Undone

This is such a bad idea.

We barely know each other. He's on the board of the start-up I run. We've met at most a handful of times, always in a professional setting. I doubt we've said more than a dozen words to each other before today.

But there had always been a strange energy between us. Sometimes I'd glance in his direction at catch him looking at me. Being around him threw me off balance. It made me flustered and unsure, like I was a teenage schoolgirl instead of a woman in her thirties.

My business partner thought it was funny.

"He's a good-looking guy," she said to me over drinks a few weeks ago. "Lots of women crush on him."

"I'm not crushing on him," I said indignantly. "He ... unnerves me."

"Yeah, you're totally crushing on him," she said, finishing off her Negroni. "Be careful, though. Don't get burned."

Her words come back to me: "be careful".

The time to be careful had been this morning when he'd stopped by my office to chat. Or half an hour later when we'd skipped out of work to have coffee at the bistro downstairs. Or when he'd opened the door to his red Porsche and gestured for me to get inside. Or when he'd lightly rested his hand on the small of my back as escorted me up the steps to his home in Bel Air.

At this point, I'm way past "be careful".

This is a such bad idea.

His house is a sprawling modernist pile--all cantilevered slabs and polished concrete. Elegant and austere, it suits him perfectly. He shows me to the living room, a sparsely-furnished space with a glorious view of the Pacific Ocean. He pours us drinks while I admire the bleak Rothko lithograph that dominates one wall.

He hands me a glass of red wine. He's wearing a gray business suit with a green silk tie. He's poured a scotch for himself, and the ice clinks as he raises his glass to his lips. I'm wearing a suit as well, a lovely crème-colored linen. My blonde hair is swept up in a loose chignon. I look respectable. Professional. Businesslike. Not at all the sort of woman who would go home with a stranger on a whim.

Yet here I am.

I sip my wine. It's excellent, of course.

"You're a fascinating woman," he says.

I try to match his offhand tone. "How so?"

"You're passionate about your work, but also incredibly disciplined. That's an unusual combination. Also, you're smart and not afraid to show it."

"Should I be?"

"It's a dangerous game, showing people how smart you are. They start hoping you'll slip up so they can take you down a notch. Or worse ... they start expecting you to work miracles."

"I think you're overestimating both my intelligence and my bravery."

We both sit down, him in a green leather armchair facing the window, me in a straight-backed Queen Anne opposite him. My legs are tucked demurely underneath my chair, my ankles crossed. I place my wine glass on the side table next to an antique cloisonné box.

I realize, he's going to fuck me. Not right this second, of course, but in the near future. This knowledge lends a curious frisson to the moment. Right now, we're both so restrained and civilized--just two professional acquaintances, calmly chatting. But I can clearly see what lies ahead: My clothes strewn on the floor. My thighs open. His big, hard cock in my tight little cunt. Him thrusting

deep

. Oh.

I'm getting wet. I wonder if he can tell.

"Have you ever considered the basic difference between men's and women's clothing?" he says, looking off to one side.

I raise an eyebrow, jolted back to reality. "Enlighten me."

"Men's clothing conceals," he says, swirling his scotch. "Women's clothing reveals."

I glance down at myself, bewildered. I touch the lapels of my jacket

"I would hardly call this revealing," I say.

"If a male employee came to the office with his legs bare and his collar unbuttoned, would that be that proper business attire?"

"Mm ... I suppose not."

"Or consider formal wear. Men wear black tie. Women wear evening gowns ... low-cut, backless, strapless ...."

"I see your point ... but it's just a matter of fashion, isn't it?"

"It's deeper than mere fashion. Men's clothing is designed to obscure the male body, to supplant its crude physicality with an idealized conception of masculinity. But women's clothing does the opposite. Rather than hiding the wearer's body, it calls attention to it. Even when a woman is fully dressed, her clothing is always gesturing toward her nakedness."

I'm already so far outside my comfort zone that it's hard to keep my bearings. I know this is dangerous, but it's also thrilling. I feel like a mouse staring down a cobra.

I pause and take a sip of wine.

"Why did you invite me here?" I say.

"For an exploration of boundaries."

"Boundaries?"

"Yours ... mine ...."

I shake my head. "I don't understand."

"You like being looked at. All women like being looked at. But you more than most."

I roll my eyes. "Not all women like being looked at."

"Maybe not

all

women.

Most

women."

"

Some

women."

He tilts his head to one side.

"I'm primarily interested in you," he says. Do

you

like being looked at?"

I feel my cheeks getting warm.

"Assuming I do ... hypothetically ... so what?"

"Take off your clothes," he says.

I pause, considering.

"What if I say 'no'?"

He shrugs. "We can stop whenever you want. It will be like none of this ever happened."

"And if I say 'yes'?"

He smiles. "Take off your clothes."

I wobble a little as I stand up. My linen skirt has gotten creased, and I brush it smooth. I feel like a spectator to this scene, like I'm watching the action play out from someplace far, far away. I see myself turn. I hear the echo of my heels on the polished concrete floor. I see him watching me.

I walk over to the table in front of the window. It's a modernist dining table, blocky and severe, all hard white edges, very sculptural. There aren't any chairs around it.

I stand beside it and kick off my shoes, grimacing as my bare feet touch the cold concrete. I can't believe I'm doing this. I take off my jacket, fold it neatly and lay it on the table. Then with nervous fingers, I unbutton my silk blouse and slip it off my shoulders. My skirt has a zipper at the side that makes a surprisingly loud noise as I unzip it. Then I fold it too and lay it on the table atop my other clothes.

I'm down to just my underwear--a sheer demi bra and matching bikini panties. I flash back to this morning when I got dressed. When I picked these particular things from my underwear drawer, I didn't anticipate anyone else seeing me in them. They're sexier than what I normally wear. I don't know why it bothers me that my underwear is so unprofessional, but it does. I feel like I've inadvertently confirmed his thesis about all women's clothing being designed to call attention to the naked female body. I can feel his eyes on me.

It's been a long time since I've undressed for a man, and I hesitate, uncertain what to take off next. I decide to unhook my bra, and let my breasts swing free. My nipples are achingly hard. I brush my fingertips lightly across them, sighing at the electric sensation it sends through my body. I can't remember the last time I was so turned on.

I look at him, a questioning look in my eyes. Is this what you expected? Am I doing it right?

"Exquisite," he says, and takes another sip of scotch, and nods in my direction.

Taking a deep breath, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my panties and tug them down, letting them drop around my ankles. I'm naked. Naked in the house of a man I barely know. The cool air raises goosebumps on my pale skin. I absent-mindedly run my fingers through my light brown bush, fluffing it from where it was compressed by my panties.

"I didn't take off my clothes because you told me to," I say.

"Oh?"

"I did it because I'm curious about where this is headed."

"And where do you think this is headed?"

"Someplace ... different," I say.

"How do you feel?"

"Strange ... unsettled ... nervous ...."

"Aroused?"

I feel my cheeks getting warm again. "Yes ... aroused."

"Show me," he says.

I bend over and rest my elbows in the white table.

I arch my back and rise up on my toes, displaying my pussy to him.

I hear his footsteps behind me.

He runs his fingers over my swollen pussy lips, and then, rather impertinently, slips one finger inside. It comes away wet, and he wipes the slickness on my bare rump.

I hear the ice clink in his drink and I realize he's taken another sip.

"You said you didn't take off your clothes because I told you to. But nevertheless, you did take them off."

"You say it like it's significant."

"It is significant. Because there's something you want."

"What do I want?" I say.

You want to be free," he says. "Free from the tyranny of choice."

He lightly touches his finger to the tender pucker of my asshole. I draw my breath in sharply. I have never felt so helpless with a man before, so vulnerable. I have never been so aroused before either. He's much stronger than me. I'm alone with him and

naked

. It occurs to me that I'm completely at his mercy. For some reason that makes me even wetter.

He takes off his tie. It's a green silk floral print with gold accents. He ties it around my head, blindfolding me. Then he spins me around and pushes me down to my knees. I hear the sound of his fly being unzipped.

I know what's coming and lick my lips in anticipation. I've fantasized abut this moment dozens of times. Back when our relationship was purely professional, I sometimes daydreamed about sucking his cock. I never imagined this particular scenario though.

Even though I'm blindfolded, I can feel him looking at me. He was right about one thing. I

do

like being looked at. I cross my wrists behind my back, leaving myself totally open to his gaze.

I know what I must look like. My upturned face, my blonde chignon ruined by the makeshift blindfold. My outthrust tits, with their small, dark nipples. The messy patch of hair between my legs.

Something warm touches my cheek. It's his cock, shockingly erect, jutting rudely out from his trousers. I twist my head, trying to capture it with my mouth. I take the tip between my lips. He's leaking a little and I taste his salty precum. He brushes my other cheek with his fingers. I can tell he's enjoying seeing me like this. Such abject submission. I run the tip of my tongue around the head of his cock. I'm proud of my skill as a cocksucker. That always comes as a surprise to men. I don't look like a woman who gives good blowjobs, but I am.

I get the result I was hoping for. He gives his hips a little jerk forward, shoving his cock deeper in my mouth.

"Touch yourself," he says, his voice taking on a commanding edge.

I uncross my wrists, and raise my hands to cup my breasts. I lift them, like I'm offering them to him. Is this right? Do you like my titties? My thumbs find my hard nipples, and I give them a flick, moaning around his cock.

"Now your pussy," he says.

It feels so good to do what I'm told. What was it that he said to me before?

"You want to be free from the tyranny of choice."

He's right about that as well.

I slide my hand down my flat tummy, down past my little furry patch, down to where I'm so wet and needy.

It's been days since I last masturbated and my level of pent-up desire is off the charts. I press down on my clit with my fingers, stroking my little shaft.

Having his cock in my mouth isn't helping my mental state. My god! The smell of him, the taste of him. He's so deliriously masculine! I only had half a glass of wine, but I'm drunk off sucking his cock.

"Do you want me to come on your face?" He says.

I can't talk with a mouth full of cock, so I give a little nod. Yes, sir, please come on my face.

He unties my blindfold. I suppose he doesn't want to get cum on his nice tie. I blink up at a him, dazzled by the sudden influx of light.

I'm struck by the juxtaposition between us. He's still fully dressed in his gray suit. If it wasn't for his cock hanging out, he wouldn't look out of place in a boardroom.

I'm stark naked, of course, my tits and pussy completely exposed. Somehow the fact that he's dressed in business attire makes my own nudity more blatant.

I flash back to what he said about women's clothing: "Women's clothing is always gesturing toward the wearer's nakedness." So, I guess this current state of affairs is only taking things to their logical conclusion.

The one thing that spoils the dichotomy is that he has his cock out. He has his cock out and he's jerking it in his fist. He's jerking his cock while he watches me touch my pussy.

I raise my face and open my mouth to show him I'm prepared to receive his load whenever he's ready.

This may be the most submissive thing I've ever done. He talked about exploring boundaries earlier, and I've definitely crossed one. I never saw the appeal of letting a man dominate me, but right now, I'm totally getting off on it.

My pussy is making wet smacking sounds as I work my fingers in and out of it. I'm appalled by how horny I am. It's quite a contrast from the polished, composed woman who had been demurely sipping wine a few minutes ago. In less than an hour I've come completely undone.

"Oh ... oh ... oh ...," I say, making little noises as my orgasm builds.

I look up at him wide-eyed, and then suddenly I'm coming. It's a very subdued orgasm. My whole body goes stiff, and I kneel before him quivering, my pussy throbbing.

He takes that as his cue, and he starts to pump, spraying thick ropy strands of semen all over my upturned face.

Fortunately, I have the presence of mind to close my eyes because it goes

everywhere

. It's in my eyebrows and in my bangs. Some of it even makes it into my open mouth.

It's dribbling off my chin and onto my tits, dripping off my nipples and onto my tummy. I've even got cum in my bush. I'm covered with it.

Cautiously, I blink my eyes open.

He offers me his hand and helps me up off my knees. He's put his cock away, and his insouciance in light of what just took place is disarming.

He leads me back to the Queen Anne chair and I sit, my bottom perched on the edge of the upholstered seat to avoid staining it. His cum is still dripping off me, and what's worse, my pussy is a soupy mess with my own secretions. I badly need a towel.

He presses the wine glass into my hand and I take a sip, the delicate flavor of the Merlot mingling with the lingering taste of his cum in my mouth.

This was such a bad idea. I'm not sure where we go from here. Is it possible to have a normal business relationship with someone after you let them jack off on your face?

Even if it's possible to go back to how it was before, I'm not sure I want to.

"Come with me," he says.

I do as I'm told. It feels so good to obey.

He walks over to a Japanese screen at the far end of the room, and I pad along behind him on my bare feet.

I fold an arm over my breasts, and splay one hand in front of my crotch. It's silly to be modest at this point, but old habits die hard, I suppose.

The screen consists of three rice-paper panels decorated with a winter landscape in classic suiboku style. If it's authentic, it's worth thousands.

Behind it is a collar and a leash atop small lacquered table.

"Stand up straight, and put your hands behind your head."

Again, I obey, almost shivering with the thrill.

I stretch out my neck and allow him to collar me. The collar is black leather and surprisingly heavy. Its feels cool against my bare skin as he buckles it.

Then he attaches the leash to the buckle, and draws it taut, forcing me to angle my chin up. The only way I can look at him is out of the corner of my eye.

"Do you like being collared?" he asks.

"Yes, sir."

"How about being cuffed?"

"As you wish, sir."

I extend my arms one at a time, and allow him to fasten leather cuffs around my wrists. They match the collar--black leather with silver buckles.

Stepping in close, he yanks my arms around behind my back, not rough enough to hurt, but rough enough to make it clear who's in charge. My breathing quickens.

He clips my cuffed wrists together just above my butt, forcing me to arch my back and thrust my chest out, displaying my breasts to him.

His fingers find my nipples and start playing with them. He's watching me very closely to see how I respond.

"You have nice tits," he says. "But you know that don't you?"

He takes my left nipple between his thumb and forefinger and

squeezes

until I draw my breath in sharply through my teeth. Then he does the same with the right. The pain is so sharp and bright it brings tears to my eyes. When he lets go, I gasp with relief, but my poor tortured nipples are throbbing.

Then he shows me the clamps. They're alligator clips with rubber over the jaws, and little silver bells attached to the other end.

I shake my head ... no, no ... it's too much ... I can't take it. But he just smiles at my distress.

I try to twist away, but my cuffed wrists prevent it. So, all I can do is stand there helplessly as he attaches the clamps to my nipples.

"Very petty," he says, and I do a little shimmy so my titties jiggle and the bells ring.

"Now, get down on all fours," he says, releasing my wrists.

I drop to my hands and knees, my breasts hanging down. My chignon has long since given up the ghost and my blonde hair is in my face.

How did things come to this? I never envisioned this outcome when I flirted with him in the office this morning--Crouched naked on my hands and knees with a collar around my neck and clamps on my nipples.

This isn't who I am. I'm a respectable businesswoman, not a whore.

Or maybe this is who I am.

He lays his hand on my head, brushing my hair out of my eyes so I can look up at him.

He's holding a big black silicon butt plug. His intentions are clear.

I feel his hands parting my ass cheeks, then the cool sensation of lube being applied to my anus.

"Take a deep breath," he says, "And try to relax."

The slippery tip of the butt plug presses against my most intimate place.

Then, penetration. I will myself to open up. I'm panting with the effort. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

Inch by inch, it slides up inside me. Such a feeling of fullness! Being stretched hurts a little, but no worse than the clamps on my nipples. I can take it.

When it's all the way in, my sphincter clenches tight around the bulb.

"Good girl," he says, patting my bottom. His praise induces a full-body shiver.

He leads me across the floor to the white table on my hands and knees. He keeps the leash taut, forcing me to keep my chin up. My breasts are swaying, the little bells jingling. Each time I crawl forward, the butt plug works itself a little deeper up my ass.

Maybe I am a whore, because be the time we reach the table, my cunt is sopping wet.

He reaches underneath me and removes the clamps from my tits. My tender nipples throb as the blood rushes back in.

Please," I croak.

"Please, what?" He says.

"Please, sir, I need to be fucked."

He grabs me by the upper arm, hauls me up off the floor, and bends me over the table.

Working quickly, he threads a thick black cord through the rings on my wrist cuffs and ties my hands to the table legs. I'm stretched out long and lean on the hard wooden surface, with my lower body hanging off one side.

My bare feet scrabble helplessly on the polished concrete floor. I'm not going anywhere.

I feel starched fabric underneath me. I'm lying on the jacket and the skirt I took off earlier--the remains of my pretty linen suit.

He circles around behind me to survey his handiwork. His hands are on my ass, positioning me.

"I'm going to cum inside you," he says. "I hope that's okay."