Please, Miss M

PLEASE, MISS M.

Just as the office block situated straight in the middle of the fashionable London waterfront development stood tall and proud amongst the less ample, less opulent erections nearby, so the office at the peak of the building had a sense of tallness about it. The walls were so coloured, and cunningly arranged, that they gave an impression of being even taller then they admittedly were. The executive desk was massive and wide, the chair behind it bore a huge, narrow back. Dark shelves discreetly laid with small ornaments and the occasional book towered over all. In the middle of the office, inlaid over the expensive stone tiles, a square of plain cream coloured carpet. From a tiny recess in the high ceiling a spotlight illuminated this, and the reflected soft glare lent the whole, minimalist affair some semblance of warmth. This the only warmth however- the walls were clothed in square tablets of brushed stone, the whole place was cave-like, or perhaps better to call it reminiscent of some modernist take on a vaulted cathedral, reduced to the dimensions of an office.

Décor was obviously of little importance to the incumbent, who had hired very expensive designers to make all the decisions and left them to it. There was no convenient name sign on the desk, nor any plate on the door. Either one was summoned into this office and knew very well who was doing the summoning, or else they had little chance of getting anywhere near it in their lives. For every financial transaction considered or committed to in this building, and this represented some millions of transactions a year, the resident of this place held ultimate responsibility. Honest, strong and pure power was held by this office, held and wielded.

The office, and in terms of share options a large proportion of the company and by extension the building itself, was the territory of the very predatory Miss Harlick, known more commonly as “The Terror” by anyone under her in the local food chain, which was pretty much everyone. She knew about this of course, and did nothing to discourage the nickname, after all if she clamped down on such things her reputation would only worsen and it could be useful to inspire fear in the underlings, even though (in her opinion) she rarely did anything really meritorious of such dread. When she did act, of course, it was with decisiveness and not a shred of doubt, and it was this ruthless zeal and courage in her convictions that had led her straight to the top. The career of Miss Harlick was characterised by a tendency to single out the correct course of action and then follow it doggedly no matter what, and it was a principle she followed in her personal life too which is why she had come to a certain decision and made certain arrangements.

She sat now on the edge of her desk, high-heeled feet swinging idly, knocking against the solid black wood with a monotonous clack. A striking woman in her mid forties, she was clad in her severe black raincoat despite the perfect weather of the night outside, and despite the fact that she had no intention of going out any time soon. The day was rapidly drawing to a close, and the winter sun was hurrying beneath the London skyline, soon to nestle behind the dome of Saint Paul\'s, and refuse once more to light London until morning. Everything had been meticulously planned down to the last detail, leaving only one or two unknowns in the scheme of things, which after all only served to make it more interesting. As she had planned, the intern would be even now receiving orders to go straight up to her office, and not to worry about the fact that there was no secretary on duty outside, some vague mention of sick leave. Go straight in, Harlick had sent the message down the line, don\'t worry about it just go straight in. Miss Harlick smiled a frosty smile, and stroked an immaculately painted nail down her perfect cheek. Soon, she thought, soon.

At the appointed time there was a hesitant knock on the door. Harlick smiled but made no sound. After about a minute, the door to her inner sanctum was tentatively pushed open a little way, and a worried looking round face peeked in. It was the girl, the intern, reporting as ordered. Harlick motioned her to enter, and she stepped daintily across the stone floor, tapping of heels, and into the circle of cream tinted light. She was some kind of foreign exchange thing, here on loan from Zürich although she was originally from Brussels, a Belgian, Miss Moline by name.

The poor thing shuffled forwards, trying to look as inconspicuous as it is really possible to be in a room containing two people who are aware of each other. Harlick motioned Moline closer with an impatient gesture, until the girl was stood awkwardly in the centre of the only light source in the place. By now night had just about fallen and the solemn air of the place had taken on a decidedly grim and foreboding aspect. A design scheme which was airy with Swedish minimalism by day seemed dark with German functionality by night. The girl- and Harlick noted that she could barely be half her own age- just stood almost to attention, awaiting the commands of her superior. Harlick sucked absently on the end of an expensive ballpoint pen, considering her words carefully before she spoke,

“Ah, Miss Moline,” she said, pronouncing the French inflection perfectly, “you got my little message,”
“Yes Miss Harlick, I came as soon as I received it, I hope I haven\'t kept you waiting,” Moline replied. Her English was perfect, with a slight transatlantic accent; she had evidently learned from American tutors.
“Ah no, I haven\'t been waiting,” lied Harlick smoothly, slipping from her perch on the desk to move forwards, “I just thought it best that I handle this on a personal basis, it\'s a... discreet matter.” In response to this, Moline just made a noncommittal gesture and whispered something meekly, growing evidently less comfortable even as Harlick watched. This gave Harlick a perverse pleasure that she had not anticipated. That the girl was so meek and retiring added a frothy contrast to what was, she hoped, ahead in the evening. It was all too delicious, and Harlick had to restrain herself from darting in and running her tongue over the younger woman\'s cheek.
“I have been made aware of certain facts,” began Harlick simply, now standing behind Moline, “that have circulated the office and are a little... interesting to say the least?” she left the question hanging in the air- are you aware of what I refer to?
“Facts?” Replied Moline, and immediately Harlick knew she had planned well.

The girl impressed Harlick in so many subtle ways. She had neither confirmed nor denied anything, she had held her chin high and, politely, demanded to know what it was all about. Of course, she was nervous, Harlick could see that, she was polite and quite the good little office girl, but there was a steely impertinence in the way she held her shoulders a little back, the way she met the eyes of her superior in passing. Harlick had to correct herself, the girl was nervous for her job prospects in the near future, but she was not afraid of the older woman at all, and that impressed Harlick deeply.

“Miss Moline,” she continued, “I have heard, on the grapevine as it were, that you have been telling people that you frequent certain clubs around London,” she held up a finger to forestall any hint of excuse making, although there was none, “furthermore, that these venues are most certainly not the most, ah, reputable places for a member of this company to be going.” Her hawklike circling of the girl had now ended and she was eye-to-eye. Marvellously, Moline just stared her straight in the eye right back.
“I don\'t understand where this line of questioning is going, I\'m afraid,” was her cool response. But, she did understand, and she was cursing herself for a fool inwardly. She had been trying to get into the cycle of office gossip and work her way into the social group. It had been at an after-work social gathering, at a wine bar nearby. She had drunk a few glasses too many and let slip what she had got up to in the weekend. It was evidently too much to hope for that her fellow office workers might overlook her little revelation. She despised the whole office social scheme, and inwardly hated each and every person on her floor, all for individual and unique reasons, but she had done her best to fit in and be seen as an interesting and dynamic person and this is where it had led her. The Terror herself, the boss upstairs, had got to hear of it and knew the rather unsavoury truth about her little hobby.

Harlick was regarding the girl closely, she could almost see the wheels turning in her neat little Belgian mind, how to salvage some semblance of dignity from this mess and save her career. She took a deep breath, which shuddered down her throat in nervous anticipation. Always the anticipation, Harlick knew well how to draw it out and squeeze every drop of tension.
“I shall be as candid as I am able,” she continued, keeping her voice perfectly smooth and almost mellow, “the stories circulating are various and vivid, but they concern the allegation that you frequently attend sadomasochistic evens in disreputable establishments. Is this true?”
“Yes,” Moline replied. She knew better then to try denying it, she wouldn’t even be standing in this office unless the rumours had been confirmed somehow. Harlick just nodded. Inside, both women’s hearts were beating uproariously, though for different reasons. In their own ways, they both felt an awesome sense of anticipation by now.
“Might I continue in the spirit of candour and openness with you, Miss Moline?”
“Of… of course,” now she was a little uncertain, something in Harlick’s tone sounded evil.
“Last Saturday you attended one such gathering.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,”
“I know this, because I did too.”

Moline caught her breath sharply. A thousand different explanations for this statement coursed through her brain but she was too stunned to sort through the facts. She hadn’t seen anyone there that she recognised, but of course many people had been wearing masks and besides she had been… busy. Before she had a chance to speak up Harlick had turned away from her and stalked around the desk to draw a cigarette from a box t and and light up.

“You were…?”
“I was there, because my Master took me there. We both saw you, I pointed you out.”

Again, Moline was too shocked to answer. Now things were starting to fit together in her head. When she looked at her employer through the eyes of her true self, the self that went out on Saturday nights, she recognised all the signs. High flying career woman, utterly in control all day long, pressured from all sides, it made sense that in private she be a submissive type it was practically a cliché.

“We both saw you Miss Moline. I’m afraid Master cannot be here tonight though, he has been called away on business. He has been away for a week now.” Harlick clucked her tongue irritably, and Moline started to understand. The last week had been filled with problems for the company, things had been intense at every level of the business so to be without her Master at such a time must have put quite a strain on Harlick. She actually felt a pang of sorrow for the woman. “Miss Moline,” she continued,
“Yes?” she stammered.
“I told you that I would be open with you about why you are here.”
“Yes.”

Harlick stood up straight, and with practised ease unbuttoned her coat and tossed it back off her arms to fall onto the floor. Beneath it she wore a bright red latex corset, buckled along the sides, that pushed her bare breasts high up her chest. She had a set of gartered stockings, and over the suspender belt a pair of tiny red knickers that also appeared to be made of latex. Standing squarely behind her desk facing Moline, suddenly she was not the terrifying figure of legendary renown, she bit her lip and stared at Moline, her hands at her sides clenching and unclenching.

“I need to be punished, Miss,” she stated simply, “I need it and I can’t go another day without it.” She hesitated, bringing her hands together over her heart, her voice took a pleading tone, “I saw you whip that boy, you were so skilled and cool about it, even Master said so, and I was thinking…” She left the rest unsaid. She had lain her cards on the table. Moline could appreciate the spirit of openness which her employer had talked about. That openness and exposure was doing things to her. Moline knew, just as her body was responding in a rush to this most delicious turn of events, that Harlick was experiencing similar feelings of her own. Harlick was just stood there, swaying slightly. Her skin between her breasts was flushed and pink, her nipples were especially visible. Moline thought for a moment, but she knew that she had no real choice, only one decision could be made and it would be to betray her nature not to take it. She leant forwards and slapped her palm onto the table top noisily, and Harlick jumped nervously, with a pleasing jiggle.

“Kneel,” said Moline coolly. Harlick dropped instantly to her knees, without even appearing to think about it, and just stared up at her. Moline smiled slowly. It seemed like a dream, but if it was a dream then she may as well enjoy it, she reasoned. “Not there,” she said, letting an irritable note enter her voice, “in front of me, here.”

Harlick shuffled awkwardly around the desk, still on her knees, and came to a stop before Moline with her head bowed.

“Yes Miss,” she whispered breathily. Moline could see her chest fluttering, her breasts would rise and fall rapidly under her gaze. The woman was loving every moment of this. Moline reflected abstractly that whoever her Master was, he had trained her very well in obedience. Moline stroked Harlick’s bowed head and took hold of a handful of severe black hair, tugging her up to her feet. Harlick rose unsteadily, but managed to maintain her balance well. Moline shoved her awkwardly to the desk, and Harlick knew instinctively to bend over it. Moline stroked her latex covered rear end, which she found to be pleasingly firm for a middle aged woman.

“Work out?” She asked,
“Yes Miss, I go to the company gym on the second floor twice a week, after hours.”
“It shows,”
“Thank you Miss, Master says my bottom is very fine.”
“Your bottom needs a damn good spanking,”
“I know, Miss.”

And Moline was as good as her word. She spanked her boss severely, and to her credit Harlick took ten slaps before she so much as cried out At fifteen, Moline decided that the rubber panties had to go, and Harlick was more then obliging in stripping off, even telling Moline that she’d put in a word for her with the specialist hairdresser that had so expertly trimmed and neatened her pubic hair. Moline picked up a plastic ruler from the desk and swished it experimentally though the air. Harlick sighed dramatically, but couldn’t help smiling a little before she obediently bent over again to receive her punishment.

Moline gave Harlick quite a working over with that ruler. It made a wonderful slap as it connected with Harlick’s buttocks, and produced some wonderful shrieks from her. As Harlick sobbed into a pile of correspondence that had been lying on the desk, shivering plentifully under Moline’s stroking hand, she whispered vague words of thanks and adoration. Already her mind was travelling to that place of submission, and whatever should happen while she was in that place, Moline knew that it was entirely her decision.

“You’re a good girl,” said Moline.
“Thank you,” sobbed Harlick, crying.
“But I still shall punish you.” This only brought another flood of hot tears from Harlick, but of course she offered no protest. Moline kicked her ankles apart, and Harlick spread her legs wide open. Moline touched the older woman’s crotch, marvelling at the heat she felt, almost hot enough to burn. Moline wondered if her own spot between her legs was as hot- certainly her underwear was sodden. Moline ran her eyes over the desk and spotted something. She lifted up a folder and leafed through the loose pages.
“Ah, the annual Geneva report. I had to translate all this from French, you know.”
Harlick just mumbled in reply. Now her tears had faded, and her sobbing no more then an occasional yelp of air, her rear end was swaying seductively, invitingly.
“Do you know what I was thinking when I was writing it?”
“No Miss,”
“I thought, you can stick this up your ass.”

Harlick laughed, until Moline rolled up the bundle of paper into a tube and pressed it into her hand. Then she almost blanched.
“Miss?”
“Go on.”

Harlick just nodded, and stared forwards. Reaching behind her, she teased the index finger of her left hand into her anus. Moline stepped back to watch, surreptitiously stroking her hand down the front of her skirt. Harlick pressed her finger in, and then another. She started to moan softly as she was stretched, and by now her skin was practically gleaming with moisture. Moline snapped her fingers, and Harlick knew preparation time was up. She took the thick roll of paper and pressed it into her bottom, forcing it inside her. She moaned, and Moline stepped up closer and forced it a little deeper. Harlick screeched, and her body shuddered.

“Come if you like,” said Moline conversationally, “if you’re a dirty little slut then come.”

Harlick didn’t need telling twice, that was all it took to push her over the edge into a violent orgasm. Moline gripped her hair and dragged her head back. With the other hand clamped tightly around the convenient handle of the report now protruding from Harlick’s rear end, she led the stumbling slave around to the huge windows looking out into the night. She pressed the older woman against the glass, eliciting another deep moan as the cold glass touched hot skin. Moline drove it a little deeper into her and got another orgasm for her efforts. She bit down hard on Harlick’s ear, kissed her neck, her cheek. She felt strangely repelled from kissing the woman on the lips, somehow it would seem too far an intrusion into someone else’s territory.

Both of them stared out into the night. Moline was pressed up against Harlick’s back, and was teasing her clitoris with her fingernails. Harlick was staring back at her in the glass reflection, enjoying multiple rushes of pleasure and wincing in pain now and again.

At a quarter to eleven, Moline turned around, and made to neaten herself up. A moment had come and gone, and to them both it was the natural time to end. Harlick straightened up awkwardly, and Moline watched as she retrieved the Geneva report.

“I’ll need a new copy of this,” said Harlick quietly,
“Of course.”

Suddenly things weren’t so clear. Lust and desire and need had taken them this far, but after lust became satisfied what else was there. Harlick put her coat back on, and was once again the image of dignity and power, despite the sheen of sweat and messed hair. The two women faced each other for the last time.

“What happens now?” Asked Moline,
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are we….” She left the question hanging in the air. Harlick replied a little stiffly, “No we are not,” and Moline just nodded.
“I should…” she indicated the door behind her, but Harlick was already sat down with another cigarette, leafing through a few pages and not paying attention.
“I should go,” she repeated.
“If you were wondering whether you have lost your job or not, you haven’t Miss Moline.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Moline replied, more loudly then she’d intended.
“What did you mean then?”
“I meant… what happens now, to us?”
“Well Miss Moline, I know what happens to you. You can do as you like, and though I’d appreciate you not divulging this to anyone, I’m sure you can appreciate no one would believe you.”
“And you?”
“That’s my business, isn’t it?”
“Of course.” Moline straightened her coat and nodded curtly, turning around and walking to the door. Harlick watched her go, but didn’t say anything. After Moline had gone, she sat back in her chair, wincing as she felt bruises forming on her rear, and gave a long, satisfied sigh.

END.