Office appropriate

He has a thing for the professional- looking woman. I work in an office where jeans, t- shirts and DM boots are perfectly acceptable attire, but he’d like me to wear smarter clothes to work, something a little more ‘dress- for- the- job- you- want’. I have never been smart; I am the opposite of smart. I don’t see myself as professional, put together, office appropriate. I need him to see me that way before I can manage it myself.

But I have the component parts of the required look. When he arrives at my house I have been trying on a new outfit: wide- legged grey wool trousers with a thin white pinstripe and a vintage fake- silk blouse with a beautiful high embroidered collar, fastened with tiny buttons. It’s not really office appropriate, the blouse, because while the cut is extremely modest the fabric is sheer, but it’s a fair start. I open the door to him, and he looks me up and down and smiles. I run downstairs to make him a cup of tea, glowing inwardly at the expression on his face, a mixture of pleasure and curiosity.

Twenty minutes later I am in my bedroom, kneeling on the seat of an office chair, with my trousers and white cotton knickers pulled down, my black suede kitten heels kicked off and my hands tied together with a leather belt. He stands behind me and gently canes me on the arse and the tops of my thighs, rubbing my buttocks with his palm after every several strokes. Gently and then harder, my chin resting on the fuzzy fabric of the chair, which swivels ever so slightly with every hit, leaving me feeling something close to nauseous but not quite. I hear him undo his jeans and feel him push himself inside me. He fucks me briskly for a little while, but for some reason it hurts a bit, and when I tell him this he offers to go slowly. I breathe in the feeling of the leather chafeing against my wrists, his cock moving sweetly and gingerly in and almost out as the chair rocks beneath me.

At his request I look at myself in the full- length mirror as he fucks me, watching my expressions change, passing across my face like clouds. Grinning, gleeful, concentrating, biting my lip, eyes widening, looking pained (but not longer feeling it). He stops, and I feel him bend down and reach for the first shoe, which he slips onto my foot as if he were Prince Charming and I Cinderella, and then the next. I enjoy the thought of him looking down at me, in my faux silk and pinstripe wool and elegant little heels, my chin resting on my bound wrists, my thighs marked with blush- coloured stripes, as he stands behind me and fucks my arse. Me in my professional office girl costume, him in his workwear, paint- spattered jeans and cap and scuffed, heavy boots.

My knees are hurting with the pressure of kneeling on the seat, so he lets me climb down from the chair and fucks me standing up, bent over very slightly at the waist. I ask if I can touch myself and he gives me permission, but my hands are tied so tight that I can’t reach, other than gently stroking my clit with my little fingers. I whine with frustration, my fingers so close but so far from being able to do as I wish- to press firmly on my clit as he moves roughly inside me, to make myself come, wet and hard, rather than tickle and tease. I give up trying, and concentrated on pushing back on his cock, my bent legs wobbling with the exertion, until I hear him gasp and breath out and feel him stop moving behind me. He cleans himself up and and I manoeuvre myself onto my knees, grinning as I lick and suck on his softening cock until he shudders, raising his arms in the air like a victorious puppet.


We are collecting ourselves, fastening buttons, putting on shoes. I am struggling, my hands still tied, but persisting in my efforts, because doing so makes me laugh. I look down at my wrists, wrapped in soft brown leather, the brass buckle flapping gently as I move.

Take a picture of my hands, I say.

Do you maybe want to rephrase that, he replies.

I correct myself. Would you please take a picture of my hands? I can’t do it because you tied them so nicely.

He takes the photo, showing the cuffs of my blouse and my hands pressed together as if in quiet prayer, before chivvying me to get ready so he can get to a meeting and I can get to a yoga class. I need to buy some shoes to go with my outfit. Something smart, not a DM but not a high heel either; as he sagely points out, wearing high heels all day can cause pain and damage, and he has previously said that he objects to the idea of my being in pain he did not directly cause. He suggests instead a nice brogue. I am completely down with this idea.

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