The tip of his cock slipped into my entrance. He held it there while he rested his hands around my waist, digging his fingers into my flesh. I shrieked under my cowl as he rammed into me, entering without hesitation. I clawed the raised whorls in the pinewood.
After no more than a handful of pummelling thrusts, he demanded my orgasm, and I screamed into the leather as the orgasm rushed out from my clitoris, consuming me in waves.
I floated in a place devoid of features, certainly nothing resembling an art gallery. My worth was to be his plaything, to give him pleasure and, for the duration of our little scene, nothing else mattered. Following the delicious fuck, I spent another hour nestled at his feet, under his desk. I’d quite forgotten my anxieties.
***
The next day, I’d arranged to meet my new accountant. Bookkeeping was fine. I could manage spreadsheets and numbers didn’t frighten me, mathematics soothed. What scared me shitless were tax laws, financial planning, and protecting my investments. I needed a consultant.
There was no shortage of consulting accountants to help with start-up businesses. I had a whole empire of accountancy readily available. Jason owned many accountancy companies across different countries, and each pandered to different client types. I fell under the small-business umbrella, which meant Gliech Ltd, the main provider of financial advice to the world of small to medium businesses.
Jason sourced a suitable contact, and it came as no surprise to find out whom he’d picked: Mark Cleveland, who was busy building up his portfolio of clients and about to add a familiar name to his list.
When Jason told me his choice, I debated if it was a favour to Mark or to me. Darker thoughts made me wonder if he wanted somebody he could trust to spend one-to-one meetings with me. Why it should be necessary troubled me, but I lacked the courage to confront Jason. I concluded he must have judged Mark on his professional merits and trusted him.
I’d never been to Gliech’s offices. They occupied a number of floors in a tall building in the heart of the City. I gave my name to the main reception desk. Signing in, I hung the lanyard about my neck and took the lift to the fifth floor. The interior of the building was featureless. The corridors and numbered doors all looked alike. I stomped down one corridor only for a concerned passer-by to inform me that I was heading in the wrong direction.
“Mrs Lucas?”
I spied an open door with relief. Mark stood to one side, and I slunk past him into his little office.
The furnishings were standard provision, but he had hung a picture on the wall of a woman’s hand holding a red rose. The thorns had cut her fingers, and the blood trickled between the knuckles. I didn’t like the blood. The familiar wave of nausea rose up in the back of my throat, and I quickly turned to shake Mark’s hand.
“Sorry I’m late. The corridors all look alike,” I explained.
“I had a similar problem when I started. I don’t suppose your husband is into interior design? I’m sure this place could do with a makeover.” Mark led me to a chair.
“No,” I guffawed.
“You don’t like my picture. Not one for your art gallery?” He frowned.
I shrugged. “Not my style.” I kept my back to the picture and sat.
“My ex gave it to me.” He settled in his swivel chair, tucking his hands behind his head.
“Ex-sub, I take it?”
“Yes. We parted company when I left Manchester.” He stopped staring at the picture behind me and picked up a folder. “I was surprised when I saw your email. Didn’t think you were impressed by our first encounter.”
“Jason chose you, not me.” I shrugged, grabbing a notepad out of my bag.
“And you do—”
“What he says. Yes.” He pursed his lips. How tactless of me to preempt him. “My husband plays games, Mr Cleveland—”
“Please call me Mark.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward on the desk.
“Please call me Mrs Lucas,” I chided. “As I was saying, he doesn’t always tell me his motives.”
“Nor should he, a sub’s lot.” He grinned.
I grasped my hands together. His remark was unwelcome and reinforced his ambiguous status—a friend or associate? “My gallery is my own to manage.”
“Yet”—he picked at the edge of the folder, but didn’t open it—“he chose your accountant. So not all yours really.”
Was the man determined to piss me off! “He doesn’t like me with strange men, or women for that matter. I’m assuming you don’t come under the strange-men rule.”
Mark flicked open the cover and peered down at his notes. “You have employees. Did he pick them, too?”