Hard At Work

“Hard At Work” is a slightly tongue-in-cheek story of a man being brought into line by his dominant but neglected wife.

It was originally an all dialogue piece but I decided that it would benefit from some further description.

The next time you see a man disappear to a conference room with a phone to his ear, remember this story and ask yourself what he’s doing behind that closed door.

“Wendy?”

I’ve allocated a special ring tone to Wendy. My phone barks when she calls. Fortunately, she doesn’t know this.

“Find somewhere private.”

See what I mean? No introduction. No niceties. Just straight into the imperative. Woof.

“Wendy, I…”

“Find somewhere private right now.”

Hmm. Woof has moved to a nasty snarl in record time. This is serious.

“I’m at work”, I say, sounding rather more sad and pathetic than I’d intended.

“I know that. You’re always at work.”

Oh dear. She’s using that calm voice that lets me know just how much restraint she’s showing in not ripping my throat out.

“That’s the fucking problem! Or, at least, it’s the problem with our fucking.”

Well the calm didn’t last long but at least she’s still using humour. I decide that it would be wise to find somewhere private before Wendy starts shouting obscenities that everyone in this open-plan office will hear even through my mobile phone.

“Give me a sec…” I say, trying not to look ridiculous as I rush out the door with the phone pressed against my ear.

“Don’t hang up on me,” Wendy says. As if I’d dare.

“Just walk to somewhere private and tell me when you’re there,” she says. “Oh and while you’re moving, here’s a Pop Quiz: when was the last time it took more than fifteen minutes for us to fuck?”

I’m busy looking for a refuge but I pay attention to my answer. Failing a Pop Quiz always has consequences.

“Two weeks?” I say tentatively.

“Too long is the right answer. Way too long.”

Oh shit. She’s horny and frustrated and she going to take it out on me. I have to get out of sight before that particular bomb goes off. I turn the first unlocked door handle I find, step through and close the door behind me.

“I’m there.”

“Where’s there?”

“A meeting room. One of those glassed in cubes where the walls don’t quite reach the ceiling.”

“Pull the blinds and then stand against the door.”

She can’t be serious. If she’s thinking what I think she’s thinking then I could get fired.

“I’m supposed to be somewhere.” I say in a last effort to deflect her.

“You’re supposed to be here with me. You’re supposed to be my husband, but you seem to have forgotten what that means. I’m going to remind you.”

“I don’t need reminding,” I say even though I know I’ve been distracted lately.

“That’s not for you to decide. Are you standing against that door yet?”

“Yes.” I say, hurriedly getting into position.

“Yes what?”

For a moment, I don’t understand the question and I stay silent.

“It has been a long time hasn’t it? Let me repeat the question. YES WHAT?”

That tone. THAT tone. The one with a bite like a whip on a naked arse. That tone is the reason I married her. That’s what Wendy wants to remind me of. Now I know what she wants to hear.

“Yes, Mistress,” I say. Just saying the words again arouses me.

“That’s better. Not good but better. Now take your cock out.”

My heart beats faster as I consider what this means.

“I could get fired,” I say. It’s not really an objection. More a statement of the fear the feeds my excitement.

“Or you could piss me off; your choice.”

That’s an easy choice to make. I unzip, fumble for the opening to my boxers and pull out my cock. It’s not fully hard yet but it’s gratifyingly thick and heavy and gives off an earthy smell. Wendy says that a semi-erect cock is the perfect metaphor for the male mindset.

“I’m holding my cock.” I say, trying to keep my voice low enough not to be heard in the corridor.

“Say it louder.”

I close my eyes; raise my voice to a normal level and say, “I’m holding my cock.”

For a heartbeat I dread Wendy making me shout the words. But she takes pity on me.

“Is it hard?”

I can hear the hunger in her voice. I know exactly what expression is on her face now. Her head will be tipped to one side and her smile will be crooked. That was the look that preceded my first ever blow job. Wendy delivered it behind the bike sheds at St. Joseph’s after having bound my wrists behind my back with my school-tie. Riding the wave of that memory, I roll back my foreskin and release the smell of sex into the room.

“Yes, Mistress,” I say. “My cock is hard.”

“Good. Now listen to me and stroke yourself. You’re going to come all over your hand in that meeting room, but not until I give you permission. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” There is no more resistance in my heart now. I don’t care if they fire me. When she talks to me like this, Wendy owns me and makes me feel proud to be owned.

“I’ve led you blindfold and naked, with your hands tied in front of you, into the playroom. The room is cool,” Wendy says. “My nipples are hard. I let them rub against your shoulders so that you can feel how hard they are.” Then she whispers an instruction in a gentle tone that makes me shiver: “Press back into the door. Try to imagine me pressing into you.”

My mind is empty of everything except the images that Wendy places there and the awareness of the effect they have on me.

“I loop your hands over the top of the ladder that hangs from the ceiling,” Wendy says. “You know what to expect. You spread your legs for me so that I can secure your ankles to either side of the ladder.”

I do indeed know what to expect. This is something we used to do often and which I now realize I miss.

Wendy whispers another instruction to me: “Spread your legs against that door for me and keep them spread. And don’t’ you dare come.”

I push back against the door, legs spread, one hand gripping the base of my cock, the other holding a phone to me ear. I keep my eyes closed to focus on Wendy’s mind-movie

“I reach around you, grasping your erection roughly and slide the first noose over the base, I rest your solid flesh on of the rungs, making you stretch so that you stand on tip toe, and then loop the rest of the cock-leash under the rung so that the second loop can be tightened behind the glands. You’re bound to the ladder by your cock, as well as by wrists and ankles.”

Oh God. She’s never done that in real life but I know that, some time in the next week, I will be begging her to bind me in exactly that way.

“Now you’re really hard, aren’t you my sweet?” There is a smile in Wendy’s voice that makes me glow.

“God, yes. Yes. I’m hard.”

“If you speak again I will make you shout that.”

Bitch! And I love her for it.

“Now close your eyes and concentrate on what I would be doing to you if you ever had the sense to stay home. Perhaps I should climb the ladder? Put my pussy where you can worship it? Although I’d risk standing on your cock on the way up. But you wouldn’t mind would you, my little pain-slut? You’d whimper your happiness into my cunt.”

My cock twitches in my hand and I start a slow pumping movement, keeping pace with the rhythm of Wendy’s words.

“But I’m in a more active mood today,” Wendy sounds mischievous and smug. “I’ve brought the strap-on. I’m going to fuck you hard against that ladder until you spray your cum all over the floor.

“Do you remember the last time I butt-fucked you?” Wendy asks. “Do you remember how hard you came and how sore you were afterwards?”

I stay silent this time. Not wanting to be tricked into shouting “butt-fuck” out loud, but my arsehole clenches from the pain memory and, for the first time in months, my erection starts to curve upwards slightly.

“I’ve lubed the mock-cock but not your arse,” Wendy says. “Pushing it in is a struggle. The first few inches are the most difficult, then you loosen up and let me fuck.”

Then she whispers, “I’ve got the strap-on up my arse as we speak. I’m leaking cum on to the rolled up towel between my legs. Don’t you wish that was my hand around your cock?”

I picture Wendy’s hands small strong hands working ruthlessly on my cock and find myself sighing with need.

“When the cock is all the way in when your buttocks are against my belly, when you feel so full you think you’ll burst, I work my nails on the head of your bound cock. Reaching past you, pressing myself into you so that I can cause you a delicious amount of pain.”

Delicious pain. I’d no idea there was such a thing until the first night that Wendy tied me to her bed, spread-eagled and helpless.  I NEED to come and I need to come NOW.

With that uncanny ability she has to read my mind, Wendy urges me on in breathy voice that lets me know how close she is to her own climax.

“Work your cock. Make your hand a blur. Come hard for me. Let me hear you spewing your seed in that sexless corporate room.”

As I obey her, grunting with effort, not caring that my arse is banging against door, Wendy completes her story, saying: “I work you and work you and work you until your dick jumps in my hand and your ring spasms gratefully around my rubber dick and you scream your come”.

“FUCK,” The come sprays out of me with almost as much force as the expletive I’ve just shouted loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Yes we did, didn’t we?” Wendy is laughing. My whole body relaxes at the sound.

“Did you make a mess?” she asks. *Is your cock covered in cum?”

“Yes and yes. There are stains on the carpet that will be a permanent memorial to this moment.”

“Good. But I’m not done with you yet. Tell them you’re sick – they’ll be able to see that you’re sweating and feverish – and come home to me.”

There is only one possible answer to that.

“Yes, Mistress.”


© Mike Kimera 2008 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 


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