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Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
More from Mischief
About Mischief
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
‘Sweet –’ Mistress started. But he saw her flinch. And his heart died a little. ‘Paul, there’s no such thing as truth,’ she said.
He didn’t disagree. He remembered, now, his place. He kept his subbie mouth shut.
This is what she’d been teaching him. In the human psyche there is no such thing as truth, only perspective. She understood that a person can have a secret, something he thinks is ugly. So he hides it from view, tucks it away, only visits it in secret, on weekends and then only to torture himself, like picking at a scab. But she saw the glimmer of it. So she plucked it out, dusted it off. Turned it a hair to the left. And stood back for him to see. Waited for him to realise: the thing he most hated, he could actually love.
She taught him that. She gave him that gift.
And then he betrayed her.
‘Take these keys and unlock that cabinet.’ Her emerald eyes flashed with a thousand storms behind them. Only yesterday they shone with her laughter. That he was responsible made him want to crumble to the floor.
Obediently he took the keys. The cabinet she was motioning to was in the corner, mahogany to match the other furniture in her office. He’d never noticed it before.
He opened it. And gasped. But then he knew. And suddenly, unaccountably, shockingly he was consumed with want, with need. A new need. A dark one.
‘You pick which one –’ her voice, coming from behind him, was taut with barely contained rage ‘– slut. And bring it to me.’
Knees trembling, he chose a wooden paddle. Its wood was also dark and polished to a high sheen. It looked like an oar with most of the handle cut off. There was a leather tie running through a hole in the top of the short handle from which it hung in the cabinet next to other tools.
When he was naked, when he was prostrated over her desk, when he felt the first blow come down on his bare ass, heard the smack, felt the wind rush up as her arm was raised again for a second one and the heat and pain sprang from his reddening skin as the breath was sucked out of him, only then did the hammering of his breaking heart begin to still, to slow. He turned slightly to see her face. It was a mask of calm. But for the glassy sheen of tears welling in her eyes.
And he willed her: harder. Hit me harder. It’s not enough. It will never be enough.
Chapter 1
‘A typical victim of sexual harassment,’ he was saying confidently, just before the madness began, ‘is someone in a subordinate position. Perhaps an immigrant or someone in a first job.’
A noise in the back of the room, the sound of the door to the conference room opening and closing, caused his colleagues to turn around. They all watched as she entered and the air in the room changed.
‘I sincerely apologise for being tardy,’ she said, a warm, wide smile on her face. ‘There was an accident on the highway that detained me unavoidably.’ She walked to the front of the room. ‘I’m glad you were able to get started in my absence.’
He knew nothing about women’s fashion but he recognised quality and elegance in a woman’s business suit when he saw them. That she could combine those characteristics with complete professionalism and not-a-hair-out-of-place fastidiousness in her grooming was his first indication of who she was. There was more there too, right from the beginning. A heat. The way the suit glided snugly over her curves, like she could have made the decision to go a little bigger but then the material wouldn’t pull in just the slightest way, suggesting as it did that her luscious figure could barely be contained, that it was waiting, like a predatory animal, to spring out at a moment’s notice. But he shoved that out of his mind like the completely wrong thought at the completely wrong time that it was.
He felt the slightest stirring of unease for a millisecond as she put out her hand to introduce herself. He was not usually intimidated by beautiful women. But something about her – glossy auburn hair all swept up in a surprisingly old-fashioned chignon away from emerald eyes that seemed to look right into his brain; gorgeous, flawless ivory skin over cheekbones so exquisite – made him unusually ashamed of his own geekiness. Normally he wore his geekdom like a badge of honour. But in the face of her perfection he was briefly transported back to high school, aware of his average clothes, his average shoes, his average hair. She was not even the kind of woman he was normally attracted to. He usually went for the petite blonde type. She was all curves, very Marilyn Monroe, but with that hair the colour of fire. Embarrassingly the phrase ‘va va voom’ ran through his head.
But then he took her hand, slim and soft in his own, and the way she smiled so easily at him made his unease flutter away, swept off like threatening clouds blown by an easy wind on a summer day.
‘I can take it from here,’ she said, bringing out an iPad from a smooth leather handbag and plugging it into the projector with deft hands.
When, after an hour, they broke for coffee, she approached him, off to the side of the conference room. ‘Thanks again for getting the workshop started. I hope you’re happy with how we’ve customised the visual presentation so far,’ she said.
‘It looks great,’ he said.
‘I’ve got some things I need to go over with you. Mostly just confirming the content of the upper management workshop. The biggest difference is the liability issues. We won’t get into much detail about that at this level.’
As she spoke he became aware of something else: he could smell her.
Not perfume. There was none of that. And not soap. There was that, yes, she was certainly immaculately clean, he thought. But it was something more. Something compellingly feminine. Human. Base. Images of the ocean washed through him and a thousand pictures of flowers blooming, opening their petals, flicked through his mind. His dick stirred. He felt a slight heat in his face.
‘So if I could come and see you in your office after we wrap up here,’ she was saying.
Talk now, he told himself, realising she was staring at him, waiting. ‘Sure. Yeah, yeah, sure. That’s … fine. Good. Um, I’m on third, with legal actually, though I’m not really with legal, still doing client work, just for now it’s easier with the whole sexual harassment policy thing happening, while I get this in place, after everything, well, you know about that. Just, since I chair the committee I, um, I …’ God. He wasn’t making any sense. He was trying to keep talking to hopefully distract her attention from the fact that he was now staring at her shoes.
Heels. Black patent. Sexy as fuck. Open-toed with her pretty red nails peeping out of the top. She caught him looking and he blushed and stopped talking. But then she smiled at him. A slow, sly smile. He saw a light go on in her eyes and in an instant he understood that she knew him. She saw what he was exactly.
* * *
‘Just a few closing remarks,’ he said in front of his colleagues as she unplugged her iPad and settled herself into a chair in the front row. ‘I’d like to thank Ms Joan Halliwell for her presentation today.’ Light applause. She sat back and unfastened the top two buttons of her suit jacket. ‘And thank you for your participation here today to learn about what we, at X Architects, consider to be an extremely important subject. Before we end for today I’d just like to echo Ms Halliwell’s final thoughts –’ he started. But as he spoke there was a tiny clattering noise that drew his attention. She had dropped her pen on the floor. When she reached down to pick it up her suit jacket fell open and he was suddenly uniquely privy to the plain fact that under her finely tailored and completely professional suit jacket she wore only a skimpy, lacy, midnight-black bra. The skin of her breasts, almost translucent and glowing against the black lace, threatened a wardrobe malfunction the likes of which would have made Janet Jackson’s little stunt seem like Romper Room.
He gulped. And was rendered temporarily mute. By the time his colleagues near her in the front row turned to see what had caused his sudden silence, she had righted herself once more, her suit jacket lying flat, primly against her chest, her face a mask of innocence.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, as the power of speech continued to evade him. ‘I dropped my pen.’
‘Oh, no, no, I –’ he stammered ‘– it wasn’t that. I just momentarily lost my train of …’ He put his hand to his forehead. ‘Sorry. I was saying …’ But he still couldn’t reassemble his jumbled thoughts.
‘I believe you were about to restate the importance of respect for colleagues and customers in the workplace,’ she prompted. ‘Oh, yes, and consultants as well, of course.’ There was a soft chuckle in the room as she smiled that warm and wide smile at him. And then – did she wink? Or did he imagine that?
‘Of, of course,’ he echoed. And then thought, I gotta get outta here. Now.
Because suddenly there was something worse, much, much worse than just some awkward pauses in closing remarks in front of his colleagues that was a concern. There was an increasingly pressing concern.
His dick was on the rise. And threatening to push against the seam of his fly in what could no doubt only be thought of as the all-time worst display possible: in front of business colleagues forced to attend the first session in a two-week training workshop about sexual harassment in the workplace, a session led by the chair of the sexual harassment in the workplace committee.
He made some manic, stuttered words of conclusion. And bolted.
* * *
In the stall in the men’s bathroom he stood, fully clothed, with his forehead pressed against the cool metal of the back of the stall door. He breathed slowly. In. Out. Willing his erection to go down.
He would have liked nothing more than to pull down his trousers and furiously jack his cock until it spurted its goo. It wouldn’t take long. He was, as ever, acutely aware of that.
But he was panicked by the idea that someone could come in at any moment, perhaps even to check up on him after his odd behaviour. So to have, say, Ed Canavan, CEO, enter the bathroom to the tell-tale sounds of masturbation, to be called out as a man who wanks in the men’s washroom at work – God, the shame of the thought alone was too much to bear. And yet somehow thinking it was not helping his fight to tame his stiffened prick.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Plus she was waiting for him. Right now, right this second, he imagined she was in his office wondering what could be taking him so long.
And maybe she was just going to continue the conversation about the management-level workshops she had mentioned. Or maybe she planned on laying into him, lashing up one side and down the other about how he was ogling her breasts, and didn’t he know who she was, what knowledge she had, what she could do to him, ruin his career, his marriage, everything. Maybe it was even more sinister! Maybe she had planned it all along. This was what she did, with her body that screamed ‘come fuck me’ and her shit-eating grin. Set up a guy to make a wrong move and then bring down a harassment suit on him so fast it would render him impotent ever after. Before she moved on to the next. Maybe that was how she could afford those Kate Spade heels (for women’s shoes he did know) and custom-tailored clothing.
That did it. His dick shrank back to its proper place and he prepared to go back to his office.
But as he walked down the hall, the other thought that had been lingering in the back of his brain began to take form. And that thought was this: she wanted him to see. And not to slap him with a lawsuit. Just because.
Because she liked it.
* * *
When he got back to his office she was stretched out on the leather sofa beneath the large picture window that looked out high over the city. Her feet were up, Kate Spade heels on the floor. Again, those red toenails.
He shut the door behind him.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I made myself comfortable while I was waiting. Been on my feet all day.’ The look she gave him could only be described as imploring. Imploring in a way that sucked his gaze back to those gorgeous feet. An inexplicably helpless feeling bloomed in his chest.
‘Have a seat,’ she said, indicating the sofa beside her.
He settled uncomfortably at the other end, not knowing where to look or how to position his body. She chuckled. ‘A little closer, silly,’ she said, lifting her foot up, offering it to him as he moved closer. He blushed but took it, gently. Her foot was surprisingly small and slender, the skin pale so the red toenails stood out sharply.
His mind raced. Raced. Everything in his brain screamed how wrong this was, how they were the two people in the entire building most aware of the wrongness, charged as they were with informing the entire company on the intricacies of how wrong everything about a man touching a woman’s foot in a work setting was.
Especially when that man was pitching a tent in his trousers.
But he absolutely could not stop. His dick screamed back at his brain to shut the fuck up, just shut up for once and let me have this one.
Well, what harm would a little consensual foot-rub do? That was the key word, right? Consensual. He began to massage slowly.
‘Wait a second.’ He looked up. ‘Turn to me a little,’ she said. ‘That’s right. Now lift your knee up onto the couch.’ He did so and jumped as she placed her other foot gently but firmly against his crotch. ‘Keep rubbing,’ she commanded, gesturing at the foot in his hand. ‘I just want to make sure you’re not getting excited.’ Fire exploded in his face. He looked away from her, at her foot, then looked away from that.
She laughed. ‘It’s OK,’ she cooed. ‘I know you like my feet. And I do need a foot-rub right now. So you rub my foot.’ He hesitated. ‘Do it,’ she said, not laughing now. ‘But I just need to make sure, you know, for legal reasons, that you’re not being a disgusting pervert and getting all excited about my pretty feet. I need to make sure this foot-rub is just about you doing something I’ve asked you to do for me. All right? For massage therapy purposes.’
How could he be so confused and at the same time his dick be growing? Did she mean it? Of course she didn’t, but he couldn’t be sure.
He rubbed, obediently trying to clear his mind, trying to think of anything but her slim foot in his hands. But there was also the pressure of her other foot against him. And then she started making little noises. Little whimpers, groans of pleasure. ‘Mmm, that’s right,’ she purred. ‘Ooh, right there, that feels so good.’ He was helpless. He sat helplessly rubbing her sexy foot while his cock grew with a mind of its own.
‘Oh, my God, what is going on?’ She looked at him. ‘I can feel you, you know,’ she said, wiggling her toes against his stiffness, only worsening matters. ‘God, what horny little thoughts are going through your head? Was it the noises I was making?’ she chided. ‘I was only enjoying the foot-rub! You weren’t thinking that’s what I sound like when I fuck, were you?’ Oh! To hear that word. To hear that word come out of her mouth. It hung in the air, like a spark, like an echo. A mere half-hour ago she had been standing in the conference room lecturing on what constituted inappropriate language in the workplace! But he could not deny that he had never heard that word sound so fucking sexy ever before. A hard slap of a word, and when she said it he immediately wanted nothing more than to do it. With her. Now.
He stared into his lap, unable to respond. ‘Well, if you are going to act like a horny little dog, then that’s how I’m going to have to treat you.’
This is how it was that the chair of the sexual harassment committee of X Architects found himself on all fours on the floor in front of this goddess, trousers around his knees, praying, hoping against hope that no one opened the door to his office that he didn’t think to lock, while he humped his straining shaft against her foot like some kind of human lapdog.
It was sheer and utter madness. And he was powerless against it.
Even though she didn’t make it easy for him, did things like swing her foot away, complain that he was going too fast, laugh, force him to keep all four limbs on the ground, to not use his hands – even still his little problem reared its ugly head.
He spurted, hips helplessly bucking, after two minutes.
Oh, no.
Here it comes.
He knelt in front of her and braced himself. He steeled himself against the familiar onslaught of feeling – frustration, anger, shame – that always raged through him like a firestorm, burning everything in its path. But instead of the usual reactions of disappointment, pity, anger or worse, the yawning silence, pregnant with judgments and unspoken resentment, there was something different.
Giggling. Like tinsel. Like glasses chinking together, crystal laughter.
‘My, my, my, we are the eager little beaver, aren’t we?’
Heat rose. He could hear the blood pump through the vessels in his head.
‘That’s OK, sweetie,’ she said and she leaned over and put her lips right next to his ear, so he could feel her breath on his skin. ‘Mistress has all sorts of ways of dealing with a horny little puppy like you,’ she whispered.
Oh, fuck.
‘Starting with,’ she said, dipping her finger in the creamy mess on her foot, ‘rubbing your nose in it.’ She swiped her finger across the space between his nose and his upper lip. A moustache of his own shame. The sharp, acrid odour immediately brought a fresh jolt of humiliation. ‘You may not rub or wash that off,’ she announced. She took his chin with her fingers, stared right into his eyes. His heart pounded in terror. ‘You will wear your disgusting mess on your face. It will be there for all of the rest of your meetings today.’ Oh, God. ‘And when you go home and kiss your wife.’ Oh, God! ‘And when you put your head on your pillow tonight.’ She sighed, closed those gorgeous eyes and smiled. ‘When you have your shower tomorrow morning you may wash it off then.’ He realised he wasn’t breathing and took in a gasping breath.
And suddenly he realised something else. Something astounding.
He was hard again. Harder than he had been the first time.
There was shame. But no anger. There was humiliation. But no frustration.
Pure humiliation. Not blazing, like the white-hot heat of the firestorm of his secret torment, but rolling in slowly, like molasses, covering him, turning his insides liquid, enveloping him in a mass of humility, shrinking him down, making him want to place his hard, needy little cock before her in an act of complete submission.
And what she did then made it throb and ache even more.
She leaned in and placed the tiniest kiss with her full, soft, pouty red lips right on the tip of his nose. Like the period at the end of a sentence.
There it was. Just like that. Turned a hair to the left. His torment died.
His kink was born.
* * *
She was having those feelings again. The ones that made her feel closed in on, made her breath come fast, made her start to sweat. Fine, it was fine, she told herself over and over. She ran a hand under the cold-water tap and pressed it to her forehead, squeezed her eyes shut tight. If she could just stop her brain from spinning.
Yes, things at work were bad. Hadn’t been anything but bad for five years, really. Ah, she remembered the heyday. When everything came so easily, money rolling in and her at the top of her game. But there was more to life than work. There was him.
That’s right. Things with him would be fine. She had herself a good one.
She was sure. She was pretty sure.
Chapter 2
‘Oh, you’re home,’ his wife said. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘Yeah, just got here,’ he said.
‘Dinner’s ready. You want to eat now?’
‘Sure. Or, you know, whenever.’ His wife looked at him and he turned quickly to the fridge.
‘You OK?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, fine. Why?’ He took a beer out and reached for a glass.
‘I dunno. You just seem … weird. Edgy.’
He poured the beer. ‘You want one?’
‘Well, not really. It’s Wednesday.’
‘So?’
‘You know I do Pilates Wednesday nights.’ She peered over his shoulder. ‘OK, what’s wrong? Could you just –’ she touched him on the shoulder ‘– turn around so we can have an actual conversation?’
He plastered a smile on his face and turned around. Willed himself not to feel that dried, crackly feeling above his lip. ‘What? I’m fine. Just … been a long day at work, is all.’ He took a sip from his glass. Eyes wide.
‘Well, OK,’ she said, a slight furrow in her brow. Her eyes searched his face and he felt a flush start to rise. Nothing there to see. Nothing there to see. ‘Are you hot? You’re getting red.’ She put a hand to his forehead. ‘Maybe you’re coming down with something.’
‘I’m fine, hon, really,’ he said, submitting to the kiss on the forehead she used to test his temperature. ‘I just – it was hot in the office today. I’ve been sweating.’ That was true. He had been sweating through his meetings that afternoon.
‘Phew, sorry, hon, yeah,’ she said, laughing and pulling away. ‘You need a shower.’
‘Yeah, ha, sorry,’ he said, a little wanly. ‘I’m so beat though, I might just flake out on the couch.’
‘Well, OK, Mr Stinky,’ she teased. She moved to grab a hoodie and a yoga mat. His heartbeat started to return to normal. ‘I’ll be back around eight thirty or so.’ She grabbed her keys. Then –
‘Hey! You never gave me a kiss when you came in.’ His heart-rate immediately skyrocketed as she reached up to him for a little peck. She pressed closed lips firmly against his. One hand on his cheek, she pulled away and began brushing the side of his face with her thumb. ‘You got a little something on your lip here, hon.’
He opened his mouth. But only a strangled little sound came out.
‘What were you eating, a doughnut or something?’ He almost passed out as she licked her thumb and wiped again.
As she walked out the door she called back over her shoulder, ‘See you in a bit! And darling, you really should rethink that shower. You smell a little funky.’
* * *
Just before 8.30 p.m. he sat unseeingly staring at some mindless TV show. He couldn’t help but intermittently and without thinking press down on his half-hard dick just to give it some sensation, something to combat – or perhaps spur on, he wasn’t sure – all of the longing he felt in his groin. Then his phone, set on silent and sitting on the end table, lit up. He flicked a glance at the screen. And his stomach lurched into his throat.
It was an email.