The Dominant Male

behind her, a curiously surpressed whimper, as if he didn’t want Becky to be a part of his orgasm, then he let out a long, deep sigh. He waited a few moments, during which she heard the rustle of a man-size and its discarding on the floor behind her, and then he delivered the eighteenth spank, almost cursorily. Becky felt almost jilted as the tension in the room diminished palpably. Then she understood – Martin didn’t want her to come after all. He had worked her up to a point of no return and now came Becky’s real punishment – to face what a wanton little slut she was, with no relief from Martin, used and cast aside to make her way home frustrated, as thrown back once more on her own devices as she had been in the toilet in which she’d so obscenely been caught. And Martin had no doubt got himself off on the thought.
    Seeing Martin’s fiendishness so starkly sent a thrill through her anew. As she gloried in the game of attrition, Becky knew she had to come. She must! As the nineteenth and penultimate stroke sliced the air to land on her reddened cheeks, she knew what she had to do: Becky would just about have time to get off if she gratified Martin with the true depths of her wantonness, giving her consent to a final round of humiliation. So taken aback at first, now she could not let her pride get in the way of an orgasm at the hands of this imperious man, a master of even so humble an instrument of torture as an office shoe.
    Seizing the moment; she stood up petulantly to her fullest height. ‘Ha! I knew it!’ Martin exclaimed triumphantly. ‘If you want your ass peppered that hard, girl, then you’re more of a glutton even than I took you for. Is there no end to your cravenness?’ And with that, Martin forgot all about his measuredness. He advanced on Becky and rained blows on her poor, sore ass until there was no point in either of them keeping count.
    Lost in a welter of surprise and sensation, Becky felt the target area widen to include the sides of her ass and her thighs. She heard the shoe clunk to the floor and felt Martin’s hand continue the work forehand and backhand, like he were playing squash, with the occasional squeeze and pinch that sent shafts of tender pain through Becky’s body. Her fingers scrabbled at her pussy with abandon, driven by the desperate and exhilarating fear that Martin still might just stop at any moment and throw her back on her own humiliation. ‘Oh God, please don’t stop. Don’t stop… Don’t stop…’ She begged over and over, the phrase like a mantra, the confession and propitiation of her shame.
    Becky rode the blows to her own shuddering orgasm, stronger for being her second in only a little while. As she came, Martin leaned towards her ear and breathed in a stage whisper, husky and low, ‘You filthy… little… fucking… whore. You… filthy… little… fucking… slut,’ raining blows until Becky’s climax subsided and her ass burned in agony all of a sudden. His words had joined with Becky’s in a brief opera of domination that had pushed the young woman over the brink.
    Tears of relief and pain welled in Becky’s eyes and she collapsed across her boss’s desk, her face turned away. Martin curled his body around his new-found plaything’s prostrate form and reached out a tender hand to brush her brunette hair away from her cheek. ‘Come over to the couch,’ he said, his voice soft and reassuring, and Becky let him lead her there. Martin cuddled her, folding long arms around her, clearing the hair from around Becky’s shining face and raising it to his with a finger under the chin, tender now and concerned at Becky’s flushed, tear-stained cheeks.
    Only now did it occur to her that he had never locked his office door. Just a few minutes ago that thought, and the risk of discovery it carried with it, might have added profoundly to her excitement. Now, it made her wonder what kind of a place she had been working in for a whole year, and what clues – or cues – she could possibly have missed. And, with her pulse slowing, her ass smarting and her English boss stroking her face, she looked forward to the delightful prospect of domination at home, and domination at work. Perhaps a woman could serve two masters, and she would have her wish to be a lifestyle slave fulfilled, albeit in this unusual way, after all.

Stuck for Words – Paul Scott
    ‘Shan’t!’ cried Manda. A petulant toss of her black bob, and as much of a wiggle of her