Today was Sexretary Day, which means I got to work from W’s home in slutwear, high heels, chains and tit collars. Hooray!
Last night, W’s Sexretary was apparently drinking too much and let some corporate secrets out at the dinner she attended with him and the CEO’s of his competition. So…he had to punish her.
Have you ever seen a brank? It’s that flat piece of metal in my–her–mouth. He silenced her, but not because the thing worked as a gag, but because it did something else, something to her head, something about the way it laid in her mouth, stuffing the words back in her throat, past the gagging that she was fighting, stuffing her back inside her head.
Then he caned her.
There are consequences for misbehavior.
She gasped, and struggled, but she couldn’t get the sounds out to combat the pain of the strikes. She couldn’t even get her mind past the metal forced into her mouth, pinning her tongue down, choking her (and yet not, she could breathe, she could, even if her head was sure she couldn’t) much less let the pain out, expel it, as the strikes landed. For those moments she was only in that space in her head, unable to escape, even to let out the pain.
Oh, and the spit. She fought it at first. For maybe…Christ…five minutes? Fought the drool. The humiliation, the wetness, like urinating on herself–
(Another memory, now, one that hasn’t been mine until this moment. They told me it happened, but until this moment I hadn’t actually remembered it…
It is last Friday night, after the Naughti Gras. I’m drunk. I have to pee. We get out of the car at W’s…and they tell me if I have to pee to do it, right there, in the driveway, outside. And I crouch…and lift my dress (I am naked beneath)…and piss, right there on the ground at midnight in the driveway of W’s house in the city. “That is so fucking hot,” I hear W say, but all I can feel is the warmth of the piss running out of me, feel the heat of it in the cold air, the chill of the cold night on the bare skin of my back, of my thighs, of the steel rings in my cuntlips… And yes. God it was hot. It’s making me hot now…)
Back to the misbehaving sexretary. She didn’t know how long the brank and the caning lasted (minutes? hours?) before he finally took her down, satisfied that he had taught her a lesson about keeping her mouth closed. About not spilling corporate secrets. Now, he would put her to her real use.
He pulled her into the bedroom and fucked her silly.
I don’t even remember much about the sex, to be honest. I was still so far in my head, so deep in the space that being made voiceless, tongueless, mouthless, had pushed me.
I do remember waking up, either literally or out of subspace, to find myself snuggled against him in bed.
“Do we have coffee creamer?” I asked abruptly. This seemed of paramount importance at that moment. And of course it was. I was his Working Girl the next day. His Sexretary.
“No…” he said, a little cautiously, maybe.
“Well then we better go get some,” I said.
“We can go if you wear nothing but a thong, those red stripper heels and your red coat.”
I don’t think I hesitated a jot. I must have still been stoned from the play earlier. Or really really desperate to be the Best Sexretary EVAR.
Away we went, to Schnuckies up on Loughborough, to buy creamer.
And when we came home, he made sure that his Sexretary wouldn’t escape before morning came. She slept in rope and heels all night.
It’s good to be the Sexretary.
