The daily drudge of the nine-to-five is a cruel Mistress. So is my cruel Mistress. She leans over my office cubicle wall and casually tosses a slab of reports onto my desk. I squirm in a paroxysm of pleasure, tinged with a slouch of shame.
“I need these done by tomorrow, and cc that spreadsheet over to accounts. Don’t be late with this one.”
Yes Mistress, I respond under my breath. She doesn’t like it when I call Her that, I’m in risk of getting another disciplinary. When I first entered the fetish scene, discipline was all hogties and ballgags. Now it’s just human resources and stern looks.
I nod and She walks off, my Mistress, my Queen. I know what She really meant though – we have a code. My mind drifts back to when I first instigated this relationship. I was on graduatejobs. co.uk (great website by the way) and the position of clerical administrator came up. After looking at the job description, I realised this was a coded advertisement for a submissive relationship, and there was nothing more humiliating, degrading and down-right ugly than pushing paper in a office-themed sex dungeon. I played along at the interview, convincing myself that Her fictional business world existed, and head-over-heels I tumbled into it, like a slick of spilt printer ink and ruined invoices.
My chastity belt grinds slowly against the plastic chair, the lumbar support recommended by Health and Safety cruelly removed, making the sensation of my tired lower back arouse me even more than making coffee for the staff meetings. How much longer would She tease me, when would I get my satisfaction?
These questions chased each other round my mind, spinning me into a degenerate daydream: She’s in the stationery cupboard. She can’t reach the top shelf. I move in hesitantly. Is this my chance?
“Could you grab that stack of post-its from the back please?”