Monday's Writing. Yes, I should have been hard at work.....

At His Convenience.

In dawn’s early light, the sky an iridescent violet, the shrill tone of her iphone cut through the sleepy silence of her bedroom, as effectively as a chainsaw. She focused muzzily on the projected display of her clock, the ceiling telling her that it was 4.47am, as the relentless ringing of her phone demanded her attention, a knot of fear balling in her stomach. After all, it’s only really bad news, when you get called this early, surely? The number was withheld, her imagination flipped wildly out of control and the rising acid in her stomach made her almost dry gag on her own fear.

Slowly, with a more than discernible tremor in her voice, she answered, giving her name, silently waiting for her world to come crashing down. Her perfect world.

It was him.

Her Boss.

The familiar voice, clipped and precise, but with rich mellifluous edges.

“Good morning, my precious, I hope I find you well?”

A wave of relief swept through her body, she felt as if she was about to burst into tears and she tasted the metallic tang of blood, realizing that she had bitten deeply into her bottom lip, in her agitated state.

He would like that very much, if he knew, she always believed that he had more than a hint of the sadistic about him, the evil Bastard.

Regaining some semblance of composure, she cleared her throat and switched quickly into professional mode-she had been his personal assistant for nearly 5 years, organizing his business life with calm, mechanical efficiency and even more effort had been exerted in addressing his out of office needs, whether it was booking theatre tickets and flowers for his wife, cage diving trips with Great White Sharks in South Africa, for his bored and flighty Mistress, or more recently, arranging for a particularly repugnant and financially ambitious Russian escort girl to melt away, like fog on a spring morning.

“Good morning Sir, how can I help you this morning?”

“Julia, I need you suited, booted and ready to go in one hour-we have a situation with the japanese investors. I’ll pick you up at your apartment.

The line died, he was gone and she sat there in the half light, quickly running through the mental checklist of what she needed to do, in order to ready herself, in the remaining 59 minutes and 13 seconds before he arrived. Experience told her that he wouldn’t be late, not by a second.

Showering quickly, she decided that her hair would have to be held up in a stern bun today, the Japanese respected her looking ruthlessly cool and she just didn’t have the time-something had to give, if she were to make his deadline., although she would save time by not having to select what to wear: Years of experience and a substantial salary had given her a wardrobe full of identical charcoal business suits and a drawer packed to bursting point with fabulously, witheringly expensive Lingerie, Lace and fine silk, her defiant stab at the corporate world of studious, serious plutocracy.

His Maserati was waiting, the exhausts snorting lazily in the cool air, as she click clacked across the marble floor of the apartment blocks’ reception area, pausing very briefly to make the smallest of small talk with the elegantly resplendent doorman, his long frock coat and top hat an homage to her obvious wealth and standing, in this most exclusive of dwellings, even at this most ungodly of hours.

He barely acknowledged her presence, the passenger door swung open and she was immediately under the hypnotic smell of his aftershave and the finest Italian buckskin, the aroma’s combining to send her slightly askew, just for a second, her heart missing a beat, as she settled into the seat, ready for a busy day, at his side, waiting for him to begin delegating, in his calm, yet utterly assertive way.

He said nothing, quietly concentrating on the road, in his precise, yet dangerously fast way, his years spent as a gentleman racing driver oh, so noticeable, as he carved easily through the morning Grand Prix of battered white vans and London Taxi’s, their drivers’ no doubt philosophizing on the merits of allowing women the vote, illegal immigrants and the offside rule.

After what seemed like an age, he indicated and slowed the car to a halt, in a deserted bus stop and turned to her, to speak.

“As you know, we have a situation. I have called a meeting and I want you to be my wing girl. This is the chance to shine that you have craved, all these years. The chance that you so obviously deserve. Make me proud.”

Utterly taken aback by his words, dumbstruck by his offer, she struggled to speak, to put thanks into words.

Before she had a chance to speak, he held his hand up and almost barked: “However, there is a price to pay,  a dowry, if you like.”

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a highly polished spherical object, the size of a large duck egg, gleaming in the morning sunlight.

“From this moment forward, you will wear this, at all times, during your working day. Yes, it is what you think it is. And yes, I’m deadly serious.”

As soon as he finished speaking, without pausing to hear her reply, he reached over and firmly grasped her knees, pushing them apart, with unstoppable intent. Her soft, shocked protestations falling on very deaf, extremely disinterested ears, as he pushed her skirt higher and found the warm satin of her panties, roughly forcing his fingers inside them, exposing the pink folds of her cunt to his hungry, lust filled eyes.

She desperately tried to force his hands away, tried to reason with him, but his strength and will were too strong, his calm words too controlling. “Wear this, my precious slut and the world will be yours.”

Slowly, like an ebbing tide, she acquiesced to his whim, his probing fingers deftly inserting the cold ball of steel, as he gently fingered her most private flesh, tracing electrifying circles on the hardening nub of her clit, she realized she was trying to suppress a deep mewling, testament to her rising pleasure under his hand.

“Good girl, I’m so glad you can see things from my perspective”, he growled.

The gravelly tones in his voice and cobalt shimmer in his eyes turning her on, even more.

“Let me show you my part trick.”

He pulled a remote control key fob from his pocket, polished to the same pristine state as the egg, now nestling inside her.

“Enjoy.”

The word hung in the air, held aloft on a tide of intrigue and wild anticipation.

She shuddered involuntarily, as the egg came alive inside her, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through her taught, shapely frame.

“Of course, I will use this responsibly, your welfare is my prime concern,” he stated in his measured, business-like tones, carefully repositioning her panties and smoothing her skirt back into place.

“You do need to understand that you are to be used, at my convenience.”

“Now then, let’s get to that damn meeting.”