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Thursday morning was a distracted nightmare. I could tell all my coworkers would be murmuring, “is that girl all right?” to each other all afternoon. Having him stand next to me to open the safe was nearly impossible and he seemed to not notice there was a human near him, forget a human shaking with fear and desire. In a terror I had picked a light colored skirt, and then realized I couldn’t wear any of my ‘sexy’ undewear with it, because it was all dark. I instead put on one of my usual dark tailored ones, cursing the tightness, but relieved at least that it had a kick-slit so I could run. Ordinarily I wear stockings with skirts, but I didn’t want to picture the angry yank and rip if I wore them today. Obviously I couldn’t go completely bare – I couldn’t totally throw caution to the wind – I would have been very uncomfortable anyway. 

We brushed against each other in the break room first thing in the morning. Outside of forced encounters we had never touched – I’m not even sure if we shook hands when we met. I don’t know if he meant to or not, I felt a gravitational pull towards him, but the way he treated me publicly (and privately!) led me to believe it was a mistake. I could have dropped to my knees there, public humiliation and firing be damned. Laurie came in jauntily through the doorway and crowed, “oh look at those shoes!” to me. If this had happened before Monday, or even if Glenn wasn’t in the room I would have showed off, but I knew, and he likely knew, I was wearing them for him. Red leather stilettos, and I picked them from my closet because I pictured him grasping the heels in his single hand, pinching my ankles together, making escape difficult, as I lay over his lap once more. “Uh, yeah, I felt flirty today,” I responded, trying desperately to discover my ordinary flippancy and cadence. Both of them laughed and walked out, leaving me panicked and anticipating. 

I kept expecting an email – an interoffice memo or chat from him to give me direction. But I also tried to stay public, practically leashed to my desk. Once again, I didn’t know what I wanted. Or, I knew what I wanted but knew I shouldn’t. “Go take your lunch,” the woman who shared my desk said. So I did. I could have walked out the front door but I went downstairs. I felt like a prey animal, all wide eyes and stuttering, hesitant steps. I didn’t want (or…?) to be manhandled at quite the same level as Wednesday. I wished I hadn’t worn the pumps, as I exited the ladies room, the clicking was too loud, placed me too obviously. I hadn’t noticed it on the carpet upstairs. I glanced around the doorframe, sure he’d be sitting on the couch again. He wasn’t. Maybe he had been busy as I left for lunch. I stepped further out and then felt his presence, once again behind me, against the wall instead of out in the open. As I whirled to face him something slippery and smooth lassoed around my wrist. His even little teeth showed themselves; not a smile, more like a victorious snarl. He’d slid the open part of his tie over my left wrist. “I may have noticed your shoes, but I guess you didn’t notice I dressed up too, wearing a tie today”. He pulled me in close by winding the tie around his fist. “I need an enthusiastic ‘yes’ again – tell me you want me and tell me you’ve been waiting for me.” I felt hot and dry and scared. I tried to recapture that feeling of his warm body and that hunger but I mostly felt like panicking. As if he knew, or simply desired further torment he bent closer and brought my bound hand up against his jaw. Instead of staying stiff like it had on Tuesday, it fell naturally against his cheek, like anyone caressing anyone’s face. Not only did this make it seem like a normal, romantic encounter, or at least gently intimate the contact did seem to soften my muscles. “You can hurt me if you want,” he said. I didn’t necessarily appreciate his tone, like I couldn’t do much damage anyway. I knew what he meant was ‘scratch me, make a point, mark me so others will have to ask questions, so that I’ll be branded’. So, of course I didn’t. “No, I want you, I’ve been waiting for you.” “I’m not going to keep asking you past this point – unless I want to hear you whining. So be sure you mean it”. I finally actually looked up at him, “no. I want you. I’ve been waiting for you.” I said in a voice more stable and confident than I wondered. That snarl again and the danger was back. He moved so fast. I was spun around, and the other wrist tied tightly to the loop in the first. I could see the blue tail of it hanging down by my hips as my arms dangled. Then his foot viper-fast kicked out at the backs of my knees, not with much force, just unbalancing. I felt the press of the leather there and my toes slipping backwards as I fell heavily against the arm of the couch, my chest knocking hard enough against it to feel like breasts were instantly bruised and my breath forced out in one hard puff. As I tried to take in a big breath, his hips were against mine, his knees spreading mine aside, pushing me up and forward, so I bent at the waist over the arm, instead of teeter tottering on my breast bone. Again, like a deer I froze so scared of and desiring this heavy contact. But he pulled away again, a little, pulling my arms down towards my ass, and pulling towards the floor. A different ache then the wrestling hold started pumping between my shoulder blades. Slaps fell too fast, it seemed, to be coming from his one free palm, from buttocks to thighs. As I gasped and realized this hurt more than the first time my skirt was pushed up over hips to bunch around my waist, caught up against the couch. It continued and I felt blood rushing to my skin, I felt the color red. I started to shy my hips away instead of raising them up, attempting to squirm away. I spread my trapped fingers over my buttocks. He crushed my fingers in his fist that held the tie for a second and I curled them against my palms in dismay. Two more blows landed and he said “be quiet or bury your face”. I did, ‘bury my face’ feeling a lump in my throat. When I was worried I would cry in earnest, and felt tendrils of hair escaping my pins he stopped. He slid his hand under my panties, laying his palm against my buttocks. I stayed still, and then his fingers sought out the split between my labia. I felt the end of the tie, cool and silky against my skin. I couldn’t help it, I made some kind of noise and he grunted in anger, I felt him walk alongside me, so he was facing my side and the back of the couch, instead of my backside, none too gently tugging the tie and ripping his hand from my lips. I felt an immense pressure on my head. His shoe was against the back of my head, pressing it into the cushion! Once again slim, probing fingers were sliding as though oiled, this time quickly and confidently finding my clitoris. I could cry with the degradation of having a shoe (a shoe!) pressed into my hair, making bobby pins bite into my scalp, making breath difficult to come but… 

I loved picturing his lankiness sprung over my body, I liked the ache in my nose and chin, pressed into the springs, sweaty and weepy and snotty, I liked the growing tightness in my shoulders, the rug-burny feeling of my too-tightly tied hands and I liked the exceeding gentleness he was using to roll my clitoris between his thumb and forefinger.

Too quickly, it seemed, to me, I came all over his hand, collapsing into the couch, my legs limp underneath me. First he lifted his foot off and I turned my head to the side, gasping. Simultaneously the tie was being slid off my wrists, like it hadn’t been knotted at all. He lifted me bodily upright by sliding his hands under my armpits and lifting under my shoulders. He glanced across my face, absentmindedly- like a parent ensuring their child looked passable for college. “Splash cold water on your face – you look like you have a fever. And put your hair back up.” As I slid across the tile floor, feeling like the insides of my thighs were totally slicked down I saw him carelessly putting his much-wrinkled tie back on. He gave it that back-and-forth jerk men do to make sure it’s centered and left me again.

I glanced at my watch, which had made a chain-link impression against my wrist. I still had ten minutes left! I sat quietly, dabbing my face thoughtlessly.

Someone eventually laughed at Glenn, telling him that he’d fucked up his tie. Tired,  satisfied and numb I stared blankly at the tie that someone had no doubt bought him to match his eyes as we locked up and left.

NSFW: yes

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