Chapter 10

10

June

The confidence in his voice is like a siren call to a part of me only he can reach. No way, can I disobey him. I was born...to do what he wants. Instinct has me pushing aside the gusset of my panties. It's sheer instinct that has me holding it there, baring my pussy for his perusal. Instinct which has me staying still as he takes in his fill. He's looking at me. Noticing me. This is the pinnacle of pleasure, to have his full attention right now. I'll do anything he wants to keep the light of his gaze trained on me.

Then he raises his foot just enough that his big toe, with its trimmed nail, rubs up between my pussy lips again. Goosebumps pop on my skin. Liquid heat shoots out from the point of contact and zips through my veins.

I'm trembling so badly, the strain of holding my position makes my thighs hurt and my knees scream for relief, but the pain only adds to the feeling of being so alive and in the moment. He wants me to do this, and I'm not going to fail him. I've never felt this vital. This…everything. The fa ct that he's watching my reactions closely, and that my cunt is bared for him to use as he sees fit, sends pleasure rippling up my spine. It's unbelievably filthy, and it shouldn't turn me on, but it does.

Moisture drips down my inner thigh. My pussy quivers. Emptiness gnaws at my insides. I look at him with a beseeching expression, not sure what I'm asking for, but once again, instinct dictates he'll know what I want. He implied as much, and it's with a sense of relief that I await his next order.

"How do you feel?" he asks in a conversational tone.

"I… I feel… Hot and shivery."

"And?"

"And needy."

He nods imperceptibly. "And?"

I swallow, "And like there's an aching void in my center."

He holds my gaze, unblinking. Apparently, he needs me to be more honest with my words.

"And like you need to direct me on what I should do to find relief," I murmur.

"I didn't hear that." He smirks.

Oh god. He did hear that, but he wants me to repeat myself, and I should be upset by that, but instead, it only turns me on further. That he knows how to tease me and tug on my emotions is so satisfying. It makes me want to please him further and turns my insides to jelly.

Liquid heat trickles down from between my legs. Sensations zip under my skin. It feels like I've plugged my finger into an electric socket, and the current is surging through my blood.

"Tell me what to do next," I plead.

He leans back further in his chair. The indolent angle of his body, the way he places his elbow on the armrest and taps his fingers on it, indicates I haven't said the right thing. The patience in his eyes signals that, until I do, he'll be happy to see me kneeling here with his toe pushing into my pussy, feeling the evidence of my desire trickle down his foot, and not do anything about it.

I resist the urge to cry out in frustration, knowing that will only delay things. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek. "Please, please instruct me, Sir." Instinct again. That's why I add that honorific at the end of the sentence, and I'm rewarded when he goes still. And I know I've pleased him when he pushes up his foot, so his big toe stabs into the space between my pussy lips. Ohmigod!

A rush of intense pleasure zips through my veins, and the only reason I don't cry out is because I've squeezed my lips shut. The noise that slips out of me seems to assuage him, for he nods.

"You may use my foot," he says in an almost kind voice.

Instantly, I lower myself until the edge of his big toe breaches my slit. I throw my head back, squeeze my eyelids shut and grip my dress, which is bunched around my waist.

I begin to ride my boss' foot. I lower and raise myself. Again. And again. My nipples bead, my stomach squeezes in on itself. And when he growls, "That's it, get yourself off like a good girl," a fierce surge of gratification grips my thighs. It squeezes my pussy, and bolts up my spine and ohgod, hogged, I'm so close.

Three weeks ago, I was an out-of-work assistant trying to take care of her family. Now, I have money in my account, have started paying off my debts, and I'm at the society gathering of the year, with my pussy riding my boss's foot. What is my life, even?

A shiver eddies up my spine. I can't stop the moan that spills from my lips.

That's when he pulls his leg back. My climax flutters at the edge, then stalls.

"What— Wait!" I lower my chin and snap my eyes open. "I need to come."

"All in good time. Meanwhile"—he nods toward his big toe—"look at the mess you made, you filthy girl. Lick it off."

"You're joking," I say, half in horror, half with this crazed sensation of lust which seems to have attached itself to every sense in my body.

He glares at me, and my nerve-endings spark in response. Oh my god, he means it. And worse, I'm going to do it because it doesn't feel wrong. It feels like the kind of thing I want to do for him happily. I slide back, my knees cushioned by the rug, then bend and lick off the moisture that clings to his toe. The sweet taste of myself mixed with the darker edge of his skin goes straight to my head. It's filthy and dirty and so, so, sexy. How can it be sooo sexy? For a second, I picture how it would look to someone on the outside. Me, with my expensive gown crumpled around my waist and showing the curve of my butt as I supplicate myself to my boss and bend down to lick my cum off his foot. And the image I create in my mind is so erotic. So arousing. So explicit. My breasts swell, my pussy feels heavy, and oh god, I'm even more aroused now.

When I look up, he leans in and, with his thumb, scoops up a drop from the edge of my lips. He brings it to his mouth and sucks on it. My clit throbs in response.

"Even sweeter than I expected." He jerks his chin. "On your knees."

When I comply, he nods in the direction of his sock and shoe. I follow his lead and slip the sock onto his big, wide foot, then pick up his polished, Italian leather dress shoe. It seems huge in my hands, and when I help him slip it on… I realize, the size is borne out by the massive tent at his crotch. I want to flick a glance in the direction of said tent, but don't dare. Once again, instinct dictates that I follow his orders to the letter. If I do, he'll reward me, surely?

"Up now; put yourself to rights," he murmurs.

I scramble up, not very gracefully, then straighten my dress over my knees.

He pulls a pristine white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, wipes his fingers on it, then pockets it. The careless gesture turns my insides to jelly. That I do not warrant any more of his attention is so right. That my boss would look me up and down, then glance away with a bored expression like this interlude didn't mean anything is so...perfect.

He knows that his not paying attention to me is just what I need to feel worthwhile. He knows that every bone in my body craves that I supplicate myself further to him, but it will be at his pleasure. It will be when he demands it of me, and not a second more.

I realize, with shock, that I'll do anything to earn his approval. Earn being the operative word here. How well he knows that I crave his appreciation, but I don't want him to give it to me easily. I need to work for it. I need to beg for it. I need to tear myself open and expose my innermost desires before he'll grant his acceptance of my place in his life. I'll do anything to please him. My pussy swells with need again. I'll do anything to make life easier for him. I'll do anything he asks of me.

Somehow, it's an extension of the role I've taken on in the real world, where I'm there to anticipate his every need. I'm there to make his life easier. To do whatever he asks of me. I don't deserve his attention, and I'll follow his every command in the hope he'll reward me with it.

As if he's read my mind, he rises to his feet, then flicks imaginary dust away from the lapels of his jacket, while I wait, head bowed.

He takes his time, straightening the cuffs of his sleeves, then tugs on his bowtie. The need inside me builds and builds, until finally, when he cups my cheek, peers into my eyes, and nods as if he's satisfied by what he sees there, I feel this strange urge to cry.

I feel like I'm on the verge of something monumental. Like I've changed in a way I never thought I could, but which also feels so very right. So very me. He's managed to unlock that hidden part of me I didn't know existed, and I feel so incredibly grateful. I lower my eyes and my chin, and by his change in breathing, I know I've pleased him.

He walks past me, toward the desk, then returns with a carafe of water and a glass. He hands me a full glass. "Drink it."

I follow his directions. And when I'm done, he fills up my glass again.

"Take your time, drink as much as you need. There's an ensuite bathroom. Put yourself back together, and when you're ready, I'll see you outside."

He walks back to the desk, places the jug down on it, then turns and walks past me and out the door.

I take a few more sips of water—it does not occur to me to disobey his orders. It's only when I'm standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom and take note of my flushed features and my glittering eyes that I realize what happened. I run cold water on my wrists, use a fresh napkin to pat my fiery cheeks. By the time I finger comb my hair, I feel more myself.

Jesus, what happened there? I lost myself completely in that scene. I've read enough erotic romance and watched enough porn to know I took part in something which was kinky and enjoyed it more than I would have expected. Even more than the spanking, if I'm being honest. I suspected it then, but I know now, for sure, that my boss is dominant.

I've never thought of myself as submissive, I'm certainly not submissive in daily life; definitely not as his secretary, now executive assistant. But when it comes to role-play? I swallow. I love being subjugated by him. Not that I've role-played before. But I know enough from my 'research' to realize the way he commands me and the way I rush to obey him, when it's just the two of us in a non-work situation, I fold into the persona of a subservient.

He's made it clear that none of it means there's anything personal between us. I'm nothing but his…sex-toy? He hasn't said so, but his actions signal that.

A rush of pleasure fills me at the thought. At the same time... How I wish it meant something more to him. And how do I stop myself from taking everything that happened so personally? Fact is, I can't stop thinking of him. I square my shoulders. I need to remind myself that he's out of my league. Whatever happens between us is simply two adults having a bit of fun, is all. So, why is it that I can't stop myself from wanting more?

I spin around and walk out of the bathroom, then toward the door of the study. When I pull it open, it's to find Jeeves waiting there with my handbag.

"Mr. Davenport said you'd be needing this." Jeeves offers me my clutch.

I take it from him. "Thank you, Jeeves."

Some of the uncertainty subsides. So, my boss was thinking of my needs as he left? And that's reassuring and makes me feel looked after. Though he was, perhaps, simply being polite? Enough to track down Jeeves and my purse and have him wait here for me? My head swims with all of these thoughts. Maybe, I'm making too much out of what is a kind gesture on his part?

"Mr. Davenport asked that I escort you to where he's waiting."

It's with relief I follow him. Did my boss know I'd be befuddled and worried about putting a foot wrong and breaking some kind of protocol at this event? Was he watching out for my comfort again? Did he realize I'd prefer to have someone guide me through the next steps, so I wouldn't have to think for myself for a while? If so, why send Jeeves? Why not wait for me outside himself? Jeez, I'm going to drive myself crazy with these thoughts.

I settle for following Jeeves up the hallway and into the grand room, then through the crowd. He threads his way through gaps between the well-dressed with an alacrity I envy. They really do teach you everything in butler school.

Then, I see him. Head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, he's listening with what seems to be polite interest, but which I know indicates he's bored.

The woman opposite him is grey-haired and wearing a dress that falls to below her knees. It's dull grey in color with full sleeves. However, she makes up for the unremarkable dress with a hat on her head in a brilliant yellow. It has swirls and shapes and a big disc-shaped object in the center, and on it are two roosters—yes, I did say roosters— facing each other.

The woman must be no more than five feet four inches tall, but the height of her hat swoops up to being at eye level with my boss. It should have caught my eye first—it acts like a lighthouse beam in a crowd of largely grays, and blacks, and whites—but my gaze was caught by him. At how he stands indolently, his muscles seemingly at ease; but there's an aura of tension surrounding him, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity to him. Except, he's looking at me.

It feels like someone took a hammer to my chest, that's how impactful the contact is. The hum of the crowd fades. All other faces vanish. I feel like I'm walking on air. There's an alertness to his features as he watches me approach; only, as I reach him, he yawns. And now, it feels like someone poured a bucket of icy water on me.

"Sir. Madam." Jeeves half bows. He flicks Knox a look I can only term as censorious, then he turns a much warmer look on me before he does his disappearing thing again. The crowd around my boss falls silent. All of them survey me and I meet their gazes head on. I have nothing to hide— except for the fact that I ground myself against my boss' foot.

I wince, then school my features into what I hope is a nondescript expression. I have as much right to be here as they do. Class was a constant companion throughout my school years, but I'm proud of my background in care. I'm proud that I got this far on my own merit, and on my own terms. And not-even my boss's arrogance can take that away from me. I tilt up my chin. "I'm June Donnelly, Mr. Davenport's Assistant."

"Is that what they're calling themselves now?" An elderly man with a receding hairline, and a paunch not quite disguised by his tailored suit, scrutinizes me with a lascivious look in his eyes. And there you have it, ladies and gents. Money can't buy you sophistication; not even if you come from the posh upper classes.

I open my mouth to tell him off, but my boss holds up his hand. "She is my employee, and a very valued one. If you can't treat her with respect, I'll have you thrown out of this event."

I whip my head in my boss' direction to find his face is deadly serious. Apparently, he has enough clout to have someone evicted from a royal event? Whoa, how rich are he and his family, exactly? I knew Davenport industries was influential, but that they carry so much pull is not something I anticipated.

"Now, now, ol' chap, it was all in jest. Surely, you know that?" the other man protests. I flick him a sideways glance and find he's pale. He mops at his temples with a handkerchief. "I do apologize. I did not mean it that way."

"It's her you need to apologize to." My boss nods in my direction.

The other man pivots toward me. "I am sorry," he says stiffly.

"Did that feel like he was sorry?" My boss snaps.

I am about to nod, but on second thought, why should I come to this guy's rescue? He deserves what's coming to him.

"He did not sound like he was sorry," I say in a firm voice. The other guests eye me with something like respect.

Knox glances around, and once more, Jeeves appears at his side, as if by magic. I really need to get tips from him on how to blend in and out of the crowd.

My boss nods in the direction of said guest without taking his gaze from me. "Will you please escort this gentleman off the premises?"