If You Only Knew, Part II

Original Erotica by Mistress Roulette

Is available in Mistress Roulette’s Free Erotica Section

24 September; 11:22a

My boy-toy was begging to be fucked last night, so I finally let him. Only on the premise that I was taping you to your chair. (Oh, I know I’m jumping ahead. Again. But we just have so much duct tape!) Anyway, somewhere between making you beg me to let you come, and my imagining lines of red welts across your ass, I experienced some wonderful release myself. So, I guess you’re not completely useless after all. I’m pretty sure you’re not a masochist, though, which makes the thought of causing you real pain even more arousing. You don’t want to know how wet I am right now, and I’m not so reckless to let you find out.

Let’s see …

Today is the first day of my writing it all down. I figured I would have plenty of time typing it all out in the comfort of my own home, except that it’s less personal, and not nearly as much fun as doing it while you’re feet from me. So, the whole thing will be composed right here, in this chair, as we go about our daily business. If you ask to see it, I’ll think up something clever and humiliating to make you drop the line of questioning immediately. (I love how pink you get when you blush. It’d be kind of cute if I hadn’t already decided to destroy you.) Oh, and I know if you knew that you’d be so hard you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. But since you’re in denial about the whole thing, that’d be even more terrible for you. Which is why I’m going to make sure this gets to you, word-for-word, someday.

Now, then. To begin at the beginning. First-person, present tense. (My favourite.)

You’ve just made your move and been subsequently shot down. There’s no one but us on the premises, and you’ve turned the music lower and are hiding certain embarrassment. You thought you’d be fucking me up against the wall by now. Instead, you’re going to find yourself suddenly grateful they’re made of such sturdy concrete. (Not that the neighbouring businesses could tell that it was you screaming. But, still.) On the off-chance someone happened to come by for some strange reason that late, I’d setup behind the large steel shelves, which take the weight of heavy chain well. But before we get too far in with what I might be doing to you over there, let’s start with how I’d even get started.

You think it’s business as usual. You’re rejected, feeling sorry for yourself, and wondering where-oh-where it all went wrong. You wander back into your office, finishing up the books for the day, not expecting me to be there at your desk, with the roll of duct tape behind my back. And as you catch sight of me, in your moment of confusion, I take total advantage of the awkwardness you’re feeling, slide the roll down my arm like an over-sized bracelet, and grab your shirt collar with my other hand, yanking hard and pulling you down to the surface of your desk while I undo your belt. Now, you think I’ve changed my mind, and I’ll see you smile with unexpected glee. Of course, it happens so quickly, you don’t realise why I’m taking your belt off, or what I plan to do to you with it. For now, it just seems really hot, and you’re sure you’re getting lucky. It’ll still be really hot — but you’ll feel anything but lucky.

Belt off, I suddenly retrieve the utility scissors from my pocket. You know them well; we use them everyday. Sure, now you’re confused — and a little alarmed. Even more so as I begin cutting straight down your slacks, rendering them useless. I’m not thinking pragmatically right now; just how much fun it’s going to be for me to watch you drive home in your boxers. Or, maybe nude. I haven’t decided if they won’t see the same fate as your pants. (Hope they were expensive. They looked to be mid-range.) Shirts are fairly easy to rip, especially our shirts, given the company didn’t exactly contract the highest quality clothiers. Buttons go flying; ricocheting off of this and that, and I’ll probably make you collect them after I’m through with you. You won’t refuse me anything by that point. You’d never refuse me anything after this.

Now you’re standing there in front of me, pants-less with your shirt ripped open and exposing your relatively fit chest and abdomen. I’m silently admiring just how much working out you truly do outside of working, which you already do too much of anyway. Sane men would be home with their girlfriends and wives by this point; not hanging about in their underwear with their kinky employees. You’re setting a terrible example, and I’m going to need to punish you for it. Severely. What you’ll hate most of all is discovering how much you love it. That’ll be the best revenge I could ever exact.

I move my fingers across the fabric encasing your cock with the lightest touch, and it practically leaps in response. Hard, as I wanted. I tell you it isn’t acceptable, and your expression changes to one of confusion. Now, you notice the roll of duct tape, especially since I’m beginning to yank some off in long strips. I order you to bring your hands together. You refuse me. That’s okay. I knew you would the first time. I tell you I’ll give you the best blow-job you’ve ever had if you put your hands together. You think about it for a minute, but your hormones win out over your good sense — unsurprisingly — and you brings you hands together after all, muttering something about watching the arm hair. I pretend not to hear you; after all, I’m binding your wrists anyway. I loop the tape around you once, twice, three times before deciding it’s sufficient, and you’re not going anywhere. Then, I grab you by the hair, (and enjoy your complaining that it hurts and various related expletives) and shove your body down to your knees. (That concrete hurts like a bitch, don’t it?)

You’re starting to regret having let me get this far, especially now that I’m binding your feet together in the same fashion. No, not your ankles, but your feet — soles together, legs apart. You’re already down on your knees, so getting up is going to be the sort of challenge I know you’re not really up for, and this guarantees you’ll have no way to even try and stand. I’ve little to worry about you going anywhere. Besides. I know that little voice in your head that can’t help but be insanely turned on by all of this won’t let you do anything but see it through to its chilling end — where you’ll have no other choice but to come to terms with exactly who and what you are; not to mention, never going back to this lame excuse for what you’ve never been. That ends tonight.

Now, I pull your chair toward you and sit down in it. Your head is the perfect level to give me the greatest cunt-licking I’ve had since this one guy I taught in college, but you’ll learn quickly, if you’ve not figured it out already, that you hardly deserve it. No, I’m just going to watch you, fingering the strip of duct tape I’ve yet to use, and wondering if I want to gag you, too. But it’s fun to listen to you ask me repeatedly what’s going to happen to you and ignore you each time. Instead, I’m just going to sit here for the moment, refrain from tasting your lips, even though I’ve thought about it before, and let you be terrified over what may happen to you next as I double your belt in my hands, and prop my chin upon my elbow against my knee. Just watching you.

Fine mess you’re in now, boy.

Damn. Day off tomorrow — and much deserved, I’ll admit. Guess I’ll resume after that.

… Continued in Part III.