Everett had moved in front of the prostrate Rachael now, and when she looked up she saw a tall, slender column of navy pinstripe, stretching way up to the ceiling, topped off by a pale face that looked, in that moment, reassuringly anxious and vaguely kind. Not the stereotypical whipcracking man in leather at all, she thought, bemused. But a man she could probably trust. And, furthermore, a man she had grown to like, respect and even find attractive.
'I accept the terms,' she said.
He broke into a smile and dropped to his haunches in front of her.
'I'm very pleased to hear it.' His hand reached out to trace a path through her hair, moving down her cheeks until he held her chin, leant in and kissed her gently on the lips. 'Let's put our names to it, shall we?'
He picked up the notepad and signed his name in a sharp cursive hand beneath Rachael's loops and scrawls. She looped and scrawled in turn.
'We have an agreement, then,' he said briskly, rising once more to his feet. 'No, stay there. I haven't given you permission to stand. Reach down to unfasten and remove your robe, please.'
Rachael balked, but the cleft between her thighs lit up as if electrified, knowing what she wanted before her head caught up. She untied the knot, leaning awkwardly on one elbow and thanking her stars that the carpet was expensive, then slipped the towelling robe off, unsure whether she should keep down or kneel up to do it. She took the less dangerous but more clumsy route of keeping down, which earned her the praise of her new extracurricular boss. She was pleased with herself; perhaps she would turn out to be good at submitting. It was funny how easily it seemed to come to her. Even naked on all fours, being inspected by her manager, she felt that her desire for his approval overrode any discomfort at her predicament.
'Sit up for me, please, Rachael,' he ordered, and she crouched back on her heels. 'Spine nice and straight.' She threw back her shoulders, aware of the inevitable out-thrusting effect this had on her breasts. They were small, but the nipples were twice their usual size, joyous crimson attention-seekers. 'Pretty,' crooned Everett, running a fingertip around them before pinching them slightly, causing Rachael to mew. 'Sensitive too. Now sit at the foot of the bed and spread your legs as wide as you can.'
Rachael, ever eager to please, sat her bottom gingerly on the tip of the mattress and splayed her thighs so wide that she risked straining a muscle. If they ached tomorrow, then so much the better, she thought, having always enjoyed a little bit of bodily fatigue the day after sex. She flushed and rolled her head back when Everett knelt down between her knees and moved in close to the exposed spread.
'You feel lovely,' he complimented, kneading at her lips with his thumbs and breathing warm air over her clitoris. A finger poked rudely up inside her; she squirmed upon it and he added another. 'So tight and hot. This turns you on, doesn't it? Have you done anything like it before?'
'No,' she moaned, riveted by the slow in and out of his fingers and his tormenting hot breath against her most sensitive spot.
'You must be a natural, then. Oh yes, you do feel wonderful.' He chuckled, astounded by his good fortune. 'But how do you taste, Rachael?'
She almost screamed when the tip of his tongue darted out to scoop up her juices, circling her clitoris like a hungry predator while his fingers continued to pump. Oh, this was too good, so good it was cruel, if he kept it up for much longer, she was going to . . .
He stopped, pulled out, kissed her clit then sat back, grinning.
'Not yet you don't,' he said. Rachael made a face, a red one, and stared down at her recently bereft sex, which was a similar shade, as well as shiny wet. Everett took her wrist, from which the cord marks were now fading, and examined it closely, running his fingers along the sensitive underside in a way that did not help Rachael calm down after her near-orgasm.
'How did you get this?' he asked, his eyebrow supplying the question mark. 'The truth this time, please.'
Rachael could not answer. Not from fear of disapproval, or even ridicule, but because it seemed too personal an admission.
'How do you think?' she said eventually, slightly sulkily.
'Don't answer my questions with a question, Rachael, unless you want to see how I enforce discipline. I was planning to save that for a little later on, once the dynamic was properly established.'
Rachael flushed even darker, the word 'discipline' sending fresh rushes of wetness to her core, feeling sure that Everett could see her excitement.
'Sorry, Sir,' she improvised. 'I . . . it was my dressing gown. It chafed my wrist . . . somehow.'
'Not ''somehow'', Rachael.' She gasped as Everett dealt a slap to her thigh, not a hard one, but it shocked her enough to bring the truth out in a tumble.
'I tied myself to the bedpost.'
'Good. There. That wasn't so hard, was it? So you really are a kinky little thing, aren't you? Have you ever been tied before?'
She shook her head.
'But you've thought about it? And you'd like to try it?'
Rachael nodded.
'Well, the dressing gown cords might not be ideal.' Everett loosened and whipped off his tie, then retrieved another from his bedside drawer. 'Silk, on the other hand, is always nice. Lie down. Arms above your head.'
Rachael found that the businesslike enunciation helped her to comply. In an essential sense, this was no different from being in the office, being told to make a call or collect a file. The relationship remained the same; it was only the nature of the tasks that varied. Rachael had always been an approval-seeker and her wired-in eagerness to please would make this easy on her.
She stared up at the ceiling, which had discreet spotlights dotted across it, imagining herself in a painting or a photograph, hanging in a gallery. What kind of comments would people make? Would they be able to guess from her stance that she was about to be tied up? Did she look like a woman embarking on a thrilling new journey into her sexuality? Or did she look like a slag? Oh dear, no, hush that nasty little voice, the voice that tells you to wall yourself up until a husband comes knocking on the door of your tower. Why is it so insistent?