worktypes to scope out. The whole thing was ripe for my desk.
My mind began to assemble the potential project outline. This one would take a lot of co-ordination. A lot of people. I hate all that shit.
I leant back against the worktop to sip my coffee. Black, no sugar, just the way I like it. Just how Lydia Marsh had made it. My mind bailed without warning; thoughts unravelling and skittering away. There, in their stead, was a full colour rerun of my Friday morning peepshow. Lydia Marsh’s tear-streaked face in full focus, and her eyes, so fucking green. Jesus.
Bex was right. I did need a proper scene. The need to dominate pulsed in my temples; thick with the craving for tears and pain and the total surrender of a body underneath mine. Cara had scratched an itch, but the real beast raged on unchecked.
I headed to the men’s room, resigned to an early morning hand-job. I pressed my forehead against the tiles as I worked my cock, eyes screwed shut as I summoned up a lightning-quick montage of memories. Women bound tight by their wrists, arching their backs into the pain as the cane strikes. Tears of surrender, and release, and abandon through pain. Their quivering legs as the adrenaline spikes... then the endorphin rush, the point where their bodies turn limp and their eyes glaze in lust. Quiet tears. Acceptance. Absolute, total submission. All for me.
Come on.
Another montage, this one of Bex. She’d fight against her surrender, writhing, kicking and screaming, to the edge of release. Spitting curses and fighting against her bonds, until she’d break apart and go toppling into the abyss beyond, screaming out tears and begging for more. She morphed into my Kitty Kat, my Katreya. Her bruised shins running away from me through long grass, begging me to chase her… begging me to hurt her… hurt her in her most tender places.
Jesus fucking Christ, James, just fucking cum.
In desperation I let myself go there. Lydia Marsh, bound at my feet. Staring up at me through watery eyes. Her tits are so fucking pretty, tied up tight in bondage rope, marks of her punishment savage against pale skin. Her mouth is open, ready. Her eyes begging me to take her. I force myself in, and she gags on me. I love the noises her throat makes.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I sprayed my load all over the wall, hissing out a string of expletives and already forcing Lydia from my mind. Colleagues were no go. An absolute no-fucking-way.
I had one golden rule. The one I’d never break again.
Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.
It was a whole lot fucking safer that way, but damn what I’d give to see her cry again.
***
Frank and I had the same ritual every Monday morning. He’d knock at my door at 9.15 on the dot, blustering about how time flies, and then ask after my weekend. My answer was invariably the same.
“Can’t complain, Frank, how was yours?”
Cue his a long monologue of events. Golf, shopping, family meals, some story about the neighbours, and I’d sit and listen, making all the right noises. People like talking, and when they’re talking about themselves they aren’t talking about me. It suits me well. That simple fact has made me an exceptional listener, which also suits me well. It pays to listen. It pays to understand.
Frank finally turned his attention to White Hastings McCarthy, gushing at the potential of what the deal could mean for Trial Run. Another of the big boys on our client list. I shared his enthusiasm, and for a few minutes we were colleagues with a single common objective. It was one of those rare moments it felt good to be part of a team.
“Look, James, I know you aren’t up for overnighters. There’s no pressure on you to go, but Trevor White wants to kick off with a few days onsite once the paperwork’s in place. Brighton Head Office, nothing too crazy. A bit of a tour, an initial round of meetings, all the usual. I was thinking you could ask Sam from development in your stead, and send him with someone from project management. I figured maybe Steve Jones or Lydia Marsh, but it’s up to you. Lydia headed up the Anderson deal a few months ago, actually, went like a dream. She’d be a good fit.”
My throat went dry. “Lydia Marsh?”
“You must know her, pretty girl... tall... dark hair... crazy green eyes.”