It was mostly the boss’s fault. The boss was the kind of person who had to micromanage everything and everyone, who couldn’t trust anyone to get a single detail correct and so was constantly looking over the shoulders of every employee, sometimes literally breathing down their necks.
But there was little that Anita could do about it. This was because she was, in fact, the boss: the sole owner, president, CEO, and undisputed head honcho of SofterWare, a company that created computer programs and games designed specifically for female users. And as the company had prospered and expanded, taking on more and more employees, Anita had become more and more stressed out, due to her inability to delegate even the slightest authority to her subordinates.
This made for a less than pleasant work environment, and she knew it. She could see it in the way her employees unconsciously hunched over their desks when they saw her heading their way. Had caught, out of the corner of her eye, more than one them shaking their heads, rolling their eyes, or simply sighing with relief when she’d moved on after spending minutes explaining exactly what he or she should be doing despite the fact that they were already doing it.
In her late 20’s Anita was still a very attractive woman, although it would be hard to notice that about her when she was at work. There she was a bundle of nerves in squinty glasses, her black, slightly curly hair yanked behind her head with a clip. Her slim figure was the result of nervous energy rather than exercise, unless you counted her constant prowling through the office as exercise. She didn’t drink coffee because she didn’t need it.
Anita had understood what was happening to her, and realized that it was bad not only for her but for the company as well. Several of her best employees, people who had been with the company since its founding, had left, unable to cope with Anita’s becoming more and more of, as one departing employee had snarled, “…an anal-retentive control freak.” She herself had become an insomniac and a nail-biter. She’d known that she couldn’t go on like that without suffering some kind of physical or mental breakdown, but had no idea how to make herself let go. Who had time for yoga or meditation or any of those other relaxation techniques? She had a company to run and everything…had…to…be…perfect!
But in recent months Anita’s situation had become much better. Although her personality remained unchanged she’d made an important discovery that had made a huge difference in her life. So now, every couple of weeks or sometimes more often, whenever the pressure began to build inside her and she felt herself coiling up like a watch-spring, snapping at her employees and practically grinding her teeth at the slightest problem or delay, Anita would sit down at her desk, take out her phone and send a text to her husband, Don. This text always consisted of just two letters, followed by a question mark:
SN?
Sometimes she thought that was the best part of everything that was to follow; just pushing the ‘send’ button would always bring a smile to her face, and she would sit there, no matter what the other myriad demands on her attention there might be, until his reply came in. Which would nearly always be one simple letter, followed by a period:
Y.
From that very moment she would begin to relax slightly, and her nervous tension would gradually, throughout the remainder of the workday, evolve into a delicious sense of anticipation. Her focus would become less intense, her demeanor softer and even the way she walked felt different to her – less stilted and more catlike and sensual.
If her employees noticed the difference they said nothing, of course. But surely they had become aware of the fact that on certain days she was now the first one to leave instead of the very last as was usual, and that during the days which followed she was altogether much more gracious and pleasant to work with. Anita wondered sometimes if they speculated together about the cause of these sudden shifts in her demeanor.
If they only knew, she would think, and sometimes actually giggled to herself, which would have astonished any of the people who worked for her. Most of them, she was sure, would testify in court that she never even smiled, much less giggled.
And if they thought that giggling was unlikely, Anita couldn’t begin to imagine what they would think if they could see her racing through the evening traffic on those special nights, often with one hand on the wheel and the other inside the pants of her conservative business clothes, cupping and squeezing herself through her panties, her mouth hanging open with excitement. Sometimes she thought that was the best part: the sheer, tingling anticipation of what was about to happen:
Slave Night.
It had evolved during the previous year as Anita had discovered that sometimes she enjoyed being told what to do during her lovemaking with Don. Don was certainly not dominant by nature – their day-to-day relationship was generally very well balanced in that regard. But he quickly learned to enjoy his role, becoming more and more brusque as he took command of her pleasure.
Over time their role-playing had expanded, becoming a kind of occasional foreplay, with Don ordering her into the bedroom and making her strip for him before they began. Then little by little their roles became a kind of theme for an entire evening, sometimes spontaneously but more and more often at Anita’s request.
And now…
It always began the same way, and Anita loved the whole ritual of it. Maybe that was the best part:
When she hurried through the door her husband Don would be sitting in the living room, reading a book or magazine. And even though the front door was well within his line of sight, on Slave Night he never looked up or acknowledged her presence in any way.
Because she wasn’t really there – not yet.
So Anita would simply drop her purse and laptop by the door and hustle up the stairs as quickly as she could. In the bedroom she would shed all her clothing and jewelry, then take a shower, during which she would wash herself thoroughly, scrub off her make-up, shampoo her hair and then shave everywhere, even if she had done it that very morning. This part of the ritual always heightened her arousal, but she would never touch herself, no matter how tempted.
It was not allowed.
Afterwards she would dry her hair and brush it until it shone, falling down to her shoulders in a curly mane. She would spray a mist of perfume into the air and walk through it. And then she would kneel in front of her dresser, open the bottom drawer and reach under the sweat-clothes and winter socks to retrieve her treasure.
Don had found it on eBay and given it to her on her birthday: a heavy, wide, gold-plated collar, delicately engraved with the name Precious One. Anita often wondered whether it had belonged to a large, slobbery and beloved dog…or another slave. But no matter, it was beautiful and it gave her goosebumps every time she removed it from the drawer, because of what came next.
Cradling it in her open hands as though it was a crown, Anita would carefully rise until she was standing upright then turn and walk, with slow, formal steps, out of the bedroom, down the stairs and into the living room, trying to breathe normally while checking out of the corners of her eyes to be sure that Don had remembered to close the drapes. Because it wouldn’t do for the neighbors to see what was about to happen:
Anita, completely naked, kneeling and prostrating herself before her husband, her face to the floor, her arms stretched out in front of her, her hands offering the collar.
Don would always ignore her at first, and Anita loved that, being made to wait in that submissive pose, completely still and silent. Often it was her first tranquil moment in days or even weeks, and she was grateful for it, happy to just be aware of her breathing as it began to slow and soften, and of her mind, usually a whirlwind of anxious and angry thoughts, as it gradually settled until the only thing that needed to be done was wait.
Maybe that was the best part.
Or was it when Don, having learned to judge exactly the right moment, would put his reading aside, lean down to take the collar from her hands, then gently brush her hair away from her neck before enclosing it within the collar, fastening it with a firm click?
For Anita that one sound, the smooth, metallic latching of the collar around her neck, was the sound of a door being closed on her entire, frantic daily existence. There was no company to run, no clients to placate, no employees to supervise; there was nothing at all beyond her awareness of the collar, the cool metal encircling her neck.
There was no Anita. There was only Precious One.
The slave.
And no matter how many times Anita played this role, that final moment of transition from CEO to slave-girl never failed to make her nipples harden.
The rest of the evening would be variations on a theme. Usually at this point Don would clap his hands, the signal for her to sit up in her kneeling position: back straight, hands resting palms up on her thighs and her attention entirely focused on her husband.
Anita loved this part because it almost always resulted in her first spanking of the evening.
Don would pretend to continue his reading, although they both knew that he was watching her for the slightest sign of inattention, which she was only too happy to provide. A moment’s wavering glance, the slightest turning of the head or hint of restlessness in her posture and he would say, in the calmest of voices, “Down.”
Anita would immediately turn in place and resume her earlier prostrate position, her face to the floor and her behind held high in the air, within easy reach. Don would always wait until she was literally quivering with anticipation – usually not a very long wait – before delivering two open-handed swats, one to each cheek.
The first two were just warm-ups, they both knew that. Afterward Anita would resume her kneeling position and Don would return to his reading – until her attention ‘wandered’ again.
The next two slaps would be noticeably harder, the wait before he struck – and the time between the slaps – longer. And the next two after that, and the next two, and the next…
They had never gotten beyond ten slaps during this stage of the evening because usually well before that Anita would be literally biting her lip, her breath rushing in and out of her nose, as she teetered on the edge of orgasm. Sometimes she thought that was the best part, fighting to control the overwhelming desire for release while her husband watched, knowing that it was against the rules to come without permission and that if she gave in the evening would be over.
Don had become expert at gauging when she could take no more. And when he judged that she had reached that point he would put his reading aside again, then simply snap his fingers at her again and make a peremptory gesture towards the front of his pants.
Oh, she loved this part, maybe best of all. She had always pretty much enjoyed performing oral sex on her husband, though most of the time a large part of her mind was still at the office. But being ordered to do it as a slave, naked and on her knees in the living room, was a different experience entirely. First of all, a rule had evolved that she first had to unzip him using only her teeth. And something about the entire procedure – approaching him on her knees, placing her hands on the arms of his chair, pushing her face into his crotch and struggling to grasp and pull down the zipper toggle between her clenched teeth, while Don again pretended to ignore her – made her feel even more like a possession.
And when she had accomplished the task, and was finally allowed to use her hands to open his pants the rest of the way and take out his cock, it felt so much like a reward to be able to take him into her mouth and pleasure him that she savored every moment. Savored them too much, sometimes, and too long, because sometimes Don would lose patience, place his hands on the sides of her head and forcibly increase the pace, pushing her head up and down on his cock until he climaxed and filled her mouth. She loved it when he did that, though she’d never admitted it to him.
Then it was dinnertime and oh god, how she loved that. Often before she’d even had a chance to swallow his cum, Donald would snap his fingers again and indicate the kitchen with a jerk of his thumb, and Anita would hasten to obey, always remembering to first replace his cock in his pants and zip him up again before getting back on her feet and padding away on her bare feet to prepare his dinner.
The bottom drawer, next to the stove, was where she kept the special apron she wore only on Slave Nights. It was really a pitiful excuse for an apron: a tiny, translucent piece of lacy white fabric that barely covered her loins and was tied behind her with a ridiculously huge bow. But she loved how feminine it made her feel, loved the way it somehow made her feel even more naked, especially in combination with her collar.
Of course since Don was always the first one home, he usually had dinner well under way and all Anita needed to do was set the table and place the food into serving dishes. And on these special nights she always took extra care, using the nicest placemats and silverware, pouring wine and water into their respective glasses, lighting a single tall candle in the middle of the table.
When everything was perfect she would pull her husband’s chair away from the table, making it ready for him, and then she would take her kneeling position beside it and simply wait. Don could tell by the silence that it was time for him to make his entrance. He would walk in casually, ignoring her as before, and seat himself, pulling his chair up to the table smartly. He would take a moment to look over the table setting and if everything met with his satisfaction he would simply nod, indicating that Anita could begin to serve.
But if some small thing wasn’t right – and Anita usually made sure that this was the case, placing his silverware in the wrong order, for example – he would snap his fingers again and point at the offending object. Anita would rise to her feet and bend over the table to make the correction. Then she would remain in that position while Don gave her as many slaps on the ass as he felt her transgression warranted.
If there were no further mistakes to be corrected Anita was allowed to begin serving. This was another highlight of her evening, walking back and forth from the stove and counter, often with her behind red and tingling, offering him each dish, like a well-trained slave-girl should, and filling his plate until he held up his hand, signaling that he had enough. Then resuming her kneeling position at his side while he ate.
She knew there was no danger of her going hungry, of course. On these nights Don always accepted much more food than he actually wanted, and even some dishes that he didn’t particularly care for but knew that Anita liked. And when he was done he would simply pick up his plate, turn in his seat and begin to feed her.
Oh, she loved that so much! Maybe that was the best part: kneeling there beside him, hands resting empty on her thighs, opening her mouth while he carefully raised a spoon or fork and fed her like a baby bird, sometimes even allowing her to eat directly from the palm of his hand like a favored pet. Sometimes she would deliberately allow some food to miss her mouth and run down her chin, knowing that Don would gently clean her up with his napkin – and then pinch her nipples hard for thirty seconds as a punishment. Mmmmm….
After dinner Don would rise from his chair and proceed to the living room. Anita would follow and while Don was settling himself in his favorite chair she would turn on the television and stand beside it, waiting his instructions. He would tell her what show or movie he wanted to watch and Anita would set it up for him, adjusting the volume to his preference once it began.
Then at his nod, indicating that everything was correct, Anita would quickly return to the kitchen to remove and store her apron before returning to kneel beside his chair, naked once more but for her collar. Often he would absently stroke her hair or massage her neck while he watched, and this always made her wish she could purr for him.
After a while he would generally snap his fingers and point to the floor in front of his feet and Anita would hasten to take her position there, where she would loosen and remove each of his shoes in turn, placing them beside his chair. Then at a second snap of his fingers she would get on her hands and knees facing the screen, her legs parted and her behind directly in front of him.
As soon as she was properly positioned he would raise his feet from the floor and rest them on the small of her back, using her as a footstool. Sometimes she couldn’t help but imagine the people she worked with seeing her at this moment of utter submission – and a shiver would run through her entire body.
Then she and Don would watch together; he in his chair, she on her hands and knees. But that wasn’t all, not nearly. Whenever he felt like it – during commercials, for instance – Don would remove his feet from her back and sit forward in his chair. Then he would begin to fondle Anita, lightly stroking with his fingertips the welts he had raised on her behind and thighs, wetting his fingers in her pussy, teasing the entrance to her anal passage, even kneeling and straddling her from behind, seizing her by the hips and crudely rubbing his erection up and down between her ass cheeks.
Oh god, if she hadn’t felt completely like his slave-girl and possession by then this treatment never failed to cast its spell over her. And she was not permitted to move. Nor was she allowed to moan, whimper or cry out, no matter what the provocation.
Though she always did. This was partially because she couldn’t help it, of course, but also because the punishment for disobedience was yet another hard slap on the behind for each infraction.
Sometimes she was so noisy that she was ordered upstairs – still on hands and knees – to fetch her ball-gag and bring it back to him, dangling by its strap from her teeth. On these occasions she often had to make more than one trip in order to fetch one or more of her other toys – dildos, plugs, vibrators, paddles, whips – for Don to use on her after firmly placing the ball-gag in her mouth and fastening it tightly.
Of course, even a ball-gag couldn’t prevent her from making noises sometimes, and drooling on the carpet was also a spankable offense.
Maybe that was the best part: being slowly and relentlessly reduced to little more than a primal, aching need for release, unable to speak, knowing that Don knew exactly where and when to stop, leaving her trembling on the edge of orgasm while he replaced his feet on her back and ignored her for the next fifteen, twenty minutes or more. Letting her settle down before beginning all over again. Then again. And again…
By the end of the evening Anita was often unable to rise to her feet. Don would help her rise to her knees, then gently remove the ball-gag from her mouth if it was in use. This was not because they were finished. Don would continue standing there in front of her while she collected herself. And then she would bow to him as before, face to the floor, arms extended, fingertips touching his feet, before looking up at him and beginning to beg:
“Please fuck me, Master.”
Often they were both so aroused by then that this was all that was needed. But oh, how she loved it when he made her continue to beg for what she wanted, in filthy detail.
“I’m your slave, Master, yours to use and fuck in any way you choose. Please honor your slave with your cock in my mouth, my pussy, my ass, anywhere you like. Fill me with your come, Master, cover me with it, use me as you wish. Oh please, Master, I beg you…”
And always, always, always, her request would be granted, right there on the floor. And sometimes on (or over) the chair as well.
Anita was supposed to beg permission before coming each time, but often a wordless howl was all she could manage.
But even that wasn’t the best part.
Afterwards, no matter how exhausted they both were, Don would pick Anita up in his arms, holding her close as he climbed the stairs – his knees trembling a little sometimes – and gently place her on their bed. He’d remove her collar and place it on the nightstand beside her. Then he would fetch a warm, damp washcloth and clean her up as best he could while she lay there, sighing with contentment.
Then he would slip into bed beside her, take her in his arms and let her rest her head on his shoulder. He would kiss her tenderly and tell her how much he loved her. Then they would drift off to sleep, still snuggled together.
That was the best part.