Sexy as Hell Box Set (14 page)

The sender could only be Zara.

My email alert chirruped, and I sat on my chair and brought up my inbox screen. The most recent message was from a Mistress Z. I asked myself how she’d got my postal and email address then realised it was out there for anyone to find. I owned a business, after all, and she’d been here before.

The title was…Oh, God, what was she
doing
sending me mail like that? I could only be relieved that my emails were exempt from my IT employee having access. I stared at the subject line again.

ARSE STRETCHING.

Face growing hot, I clicked to open what I knew would be a filthy little note from a filthy little harlot.

Dear Mr Doesn’t-Know-It-All-But-Still-Thinks-He-Does,

By now you should have received your present, providing Moody Mary has given it to you. By the subject of this email you’ll have some idea of what I want you to do with the gift, but in case you think it’s just something I plan to use on you later, I’ll dash that assumption right now. I’m nice like that.

You need to put the plug up your arse while you are at work. Yes, you read that right. You need to wet it if you haven’t got any lube handy—and I’m guessing you don’t, being the prude that you are—and stick it up your bum. You have to wear it all day. Do NOT remove it until I say so. I expect it to still be there when we meet later. And the location for tonight’s venture is at Eden Street, 8 o’clock sharp. And
don’t
be late.

Mistress Z

With an extremely hot face, I stared at the screen but no longer saw the words. They blurred into a single mass, and certain lines from it floated through my head.
Mr Doesn’t-Know-It-All-But-Still-Thinks-He-Does. You need to put the plug up your arse. Being the prude that you are.
Prude? I wasn’t a prude. Was I? Clearly, Zara thought I was. Well, I’d have to do something about that. Prove her wrong. Make her eat her words. And while she was at it she could eat my cock.

I grabbed the plug and removed it from the packaging, holding it up for inspection. My heart gave a little skip—God, I’d definitely need to remember to take my pill when I got home—and turned it around. Confused by a ring on the end and what appeared to be two rectangular flaps, I picked up the packaging and turned it over. Unfortunately, there weren’t any instructions on the back. Placing the plug on the desk and hoping Mary didn’t revert to her usual behaviour of knocking as she breezed in, I opened an internet browser, brought up Google, and, cringing, typed ANAL PLUG into the search bar. A page of links came up, but that wasn’t what I wanted. I needed visuals to see what those flaps were for. I clicked the IMAGES tab and flung myself back in alarm at the sight of various plugs—some pictured alone, some actually up arses—face growing hotter by the second.

“Oh my fucking good God…”

I shut down the page, quickly deleted my history and shoved the plug onto my lap, off the desk. Out of view.

I stared at it, clenched my arse cheeks and felt my dick growing hard. She had a goddamn cheek that bloody Zara, invading my working day like this. Didn’t she understand how much I had to do?

Grabbing the phone on my desk and hitting number one, I heard Mary’s voice.

“Yes, Mr Partridge?”

“Can you hold my calls please, I want to get my head down on something, don’t want my concentration disturbed.”

“Certainly. Anything else?”

Yeah, do you have any lube in your desk drawer?
“No, that’s all, thanks.”

I dropped the phone into the base unit then headed into my private bathroom. One of the first things on my list when designing the home of Partridge and Partners was to have an integral toilet in all of the partner’s offices. Who wanted a boss who hung around the general staff loos? That was where my employees could have a few minutes of undisturbed gossip; they didn’t need to think that their superiors were in one of the cubicles.

I locked the door. The air-con came on, as did the spotlights that shone down on the walnut panelling. I dropped my suit trousers, filled the sink with water, then shoved at my boxers, freeing my now engorged dick.

Getting a hard-on at work was becoming a bit of a damn habit.

I stood the plug on the sink, its blackness shocking against the white porcelain, and gave my cock a few pleasant strokes. Thoughts of the warm wetness that surrounded it when I’d slid into Zara the evening before filled my mind, and a pull of desire tugged at my belly. Again my arsehole clenched, and I couldn’t help but think of Carlos getting impaled on the giant dildo Zara had produced in the show.

Setting one foot up on the toilet lid, I circled my tightly puckered back-hole with my fingertip. It had only ever been an exit in the past; the notion of entering had never crossed my mind. I’d never fucked a woman’s arse, never had a great desire to, but now here was me, bending to Zara’s will and seriously thinking about shoving a butt plug into my rectum.

I carried on wanking, reached for the plug and dipped the end in the water. Cursed when the water dripped down my leg onto my sock and brown leather shoe. The globule balanced and then trickled to the sole.

I pressed the smooth tip of the plug against my hole, clenched my teeth and eased it in, just a fraction.

Whoa, that felt weird. Not painful, just weird.

My cock grew further at the rudeness of my action. I carried on masturbating, building up the pressure. Took a deep breath and penetrated my arse another inch, enjoying each stretching sensation of my tight ring as the taper increased.

A long, low groan escaped my lips, rumbled around the room, and I squatted slightly, as if encouraging my own movements, wanting more.

I gave it; the damn thing must have been halfway in by now. I could feel it touching my insides. Pressing on something that was immediately greedy for sensation. A lump that was sensitive, hungry, and just being stroked by the very tip of the plug had a shiver swirling through my pelvis.

My knees shook, so did my chest when I heaved in a breath. I glanced to the right and saw my reflection in the full-length, smoky mirror.

Jesus bloody Christ.

The image that greeted me made my heart rate scatter. What the hell was I doing? I looked lewd, insane, like I’d decided to make my own porno movie.

Fucking hell.

I was in my bathroom at work, minus my pants, shoving a sexy toy up my arse and, to top it all, having a wank.

That wasn’t me. Since when did Mr Victor Partridge, CEO of Partridge and Partners, behave this way?

Since never.

Fucking Zara, she’d screwed with my head, my identity, and now with my professional life.

It had to stop.

I yanked at the butt plug, threw it in the sink and then pulled up my trousers. My cock had deflated at the ridiculousness of the situation, shrinking and shrivelling in shame at what it had so nearly indulged in.

Hurriedly I scrubbed the plug, emptied the sink, washed my hands and splashed water on my flushed cheeks.

Zara had gone too far. I’d shove the plug up her sexy little bum if that was what she wanted, but it was staying away from mine.

I was a man, I didn’t get arse-fucked.

Ever.

Impatience and frustration pummelled my insides. I could barely concentrate on Fifi and Carlos, who were fucking at my command. I held leads to their studded collars in one hand, a whip in the other. They were both blindfolded, giving the impression they had no idea who they were with—though, of course, they did.

The crowd were enraptured, many close to the glass, watching the final throes of the passion I’d allowed to build to volcanic levels, erupt from them. They were almost all masturbating, getting ready to spill their spunk in synchrony with the stars of the show.

But where the hell was Victor? I’d told him specifically to be here, eight p.m. with that damn butt plug up his arse. He should be in room four, slack-mouthed, horny, penetrated on my instruction.

How dare he disobey me, especially when I’d done everything he’d wanted last night!

I thrashed Carlos’ buttocks. He screamed, increasing the fervour with which he was humping Fifi. I knew that would finish him off; a few extra licks of pain and he’d be gone. Fifi had come twice already, I’d seen to that, so if she missed out now, as Carlos came ahead of time, she couldn’t exactly grumble. Getting paid to orgasm was a treat in itself. To be paid for multiples, well, that was just gluttony.

I raised my arm, struck Carlos, the sight of another streak of red over his taut buttocks not cooling my irritation the way it normally would.

“Come now,” I demanded, whipping him again, then again and again, flying my arm over and over, the long leather rope an extension of me. “Come now, slave!”

He flung back his head and roared. The deep animalistic bellow of release thundered through the room. It vibrated through me, settling in my soul. Anger, release, desire and pleasure were a heady soup of emotions that swirled in my stomach.

I dropped my arm to my side, let the whip rest on the floor like a coiled snake, and stared at room four. Still empty.

Carlos and
Fifi panted out their climaxes, the scent of their sweat and arousal heavy in the air.

Normally, I too would be aroused. Sometimes I thought I could come just from ordering them to, from teasing and torturing them into their state of acute lust and then letting it burst out. This act was one of my favourites to perform.

Which was why I had so wanted Victor to see it. To understand about fucking and not making love. Carlos and Fifi had fucked. Sure, they were friends, may even have been sex buddies a year or so ago. But what I’d just done was turn on two people so much, they didn’t care who they found release with. They just wanted cock or pussy. A way to find relief from the gnawing need and the desperate desire inside them. I’d made them crazed with want, and nothing could bring them down from their highs but a fuck—a really good, hard fuck.

Making love just wouldn’t cut it.

Victor needed to see that, to understand that satisfaction could be found with anyone or anything. A fancy meal and a stunning view wasn’t necessary to feel sated and replete. A Domme with a whip and his willingness to submit could be just as rewarding.

I didn’t linger after my show. Fifi asked if I wanted to head into town for a trawl of the bars. I declined, daring her with my eyes to bring up the subject of Victor again.

She didn’t, so I pleaded a headache then slipped out the back towards my car, faux fur coat wrapped tightly against the wind chill, shoes crunching on frost already layering the ground.

“Zara. Wait.”

I turned at the sound of Carlos’ voice.

“Hey,” I said, slightly irritated. I had somewhere to be. “What’s up?”

He strode towards me, his big bulk looming through the darkness, and, as usual wearing nothing but low-slung, faded jeans despite the cold. “I was going to ask you the same thing, honey. Everything okay?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

He shrugged. “You just were really…hot tonight.”

“Good, that’s what the customers pay for.” I tipped my head, sensing something had been unsaid. “Is heat a problem?”

“No problem.” He ran his hand over his buttocks and winced. “I like pain, thrive on it, especially when it’s delivered so expertly and at just the right moment.”

“Good.” I pressed my keyfob. My car beeped and flashed, the second of orange light brightening Carlos’ face. “I aim to please.”

“And you most certainly did.” He opened my car door for me.

I slipped in and went to shut it, but he kept it held ajar.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home. I have a headache.” I scowled and tugged the door. It didn’t budge.

“You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”

“Him?” I figured playing dumb was the best tactic. Try and harness some of the bloody gossip that was raging around the club.

“Your virgin, what’s his name, Vince?”

“Victor, and he’s not mine, and no, I’m not going to see him. I told you, I’m going home.”

Carlos pressed his lips together, nodded and studied me through the shadows. “Go easy on him, he’s not one of us.”

“I know he isn’t, but what difference does it make, you saying that, when I’m going home?”

“I’m just making the point. If you catch a good ‘un, don’t scare him the fuck away.”

“He isn’t a good ‘un, he’s a…prissy prick, and I don’t care how much I scare him. We’ve got a deal and he’s just broken it. He needs to learn a lesson.”

“So you
are
going to him?” He gave a satisfied twist of his mouth.

“What the bloody hell has it got to do with you?”

I tugged the door again. This time Carlos let it go and it slammed, hard.

He crossed his arms and gave me a stern look as I revved the engine and pulled out of the small car park.

Who the hell did Carlos think he was? I was his Domme, just like I was Victor’s, and I demanded,
insisted
upon absolute subservience and co-operation at all times. And if I wasn’t going to get it, I would just have to punish those who thought they could misbehave.

The journey into the heart of the city didn’t take long. There was no work traffic around, just late-night shoppers and taxis carrying people out for nice candlelit meals and romantic theatre trips.

I strode into the lobby of Victor’s building, spotted the doorman, Reginald, and sent a dazzling smile his way.

“Good evening, Miss,” he said, touching his peaked navy hat. “How are you?”

“I’m great, thanks. You had a nice day?”

“All the better to for seeing you.” He gave me a wink and I treated him to an extra sway of hip rolling as I walked to the elevator, making my arse swish just a little bit more than was appropriate in front of a man nearly sixty years my senior. I hoped it didn’t send his heart skipping.

I couldn’t help tapping my foot on the floor of the lift as it whizzed up to the penthouse level. Anger flooded my veins, indignation at being stood up, ignored.

Disobeyed.

One thing was certain, it would never happen again. Victor would now have to see exactly who he was dealing with. And if he didn’t have that damn butt plug in his arse when I got there, Heaven help him.

I knocked on his door, bypassing the bell and preferring to rap my knuckles on wood in an impatient, irritated way. He’d know it was me, just from that sharp sound, I was sure.

I had to bang twice before I heard the slide of a chain and the click of the Yale. My jaw was so tight I feared for my teeth.

And then I saw his face. He looked tired. He had rings beneath his eyes, his stubble was thick, and his hair, though shorter than when we’d first met, was sticking up and damp.

“It’s you,” he said, rubbing a hand over his chest.

My gaze was drawn to his naked torso and the scribble of dark hair at the centre of his sternum. He wore a pair of grey sweats which sat low on his hips and did nothing to disguise his package. His feet and chest were bare, and the scent of a woodsy shower gel filtered towards me.

“Yes,” I said, pushing past him and walking into his apartment. I kicked off my shoes. “Who the hell else would it be?”

He shut the door. “Um, no one. Visitors this late aren’t the norm in my world.”

“Victor, for God’s sake.” I hung up my coat then turned to him, hands on hips. “It’s just gone ten, hardly late.”

“I’ve done a fourteen-hour day. I’m bloody shattered. For me it’s late.”

He wandered past me, offering none of the niceties of yesterday: Do come in. I hope you’re hungry. Red or white?

“You shouldn’t work so hard.” I followed him with a feeling of concern. Watched him settle his long frame on the L-shaped sofa, in the corner so that he could sit with his legs up.

The TV was on, BBC news. The fire churned out a cheek-warming heat, and the lights of London twinkled through the big windows at the far end of the enormous room.

“There’s wine in the fridge,” he said, taking a sip from a bottle of beer and staring at the TV.

“I’m driving.” I set my handbag on a tall thin table that was pressed up against the wall. Over it hung a mirror. I glanced at my reflection and then spotted the package I’d sent on a straight-backed chair, courier delivery, to his office earlier. It looked suspiciously full.

The damn butt plug was still in the envelope.

I picked it up. The bloody nerve of him. Not only had he been a no-show, he also hadn’t followed my instructions about the plug.

“Why is this still in here?” I held the package aloft, shook it accusingly.

“Jesus, Zara,” he said, heavy-lidded gaze turning my way. “What the hell do you think you’re doing sending sex toys to my work? Anyone could have opened it.”

“I’ll send sex toys to your bloody parents’ house if I want to. And it was addressed to you, so who the hell else would open it?”

“I have a secretary, remember.”

“Ah, yes, the miserable old witch.” Oh, if she had opened it, I’d have paid good money to see the look on her face.

He said nothing, just shoved his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. He looked adorable all tired, freshly showered and almost naked. He really had no idea how gorgeous he was or that he had a body most blokes would have to spend hours in the gym to achieve. But I wasn’t about to point that fact out. Didn’t want him getting too confident—or worse, cocky.

“Victor, I really don’t think you’re taking our arrangement seriously.”

He tipped his head, studied me. Said nothing.

“This.” I tugged out the plug. “Should be up your damn arse, and you should have been at my show tonight. They were your orders.”

“Orders?”

“Yes, bloody orders, from me, your Mistress.” I walked around the sofa, past his feet and sat next to him with a bump. Dropped the plug on my lap.

“Zara, while this is all very interesting, our little rendezvous, I really can’t let it interfere with my work. It’s too important.”

“How could
this little thing
interfere with your work?” I pointed at the plug.

He huffed. “A, its not little, and B, do you have any idea what I do for a living?”

“Of course, you design buildings.” Did he think I was stupid or something?

“Yes, I’m also under consult for a new chemotherapy unit being built at The Marsden, giving advice on one of London’s most ancient chapels that is under threat of collapse and juggling over two dozen high-specification new homes. I have a team of eighteen people working for me, not including two partners and eleven administrative and financial staff. You really think I have time to go into my bathroom during the day and shove a damn plug up my arse?” He paused and shook his head, confusion washing over his features. “You really think I’d
want
to?”

I placed the plug on the table, took his beer from his hand and stood it alongside. “So that means you have, what, thirty-one personnel in your office, yes?”

“Yes.” He folded his arms, his biceps bulging outwards at the press of his knuckles.

“Well, I bet you,” I leant forward, allowed a smirk to dance on my lips, “that at any given time at least one, perhaps two of your staff are working with a plugged arse.”

He huffed out a breath; beer and a hint of mint. “I don’t think so.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Which shows how little you know.” I couldn’t resist any longer. I reached out and flattened that rogue lock of hair that was stretching from his crown for the ceiling. I stroked and petted it down with gentle caresses. “Why do you think they sell these things?” I asked softly.

“I dunno, for sex shows.” He shrugged but didn’t move away from me, despite the note of irritation in his voice.

“And tell me, Victor, tell me the truth about something.” We were so close, our lips almost touching. Heat from his chest radiated onto mine, seeping through my thin white sweater onto my tits.

“What?” His voice was quieter, as though he was calming, his mood switching from tired irritation to something much more familiar to me—sexual interest. His gaze was locked on mine, blue eyes that seemed to see more of me each time I let him look this close.