, he transfers from forceful to gentle, metering out the spanking with enough pleasurable touching to keep me aroused. His fingers stroke over the lacy fabric of my underwear, so gently that I'm quivering with anticipation, longing for him to touch me there in honest. I know that he senses my desire, just as I know that he is drawing this whole thing out just to frustrate me. I moan a little as his finger hits my swollen clitoris, sending a jolt through my body. As though set free by that little sound, his middle finger dives without warning into my soaking orifice, driving forward my pleasure. I squeeze myself around his hand, willing him to stay there, stroking my insides with his powerful hands, but to my dismay, he withdraws. With his slickened finger, he draws elaborate circles around my opening, taunting me with that closeness. All this teasing is getting me incredibly worked up.

"You want me to fuck you, huh?" He purrs in my ear, and I nod enthusiastically, longing for his cock inside me.

"Too bad," he growls. "Tonight all you get is this finger." He flicks my engorged clit. I groan with pent-up sexual energy and he laughs. "I want you to fuck yourself with my finger," he says, pressing the tip against my hot, aching pussy. I arch against that finger, forcing it in to the last knuckle, wishing it filled me up the way that I knew his cock would. I drive my self against it again and again, feeling him inside me. My breathing grows heavy and fast as he draws me close to orgasm without even moving. I imagine how turned on he must be by my desperate antics, and the thought of him receiving satisfaction is enough to tip me over the edge. I cum, feeling the shuddery waves of pleasure pulsate through my body, causing my toes to curl. He withdraws, and I hear him sucking the stickiness from his fingers. I try to nuzzle against him, but he begins to stand and I slide off onto the floor, too weak-kneed to stand up.

"Time for you to go home, slut." He says, his voice and face blank. I look up, confused. I can see a hint of warring confusion and anger hiding around his sharp dark eyes. "It's after hours. You shouldn't still be here." He walks to the window, facing away from me much like he was when I arrived. I stand up, still wobbling, and adjust my skirt. My thighs are damp and slick, but I'll have to attend to that later.

I'm almost out the door when his voice stops me. "To your left." I look. There is a single creamy white business card propped up on the small table. "Take it." I do. There is only an address, embossed in small gold letters.

"Sir—?" He doesn't reply. I tuck it into my pocket and shut the door softly behind me. I'm hurt but intrigued. The question of the next step is already dancing in my brain.