Blacmailing Jessica

Blackmailing Jessica, Chapter Two

© Seattle Zack

Chapter 2

"Oh, and one last thing. The copywriter position." She placed a manila folder on the desk. "I really think he's the best one for the job." Jessica was in Clarence Bowman's office, a floor above her own. He was one of the firm's vice-presidents.

"I don't need to see the file, Jessica, I trust your judgement." He had a deep voice and a thick mane of gray hair. "You've checked all his references?"

Afraid her voice might expose the lie, she merely nodded.

He's gotten me into it now. If anyone finds out about his fake resume, I'll go down with him.

"All right," said Bowman, glancing at his watch. The meeting was over. "Send the paperwork down to HR, then he can start on Monday."

Back in her office, she took a deep breath as she picked up the phone. Looking at the office chair, her face flushed as she remembered his hand smacking painfully against her bottom while she struggled.

Get a grip, Jessica. Don't let him manipulate you any further.

"Denise? Get me Drew Carson's number, please. He was one of the applicants for the copywriter's job."

He picked up on the third ring. "Hello?" His voice sounded distant.

"Did I wake you up?" she asked sarcastically.

He chuckled. "Cassie! How's your ass, my dear?"

She gritted her teeth. "Well, you got your wish. You start on Monday."

"See, I knew you could do it."

"Look, it stops now," she said forcefully. "I've done all I can. You can sink or swim on your own merits. In fact, I bet you'll get fired in a week! I don't want to have anything more to do with you."

"We should celebrate," he said, ignoring her. "Meet me for lunch."

"I will not! I told you, this is the end of it!"

"That wasn't a request," he said dryly.

Jessica sighed. "What was it, another 'order'? I refuse to let you control my life like this -- I'm not your slave, you know!"

Slave.

Just saying it sent a tremor through her. She could still feel the word in her mouth, the delicate caress of her tongue and lower lip against her teeth. A shaming tickle of arousal flickered down in her belly.

"Just a suggestion," he responded. "Making sure we get things off on the right foot. I'll be at the Metropolitan at noon." She heard a click as he hung up.

Goddamn him. Furiously, she stared at the buzzing receiver in her hand. The Met was one of Seattle's finest restaurants, a pricey steakhouse on Second Avenue. Resolutely she slammed the phone down.

I won't be his little pawn.

For the next hour she tried to work, but the memory of Drew's "interview" made the spreadsheet figures blur in front of her.

You've been a bad girl, Jessica.

The way he had controlled her, exposing her dark secret -- she hated being manipulated so easily.

So why couldn't she stop thinking about it? Even that very morning in the shower as the soapy water cascaded down her body.

I saw the videos, Jessica. You liked it, I could tell.

She shook her head.

Don't let him get to you like this.

The spanking had been a painful and humiliating experience, but somehow strangely liberating as well. She squirmed in her seat. Finally, she glanced at the clock.

You know you want to.

Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she walked down the street. The Met was only about six blocks away from her building, and it was a nice spring day. She enjoyed the energy of the city -- the noise of the traffic and all the people hurrying this way and that. Normally, she worked through lunch, ordering a salad or sandwich from the deli in the building. She had to admit, it was refreshing to get out of the office.

The restaurant was crowded and she eased through the crush at the door. He was seated at a booth near the back, the

New York Times

crossword on the table in front of him. He glanced up as she approached. "You're late, Jessica."

"I got hung up at the office," she replied defiantly as she slid into the booth. That quiet, commanding tone was really beginning to piss her off. "You're lucky I decided to show up at all."

He raised an eyebrow, not responding, as he looked at her. She reddened a little under his gaze, remembering the scene in the office.

You've been a bad girl.

"I'll just have a Caesar salad."

"No, I ordered for both of us." He smiled, revealing white, even teeth. "The London broil lunch special, it's quite good." He poured some red wine from a bottle into the glass in front of her.

"I don't eat red meat, and I don't drink." She shook her head, then lowered her voice. "And where do you get off deciding what I'm going to have for lunch?"

"Look on the seat next to you," he said quietly.

She looked down.

Oh shit.

It was an eight-by-ten photo, a video capture by the fuzzy look of it. She recognized it immediately. The now-familiar brunette was naked, in a hogtied position on a couch, her wrists and elbows roped tightly together. Her ankles were crossed and pulled up behind her, secured with another length of rope. A scarf was knotted tightly between her teeth, and her eyes were frantic over the makeshift gag.

"You son of a bitch!" Quickly grabbing the photo, she folded it several times before stuffing it into her purse. "I told you, this has got to stop!"

As she reached for her glass of water he grabbed her wrist again firmly. She struggled a little, glancing around the crowded restaurant. Fortunately, no one seemed to be paying attention. "Let me go!" she hissed.

"Here's what I want you to do," he said softly. "Go into the bathroom. Take off your panties. Bring them back here and give them to me."

Shocked, she stared at him, mouth agape. She shook her head.

His grip tightened on her wrist, making her wince. "I have more copies of that picture, Jessica." He smiled. "Shall I distribute them? I'm sure you know a few people here today."

Wildly, her gaze roamed around the room. Yes, there was Richard Braun, a vice-president for Seattle First Credit Union. He had asked her out on a date once, even though he was thirty years her senior.

He would love to see a picture of me naked and tied up.

And Linda Carlton, the founder of Carlton Realties, another of the firm's clients. She trembled, realizing she had no choice.

"I've got nothing to lose," he reminded her. "You do." Drew released his hold on her wrist and returned his attention to the crossword, tapping the pen idly against the paper. Her fists clenched as anxiety tumbled through her.

He knows how wet this is making me.

Face flushing, she slid from the booth and made her way through the crowd to the restrooms.

When she returned a few minutes later, the food had already arrived. It felt very different to be out in public with no underwear. Such a shaming, slutty little secret. The fabric of her linen slacks caressed her gently, the rough texture stimulating her as she walked. Sitting down, she felt her cheeks grow warm again. No doubt he knew what kind of effect this was having on her.

He smiled, enjoying her embarrassment, then pointed. "Set them there."

Reddening further, she dropped the wadded ball of fabric on the table beside her. He chuckled, noticing the black lace. "Very nice. I knew you'd turn out to be one of those Victoria's Secret shoppers."

"Goddamnit," she whispered, "put them in your pocket or something, you fucking pervert. Use them for whatever deviant purpose you want later on!" She shuddered. "I don't even want to know."

He smiled again.

He's enjoying this, my distress and humiliation. And the worst part is, he knows how much it turns me on.

"Have some wine," he suggested. "Relax, Jessica. It will be fine."

Her hand was shaking a bit as she picked up the glass, gulping down more than she intended. It was quite good, a red Merlot from a local Washington winery.

"Eat your food," he said. "It's getting cold."

As if on cue, her stomach growled and she realized that she was starving; she hadn't eaten all day. The food would help counter the effects of the wine already warming her body. Obediently, she picked up her knife and fork.

Obediently.

Another ripple of arousal ignited in her belly and she pressed her thighs together.

Jessica hadn't eaten red meat in more than two years, but the London Broil was one of the best meals she had tasted in her life. All her senses seemed more alive; she relished the juicy rough texture of the beef in her mouth, the smell of the wine, the hubbub of conversation from the other diners in the restaurant. They ate in silence, yet there was an easy familiarity between them, as if they'd been friends forever.

At one point, the waiter came by, making his regular inquiries. Her cheeks flamed hotly as she caught sight of her panties, sitting next to her on the table.

God, I'll die of embarrassment if he says anything.

She kept her head down, not even wanting to make eye contact.

After the meal, Drew poured her a second (third?) glass of wine. Glancing around, she noticed the crowd thinning out as lunch hour ended. Perhaps the wine gave her the courage. "Can I just ask you one thing?"

He seemed surprised. "Sure. Ask me anything."

"Why me? I mean ..." she struggled to get it out, "... how did you find me?"

Who are you?

Leaning forward a bit, he lowered his voice. "Just blind luck, Jessica. Did you read my story in the magazine?"

"The story? Ah, no."

Yes.

"I threw that trash in the incinerator."

He laughed. "I bet you read it. You're too curious not to."

Her face flushed. "Well, maybe I skimmed it," she admitted.

"What did you think?"

It had been quite well written, actually, with a flair for description and much more character depth than the other two amateurish stories in the issue. It was an account of a slave auction at the palace of an Arabian emir. The protagonist was a blonde Californian college student, who had been kidnapped while on a cruise, and the story was about the various indignities and tortures she endured as she was captured, tied up, whipped, and finally sold to a Moroccan prince.

"Like I said, I just skimmed it," she snapped. "I didn't know what to think. I'm hardly a porn connoisseur!"

"You're a sassy girl, I like that. Sassy Cassie."

"Don't call me that," she pleaded, looking around.

"Anyway," he said, continuing, "I did a story for a similar publication, and they sent me a complimentary copy of the magazine with their check. It had a reprint of the

Reddened Bottoms

photo spread. About three days later, I happened to find myself next to you in an elevator. In your very office building."

The Bank of Seattle Tower was an 86-story black monolith dominating the southern skyline of Seattle. Jessica's office was on the forty-fourth floor, with a view of the waterfront area.

"It was about six months ago." He put his chin in his hand, remembering. "I was visiting a lawyer, a copyright infringement thing I was working on, and I rode down with you in the elevator. You were talking to your friend, a short Hispanic woman."

That would have been Carmen, from accounting. She was twenty-three, and a little firebrand. She and Jessica, in an office filled with middle-aged divorced men, had quickly found each other. They often ventured down together to the Starbucks in the lobby for their mid-morning caffeine and the latest bit of office gossip.

"You were discussing some guy you were seeing, a college professor, as I recall," he went on. "I still remember the comment you made. 'He really can't afford me.' Then you laughed, like a spoiled little rich brat, and I saw your profile for the first time, and I realized that I had seen a younger version of you in the magazine. And I also realized that I had something on you."

She shook her head slowly. Just a coincidence?

Well, you knew this day would come, Jessica.

All through school and especially since graduation, she had always been terrified that someone would recognize her, stop her on the street or in an office and ask, "Aren't you Cassie Hartley?"

"So, I did some research on you, a little background check," he said. "Found out how aggressive you are, how you're completely focused on your career. Always in control. And everything I uncovered confirmed my first impression, that it would be quite a turn on to dominate you like this. To control you for a change."

She cleared her throat. "So, how long does this go on? This little game of yours?"

How do I stop it? Do I want to stop it?

"Until I get tired of it." He grinned again, that cocky smirk. "And I'm not tired of it yet." He stood up, scooping the panties from the table as he did so. "Let me settle up, Jessica. You wait for me outside."

The bright sun, after the darkness of the restaurant, made her squint. She should have brought her sunglasses after all. Moments later he emerged from the door of the restaurant wearing a black leather jacket. "Walk me up to the parking garage," he suggested.

He had his hands in his pockets as he walked; impulsively, she slid her arm through his. He glanced down at her and grinned. Another warm flutter went through her.

He knows.

Strange as it seemed, it was somehow comforting that someone else knew her shaming secret. She had never told anyone, not even her college roommate. She had tried to pretend it never happened, still dreading the day she was recognized. Until now, she hadn't realized what a burden it had been all these years.

"In here," he gestured. "The elevator is on the right."

He pressed the button for the fourth floor, the lowest level, then turned to her. He pushed her back gently against the wall. His hand brushed a strand of hair back from her face, caressing her cheek gently.

Jessica's breathing quickened. He loomed over her, dominating her with his presence. "Please, Drew," she whispered.

Please what?

Reaching behind her neck, he slid his hand up into her hair, tightening his grip into a fist. She gasped as her head was pulled back.

The elevator slowed to a stop as he whispered in her ear. "You were disobedient today, girl. When I tell you to be somewhere on time, I expect you to be there."

Roughly he pulled her out of the elevator and down the line of parked cars. Crying out, she struggled to keep her balance in the high heels. His grip in her hair was uncompromising. Wildly, she rolled her eyes. Surely someone would see!

He stopped in front of a gold Lexus, holding her in front of him, arching her painfully back. She grabbed his wrist, trying to dislodge his fist, but her strength was no match for his. "Let me go!" she hissed. "I'll scream!"

He sneered. "Go ahead. If we get caught, it will all come out. You'll be the laughingstock of your industry, Jessica." He reached around her with his free hand, fumbling with the buckle at her waist.

"God, no," she whimpered. Struggling, she pressed back against him as she dropped her purse, feeling him harden as she squirmed.

After getting the buckle free, he rudely pulled her slacks down. He released his grip, pushing her forward. "Bend over the hood, girl."

Cool air washed over her backside and legs as she stumbled, trying to keep her balance with her slacks down around her ankles. Tentatively she put both hands on the hood of the car.

"No, all the way." He pressed her forward, her hips against the fender. The metal was cold underneath her breasts and belly. Her bare ass wiggled as she squirmed.

All he has to do is touch me to see how aroused I am.

Frantically she looked around. This was crazy!

"Seven minutes late, seven strokes," he announced sternly. She heard him unbuckle his own belt. It was an unmistakable sound, masculine and authoritative. The backs of her legs tingled with anticipation. She began to cry, the tears trickling down her cheek. "Please," she whispered.

Please fuck me now.

"This should help keep you quiet." Abruptly he grabbed her hair again, pulling her head back. As she gasped he stuffed a piece of cloth in her mouth. She recognized it immediately by the texture: her black lace panties. She tasted the slight tang of her own body. "Keep those in there, girl, or we'll have to start over."

Anxiously she nodded.

Just get it over with.

Probably security cameras everywhere -- they were bound to be discovered any moment.

Without warning, the belt hissed through the air and struck the rounded curve of her ass, branding her skin with the painful contact. She bucked on the hood of the car, dancing from one foot to the other as the sensation flared through her.

sssss-whack! The sound echoed through the concrete parking garage, a searing impact on the other side as the belt struck her again. Jessica sobbed, tears falling from her face. She felt his hand between her shoulder blades, holding her down in position.

sssss-whack! The lethal strap struck her across the very tops of her thighs, one of the most sensitive areas on her body. Every muscle convulsed as she tried not to make a noise, putting her hands behind her, palms up, trying to shield her vulnerable ass from the next blow.

"Hands, Jessica," he said firmly. "Palms on the hood."

Sobbing helplessly she did as directed, cringing inwardly as the upcoming cruel kiss of the belt. The next four impacts came quickly, each bright stripe of pain flaring hotly before the last had receded. As much as she wanted to scream, she struggled to stay silent.

The horrible thing was, on a deep level, it was somehow satisfying to be punished so severely.

You've been a bad girl, Jessica.

She jerked in response to each blow, dancing and squirming, the belt impacting hotly against her exposed butt. As the pain of the last two strokes tore through her, she began to "drift" a bit. It almost felt like she was leaving her body, sort of floating.

Gradually, she came back to awareness, feeling the metal of the hood against her cheek. She opened her eyes, blinking.

"Pull your pants up, slut," Drew directed from behind her.

She was still dazed: it took a few moments for the words to register. Numbly she stood and reached back, wincing as she felt the raised welts criscrossing her ass. She spat the wet ball of fabric from her mouth. Legs shaking, she reached down and pulled up her slacks, fumbling with the buckle, then looked up at him.

"Don't forget your purse," he said pointing.

There was a motorcycle in the next parking spot and he turned, opening the side compartment, then removed a helmet and pulled it over his head.

Don't go.

He grinned at her and pressed the starter, the distinctive Harley rumble filling the enclosed space. The vibration reverberated through her, intensifying in her clit. She felt another rush of warmth between her legs.

"See you at the office," he called. With that, he gunned the engine, pulling around the corner and up the ramp.

She bent over and picked up her purse, then looked down at herself. Her linen blazer was filthy, covered with road dirt from her undignified sprawl across the car. Suddenly realizing that her panties were still on the hood, she picked them up. She considered throwing them away -- they were sodden with her saliva -- but she slipped them into her pocket instead.

I must look like a mess.

Pulling out her compact only confirmed her fears. Her hair was disheveled and tears streaked her cheeks. She could hardly go back to the office like this, half drunk and looking like she had been gangbanged in an alley. Her legs trembling, she made her way back to the elevator.

Back up on the street, she hailed a cab and gave the driver her address. The office was on her cell phone speed dial and she made some lame excuse about a family emergency, asking Denise to reschedule her meetings for the afternoon. Finally, she took a deep breath and leaned back in the seat.

Goddamn, it hurts like hell to sit down.