Boss in full-time dominatrix role.
In the realm of male submissiveness, a young, clean-shaven, unclothed man stands before me, displaying the expected level of submission. His erection is enclosed in a locking chastity device while my nails casually stroke his testicles. As I lighten my grip, his self-restraint seems uncomplicated as he remembers the discomfort I've inflicted during our past sessions.
I casually glance away from the business report I'm reading, glaring intently at the young man, then pressing even harder on his testicles. He flinches, allowing me to maintain the smallest semblance of control. Thanks to the nail polish adorning my fingers, his skin glows with each flick of my fingers across his tender orbs.
A delightful fragrance permeates the air, provided by the flickering vanilla-scented candles, creating just the ambiance required for this night. On this evening, the standard corporate attire took a backseat as I adopted a sleek blouse, a leather miniskirt, and black, pointy heels with long metallic soles. The creaking heels always seem to bring unnecessary distractions to the men of the office. No businessperson would ever wear pantyhose with such a decadent allure; in addition, they're both glossy and crotchless. It's not often that I choose to wear these shoes to the office.
The atmosphere swells as the inaugural session unfolds.
Men's lingering glances have never failed to travel south, most frequently converging on my legs. At the office, they continuously observed my legs with a noticeable fascination. I've always carried myself with ease and style with the confidence that my long, beautiful legs command attention. Women regret not choosing refined attire; one can't always resist taking advantage of men's vulnerabilities.
The gentlemen of the office often find themselves engrossed in visions of my legs, which are indeed my finest assets, even down to my shapely rear: thighs, calves, and ankles -- all magically lengthened by my heels. Skirts and dresses appear to always be too brief for me, particularly if it's semiformal occasions. Presenting myself as demure and vulnerable is effortless as my low-cut necklines mirror the brief nature of my skirts. My bigger bust has never gone unnoticed by these gentlemen.
In various instances, I've ventured out of the office wearing tight, risky outfits. It's here at the dance club in the suburban regions where I attempted flirting with the idea of becoming a dominatrix. Admiring the perforated cage around the boy's penis, I continued.
"Flagrant disobedience," I cooed in a whisper, "is a valuable employment expectation."
A surprising amount of nerves and excitement surged through the young man as I yanked the switch's trigger, administering a series of solid spanks and gentle nicks to his backside and groin. A hint of redness appeared on his buttocks, and I smirked at the thought of his delicate pink cheeks turning an even darker hue the next time this took place in my office.
Reflecting on the various words from my reading material, such as "hydraulic" and "valve", provoked ideas for the impending staff meeting. Andrew, who worked in records, mutely obeyed as I commanded him to please my desires. The aspirations of my intricate mind began to lean toward the ultimate femme fatale. "Sexiest" was an inexact term, one that demanded a scrutinous analysis of values.
My own colored hair extended past my shoulders in long, intricate braids, daring to showcase the sharp edges of my long, artificial nails. If only they could witness the display I would put on at the staff meeting.
The following day, I would undoubtedly continue to toy with the men in my presence, tempting those uncontrolled thoughts of suppressing their burgeoning erections whilst in my company. The former boy's departure was a blessing as it propelled me closer to fulfilling my desires. Andrew was a slender, thoughtfully handsome man, and I couldn't help but relish the notion of using the triggers hidden in my documents to fuel fantasies of higher-ranked military personnel humbly apologizing for the involuntary appearance of their miniature tents during staff meetings. One can't help but feel a diabolical pleasure in witnessing those desires coming to fruition.
With the trafficking of power comes the stirrings of an inevitable ascension.
As my nails effortlessly scraped the hard surface of my office door before sliding into my locked briefcase, I reflected on my newfound appreciation for chastity devices. Andrew was twenty-two, lean, and freshly hired when my mind shifted toward the full experience of becoming a dominatrix. Now alone, I was on the verge of genuine power, poised to assert my lethal charm. My appearance had been refined long ago, now it was my chain of control that radiated authority.
Resembling yet so different from the vigorously charming boy from accounts, Andrew shared the same slender figure as his immediate predecessor. I gave a thoughtful look at the two young men; both were equally as supple, aiding in my mastery. Their physical structure permitted me to subdued them to my will and exert power within parameters that were only established within my domain. I never relaxed my dominance over them, never enabling them to surrender to temptation.
In moments, he would return to his position, his British accent swelling with devotion. Though his words lacked any audible implications, they bore the same deliberate precision as the phrasing of my documents.
I never allowed them a reprieve from worshiping me.
The first night we spent together at my home, in the middle of going over a pile of papers, I instructed Andrew to take off his pants, claiming it would be more comfortable for him. Teasing his boxer shorts, by the second meeting I had him wear a few elastic backless men's undergarments that I specifically bought for him. As we began our early moments of making out - kissing and stroking - these tight, stretchy 'playwear', as advertised, became significantly more engaging.
Our private gatherings built upon our initial weekly one-on-one encounters in dark, dimly-lit bars - where a young man's hand could secretly crawl up a woman twice his age's pantyhose leg without anyone noticing or caring. And what perverted things Andrew shared with me: a fetish for pantyhose, a longing for locking chastity, and so much more. "Share all the naughty things you desire an older woman to do for you."
Guiding a young man is always a process.
As we sat in my living room, Andrew dressed in these play garments and me in outfits that varied from leather mini skirts with high boots, to tight-fitting bodysuits, to semi-restrictive 'dominatrix-like' outfits, the boy's hands were no longer allowed to roam around my silky legs freely.
Those initial confessions were requested for a reason. One day, the stretchy playwear was removed, and afterwards, the boy was required to walk naked through my house. And it evolved into continuous chastity locking - the unyielding metal cage.
It always used to embarrass Andrew whenever he lost his self-control while in chastity, just like his predecessor, who was also fitted with an electronic butt plug. What should a woman expect from men? They stiffen up when aroused, agree to any demand - despite how absurd, and when directed by their manipulative tools, eventually explode in the most disorderly manner. When properly managed, stimulation is both a reward and a punishment, and eventually, punishment becomes its own reward.
If I allowed the boy to be freed from his locking device, his erection would become fully hard, or at least this was my experience during those early days, when I called Andrew 'my walking towel rack.'
I instructed Andrew to behave like a good little boy and 'refresh my bourbon and cola,' after he dimmed the lights and turned on the second music set. Young lads have attractive rear ends, but seeing a naked boy didn't arouse me - unless it was a long, deep stare during an intense session with a remote control to an electric butt plug held in one hand, and a large glass of bourbon in the other, which almost fainted me.
Seeing these red postage-stamp squares prowling through my living room made me feel energized.
For me, passionate sex starts with a passionate kiss, and this is what I expected from my guys as part of the foreplay - which I suppose is also a ritual. Bourbon also made me hot and wet. With my pantyhosed legs crossed at the knees, I slid my shoes up and down his thighs, and continually over his chastity device.
"The pointed heels arouse you, don't they you little pervert? You want to kiss them - you want to suck the points."
Submissively, Andrew positioned himself to kiss the shoes, sucking the spikes as well. Watching a woman strutting in these phallic representations seems to excite men worldwide, just as working for a woman causes conflicting emotions in males - a desire to please, but resentment to serve. Andrew's kisses worked their way up, past my ankle-chain and chastity key, then to my calves and knees.
"Auntie wants more than kisses tonight." However, my legs remained tightly locked together. This was Andrew's hint to stroke my pantyhosed legs, and he was quite effective in his attempt, also thrusting against my ankle as I bounced it with him.
With the report in my left hand, I tapped my right hand on the switch. "You need to learn about hydraulic valves," chided. I administered two quick smacks to Andrew's buttocks each time the words 'hydraulic' or 'valve' were mentioned in the text.
As the boy humped relentlessly against my ankles, I carried on reading and swatting at him. Suddenly, he began to leak, a clear indicator that he would lose control at the next meeting when prompted by the trigger words. I muttered, "Losing self-control is a tough blow," as I continued to swat his buttocks with the switch.
He shoved his face under my miniskirt, his tongue barely managing to touch my vagina while licking playfully. Thoughts of physical force flashed through my mind. Yes, I could easily overpower him, I concluded. In fact, I was more than capable of doing so.