Tag Archives: office
I don’t remember the train ride home.
I don’t remember Penn Station or the cab or opening the door to my apartment. All I know is that I saw things on a Sunday in Autumn. I wrote them down in a little book and I gave them away and then I was lying in my dingy little bed.
I felt very still and very cool and very much a different person. At some point I stopped shaking. At some point I stopped crying. Now it was like I had woken up and there was dew on everything and everything was new. Continue reading
The dungeon. It’s cliché, I know. This kind of place was never part of my kink and really it still isn’t. The aesthetic is just all wrong. The leather and the stone and the seriousness of it all always seemed silly to me. I could never have imagened, let’s say four years ago, that this was a place I’d like to frequent. Then again, I do a lot of things now that I never would have imagined doing a few years ago.
Truth be told the way the place looked is important, certainly, but not vital to the games I wanted to play. I think of it like the library I go to, the one near my office. Twelve blocks away there is the most beautiful library in the city, possibly the country; the Main Branch of The New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street. It is huge, a marble monument to knowledge. It is atmospheric, with history and vast ceilings painted with murals. It’s epic, but you can’t borrow books from it unless you have special permission.
A block away from my office there is a very small, very dingy library. It is painted institution green and mostly has large print best sellers, but they will order any book I want from any library in the city and they have all of the things I need. It is easy to get to, it is easy to use. It is handy, like the dungeon.
The dungeon is a place where you can play. Where you can scream as loud as you want and hit as hard as your partner can take and you don’t have to worry about neighbors hearing or roommates coming home. You can just play.
I am writing up the notes from my two presentations at KinkForAll DC and while writing them I was looking around my hard drive and found some old fan fiction I wrote. I haven’t written any in a while and most of the old stuff I wrote was in a live journal that has since been thoroughly deleted.
Still, just to show that I am not talking completely from left field, here is a Buffy The Vampire Slayer story I wrote long long ago. It is Fem Slash, not pure Slash, but I will look around and see if I can find one of those somewhere, just to show that yes, Jack has written about boys fucking.
PS: This is horrible.
It started with Jones from accounting. He was called into an office, so routine, and then security came and unplugged his computer. Donna Moore was next, she was some kind of account rep. In a week Baker, Lee and Hernandez were all gone.
They all walked out of that office with same dull numb looks on their face, like they’d seen a ghost.
They took on all of accounting and all of the account reps, cutting roughly a third of their numbers. Though I had some evidence I was safe, you never know.
Katie had been this ever-present force in my office life. Nothing serious, nothing real, just flirting. A passing glance, a little smile, a look that lasted a second too long. We never even really spoke much but she suddenly became my best friend when the trouble started.
She would swing over to my desk when the smokers went out on their breaks. We had the bond of the clean lunged.
I had always noticed her. Tallish, a little broad shouldered and obviously originally from the Midwest. Some of those Midwest girls have a certain build; a little stocky like field hockey players – and they never lose that. She was that type, but with the poise and fashion sense of someone who had lived in Manhattan for a few years. Shoulder length chocolate brown hair that was shiny and smooth, a very expensive cut. She wore designer clothes and had a million shoes. She liked to look good and smell good. Continue reading
The prompt was: A handsome European classical musician cornering a girl who works in his agent’s office.
She didn’t say anything when she walked in. She just brushed me aside and sauntered in with that strut she had. She looked around as she pulled each finger of her glove and then took them off and slipped them into her purse.
“You don’t look sick.” she said looking me up and down as I closed and locked the door.
“I mean, you’re pale and your hair is dull and lifeless, but I’m guessing you always look like that.”
Why was she in my apartment? Obviously Mister McIntyre sent her. Why her?
“As I can tell from your silly little scrunched up face and crossed eyes you are obviously trying to fathom why I’m here.”
Her gloves were finally off. She was walking around my living room, a look of amusement on her face. Continue reading
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
There was a line and it had been crossed.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew how I looked, how I acted. I was his puppy dog, his whipping post, his girl Friday. I swooned around him, I knew I did that. For all my dedication and obedience I got a pat on the head, not even on the butt. I was sexless on his eyes, but at the same time he took advantage of my attraction to him. I was alright with that. In fact it made me work harder. I wasn’t doing it to win his heart or get a kiss. I served Mister McIntyre because I wanted to and it made me happy and he deserved it.
This was something else though, something new and of scared me more than all the secrets, all the waiting and all the frustration. My heart had given up racing. There was a new fear and it was slow and methodical.
He didn’t call me into his offce for the rest of the day. He came back from lunch and as he opened his door I could see the little bit of pink on his desk.
He went to a meeting and had a drink with a client. When he came back he didn’t even look at be as he walked inside. His face was as irreadable as ever. I was sitting like a death row inmate. The calm of inevadable doom had come over me.
At five he came out I the office holding his jacket, his briefcase and my diary. He placed the book on my desk and looked down at me.
“Interesting. I wonder what Jung would say.” his eyes were on me and I was frozen.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I tired again and it was only a croak.
“I don’t rem-”
“Make it up, then. Just finish it.”
He put his hat on and slipped his arm into his jacket.
“You’re a pretty girl, Abigail. It’s too bad you don’t have much luck with love.” his smile was small, but enough to hurt.
“But you certainly do have a healthy imagination.”
I didn’t cry on the train. I opened the book and looked through the pages wondering what he’d read, wondering what he skipped. I wondered how much of me he knew. Fingering my silly words, my Catholic school script. His shadow now loomed over my first date and my first kiss. The awkward shyness that kept me home on Friday nights and the dirty thoughts that made my hands creep under my sheets at night or up my skirt…
A flash of dark ink caught my attention. It was on the next to last page I wrote in.
There I was in Mister McIntyre’s office, my skirt pulled up and my hand pressed tightly in-between my pantyhose and body. Soaking wet from his eyes on me, rubbing myself fast, hoping not to get caught, maybe hoping to get caught. When it came it was so hard I nearly fell down.
And then in his dark bold print, the kind he uses to add an addendum to a contract, he wrote:
Interesting. I’ll have to try and hurry back from lunch from now on.
He knew. I wasn’t his mousy little secretary anymore. Well, I was but I was something else too. A dirty little pervert. I wanted to cry, I wanted to quit, I wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave.
In my stomach this poison shame was bubbling up, but the whole time it was mixed with something else. All the time I was clenching my fists and barely aware of the ache. Arousal and shame so tied together I didn’t know where one started and the other began. So bad in so many ways.
What would come that morning? Would he laugh at me or punish me or scratch some fraction of the itch that was always there when he was around? What would I see when I looked up at those piercing eyes?
At home I forgot to eat dinner. I threw myself on the bed and look out my pen and opened my diary, which suddenly felt new and electric and frightening. I put my pen down on the page where I’d left off. I waited, I tried to remember. I couldn’t really write what happened in my dream, could I? Now that I knew he would read it. Now that I knew every dark fantasy would be exposed to him.
I had to try. I closed my eyes and pictured the hotel room. Marcy with her bratty little grin. Mister MacIntyre walking towards me, taking the rope. He was going to wipe that smile off her face. I’d watch and help. I’d be good and do what he told me to do, to the letter. Marcy wouldn’t. That’s why he was tying her down.
My hands were on my body as I remembered. The weight of the day had made me weak, but hungry. My breasts were sore under my bra, I got out of bed and pulled off my shirt and skirt and underthings. Naked, I laid back down, I went back to the diary where I hadn’t added anything to the dream but a blue dot where my pen rested. I laid back down and rubbed the soreness from my neck, smoothed the little lines my brassiere left under my breasts.
My nipples were so sensitive I almost couldn’t touch them. So much arousal and fear all day. My body was so primed, pulled so tight the lightest touch was almost painful. I imagined being on Mister McIntyre’s big chair, naked. When my fingers trailed down to the soft hairs between my legs I was scared to touch. It was like a cold drink after a day in the desert.
Then the warm wet welcome, the familiarity of my body as well as the shame. It wouldn’t take long. I was already climbing. I could finish the story when I was done, free of the burden of all this desire.
The sun hurt my eyes. My cheek stung. I awoke to find the edge of my diary resting on my face, the hard cardboard digging into my skin.
Morning? I looked at the clock and it read 8:20am. I rubbed my eyes knowing it was lying. 7:20am. I went to the livingroom, naked, and saw the same on the clock on the wall.
Panic. I didn’t finish it. I was late for work. I would be even later if I try and write something. I would try and write something on the train, but what if I couldn’t? I’d never been late in my entire life. How did this happen?
I picked up the phone on the wall in the kitchen. Some part of my brain had taken over. Damage control. I called the head of the secretarial pool.
“Hi Margie… It’s Abigail. I’m not feeling well, I’m sorry for the late notice but I can’t come in today.”
Margie was nice as always. She laughed because it was the first time I’d ever called in sick. She said she was glad I was human like every one else.
The idea of a whole day alone in the apartment was horrifying. My roommate Eloise was a dental assistant and she would be out all day. Even more terrifying was the image of Mister McIntyre coming in to see some temp from the steno pool at my desk. Someone who wouldn’t know how to take care of him the way I do. Plus he would know I failed. I really failed him for the first time.
With that I tumbled back into bed and cried.
The doorbell rang a little after eleven. When I sat up I knew it was him. I knew it without a doubt. I’d failed him, I’d called in sick when I wasn’t, I was a dirty girl who fingered herself in his office. I wasn’t even pretty enough to be his slut. I was just a mess. A servant who had outlived her usefulness and become pathetic.
I was still naked. I found a nightgown and slipped it on. I ran to the door and stood in front of it. The bell rang again and again.
My hand on the knob, turning, slowly, this was it. He would be in my apartment. He would fire me or fuck me or slap me. I don’t know which I was more afraid of.
And then the strangest thing happened. I opened the door and saw a black dressed, black gloved, perfectly manicured Marcy Elizabeth Spencer-Peterson.
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
April 19th, 1964
Half asleep, rolling around in my worn white sheets. The clock says I have a half an hour before I have to get up. My heart is already starting because of a half remembered dream.
In the dream there is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.
Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders.
He towers over her. He stand almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.
He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the night stand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips but he pushes her down.
Picking up the phone he presses one button and I answer.
“Abigail I’m going to need some rope.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
There I was at the door, dressed in my mousy brown skirt and my beige top with my hair in a ponytail and my glasses falling off my nose. Two thick coils of rope in my hands.
That’s what I had written in my diary that morning on the train into work. That’s what I had went to finish at lunch when Mister McIntyre came in. I left my sandwich on my desk and slipped my diary back into my drawer. Mister McIntyre called me in to take a letter. When we were finished he sat back in his hair and made a little steeple with his fingers the way he did and he rocked there and looked at me.
“I’d really prefer if business acquaintances didn’t call the office.”
I swallowed hard. Stupid heart revving up again. I wished he didn’t look at me like that. That examining look that makes it so I can’t move, but I can’t stay still. Deer in headlights doesn’t even start to explain it.
“You handled it well, though I’d prefer if you didn’t use anyone name on the phone. You never who is walking by.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I will never happen again.” I wanted to crawl away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get on my knees… on over his knees.
He cleared his throat. “You did fine, I’m just explaining the protocol for the future. You always exceed my expectations Abby.” and with that he turned around and looked out his window, the sign that I was dismissed.
I turned, scampered out, but just before I closed the door his voice pulled me back.
“What was that you were writing?”
Fear, icy and numbing my fingers on the doorknob.
“You were writing something as I came in, what was it?”
Lie. Make up anything. But I knew I couldn’t. I can’t lie to Mister McIntyre. I wouldn’t. He’d probably see through it anyhow.
“Nothing, sir. Just my diary. I… write in-” he cut off my mumbling.
“Speak up, Abby.”
“My diary, sir. I write in it at lunch sometimes.”
He considered this.
“What were you writing today?”
The panic was in my throat and I couldn’t speak. I felt like I was alone in an alley with a gang of thieves. No where to run.
“Just… a stupid thing. A dream. It was nothing-”
He cut me off again.
“Dreams can be very interesting, Abby. Haven’t you heard of the work of Jung?”
I didn’t know what to say. I just begged that this was the end of the conversation.
“Bring it in here. Leave it on my desk. I want to see what kind of dreams you are having.”
He didn’t say anything. There was silence. There was more silence. I looked up and his eyes were on mine. I almost never look him in the eyes and the power of that icy blue made me let go of the door knob.
“Bring it into my office and leave it on my desk.” he said, standing up and picking up his hat.
“I’ll read it when I get back from lunch.”
He walked towards me. His body suddenly close. He slipped past me, his chest brushing against me, the smell of him, the hugeness of him. Then he was gone. My legs were shaking so much I almost couldn’t sit down. The blood was draining from my body. I was starting to hyperventilate.
I wanted to go home, but I knew I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. There was only one thing to do, it wasn’t even a choice. I would put my little pink and purple striped diary on his desk. I would put it there and it would sit there on his big dark wood desk next to his fancy pens and his big black telephone and all of his newspapers and business things. My heart and my dirty thoughts just waiting.
And so I held my book to my chest and marched in feeling naked. I put it down and my eyes stung. I walked out and closed the door and sat back at my desk.
And then I waited.
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
It’s 11:45 and that means that Mister McIntyre is… he is in his meeting. He is in his hotel room right now. He is doing things, things that make me bite my lip just thinking about. How am I supposed to work? How am I supposed to act like nothing is going on. Right now at the Pierre Hotel he is fucking her. Right now he is doing it. Are they naked? Does he take off his socks? Does he make noise?
“Want to go to lunch with us Abigail?”
It’s Paula and Regina. Nice girls, but I’m nervous that someone will call. Something might happen. I have to guard the secrets.
“Oh, no thanks, I brought my lunch.”
They shrugged and giggled to each other. Whispering some little joke. Who cares what they think. Paula had a nose like a pig and her boss was that drunk Mister Grifford. Regina was nice enough, but she wasn’t very bright.
The phone ring and I took a deep breath before I picked it up.
“Fitzgerald Investment Group, Mister McIntyre’s office.”
Silence on the line. A sigh. More silence.
“Douglas McIntyre’s office, may I help you?” I said, a little louder.
“Hello. You’re the secretary, right?”
I knew it was her. I never heard her voice, but I knew. My heart was racing again. One of his secrets come to life with a real voice. Talking to me.
“Y.. yes. This is Abigail. How can I help you?”
There was a low chuckle.
“He’s not in, is he?” her voice was velvet. It made her jealous.
“N.. no. May I ask who’s calling?”
A long pause.
“You know who’s calling. I’m not going to be able to make my appointment and I don’t have the hotel’s number handy.”
Marcy Peterson. Daughter of a client. The spoiled brat.
“I’ll um, I’ll find Mister McIntyre and let him know… Miss Peterson.” my voice lowering to a whisper.
“My, but you are the good secretary.” her honey sarcastic voice purred with the trappings of a rich Connecticut accent. “I suppose you schedule all of Mister McIntyre’s affairs.”
I just sort of let out a little meep. What can you say to that? Secrets are supposed to be secret. Notes in the calendar. Instructions from Mister McIntyre. They aren’t supposed to call.
“I.. I’ll let him know, Ma’am.”
“How old are you… Abby isn’t it?”
I should have just hung up. Would that be rude? People walked by my desk and I wondered what they thought. I was holding on to the phone with both hands. I tried to calm down. Put one hand on the desk. Tried to act like this was just another phone call.
“Well, just a little thing. From your voice I would have said twenty at most. Is it embarrassing? Knowing where your boss goes at lunch? He told me once you were very trustworthy and obedient to the last. It made you sound like a puppy.”
My mouth opened but no words came out. He talked about me? What did he say? He actually sat there with his mistress and said “That Abigail is an obedient secretary.”?
“I try my best.” I squeaked.
She hung up. I numbly dialed the hotel.
“Mister Jefferson, room 732, please.”
It rang several times. My heart can’t take this. It never seems to slow down. It’s no wonder I go home and fall asleep.
“Yes?” his slow deep voice.
“Um, it’s um… your 11:30 appointment had to cancel, sir.”
“She called the office?” he sounded concerned.
“That’s…” he trailed off. “I’ll be back in the office in 15 minutes.”
Back to his office, straighten things up. Make sure everything it set for his meeting. Make sure he has his notes.
Standing in his office with the door closed the day finally got to me. He would be back any minute. Pulling up my skirt and reaching down my panties I am soaked through and through. How do I get this bad? How do I let myself get this worked up?
One hand on his desk and one hand in the tight constraints of my panties and pantyhose. Fast fast. He might come back. Fast his footsteps will be in the hallway any minute. Those gray blue eyes, that chiseled chin, those huge hands. I bet his hands are twice the size of mine. His fingers twice as thick.
Rubbing and rubbing, but I am quiet as a mouse. I would be quiet if he needed me to come into his office. I wouldn’t say a word if he bent me over his desk. I’d be his. His anything. I’d never cancel.
My fist on his hard wood desk as I come and come.
Go to the bathroom. Don’t look up at anyone. Wash my hands, fix my lipstick.
Breath Abigail. Breath.
I’m at my desk just as he gets in.
“Abby, I’m going to need some lunch. Turkey Club. Get yourself…” he stopped, examining me as he got to his door.
“You look a little flushed, everything alright?”
I squirm. His eyes on me. He is looking me over. What can he see?
“Oh, I’m alright.” I laugh awkwardly.
Sorry if this is a bit disjointed. I have some more stories, both fact and fiction, in the works but I was out of the country for two weeks and I’m am still recovering.
So, my most recent ex has been texting me and telling me that she “needs to suck cock” and offering to come over, blow me, fuck me and then leave.
We met when I was on a business trip about a year ago. I was down south for two weeks in a city I’d never been to before. I went looking for information about the city and I found a forum and from there I found her.
She was a classical musician. That alone got me curious. She came to NY a lot because her family lives here and she was planning on moving back.
We met up here before me trip for a drink, hit it off. When I went on my trip she met up with me and what happened was very interesting.
I’d just gotten out of a long relationship with someone physically and intellectually the completely opposite of this girl. Let’s call her P.
Two weeks I was in a city I’d never been in on business and I had my own person hotel room slut. It’s a title she picked out, which was adorably hot because she wasn’t very experienced, sort of a “good girl” and a “daddy’s girl” but she wanted to be bad. I helped her as much as I could in those two weeks.
It’s fun to make a good girl go bad. I’m not one for fucking the innocent, I know guys like that and I don’t understand it. I like experienced girls, but once in a while a young woman who is a bit innocent but eager to learn can be a lot of fun.
Hotels are funny places. You can turn into someone else if your not careful. We were certainly not ourselves in that time. We played, fucked, spoke for hours on end. I sort of rediscovered the art of kissing with her and now it is back to being possibly my favorite sensual activity. Kissing for hours. Making out. Sublime when done right.
Coming back to the hotel every day after working in the office, finding her waiting in the lobby, a little red in the cheeks knowing the staff sees her waiting every day. Kissing her in the elevator, sneaking a hand up her skirt and feeling how she is already wet, her telling me how she was waiting for this all day. Getting to the room and pushing her over the little couch, fucking her hard until we both come and then taking a shower with her. Lounging around half naked for the rest of the night talking, eating dinner and fucking again for hours on end.
After it was over it was sad, but ok. Six months later she mentioned that she had a job offer in NYC. We hadn’t spoken much in the meantime, we tried but we were both dating and jealous. She asked to stay with me for a while until she could find a place. That turned into two months. We dated, but I sort of knew it wouldn’t work out.
I ended it, she moved out but we see each other occasionally. Now she says she wants sex. Just sex. I’m at one of those impasses I find myself at a lot when I know someone is asking for something that is going to hurt them emotionally at some point. Is it up to me to protect them or should I just go for the pleasure? She is an adult.