In the Arms of a Woman E-Book

Harper Bliss

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 504

Beschreibung

Best-selling lesbian romance author Harper Bliss has collected all the short stories she has penned over the years. You can find all twenty-eight of them in this sizzling hot collection.

You will encounter women of all ages, from all over the world, and practicing a myriad of professions—ranging from police officers to rock band singers and from therapists to personal trainers.

Just one piece of advice: do not read in public!

Please note that all these stories have been previously published in various anthologies or as single ebooks.

Leseprobe

IN THE ARMS OF A WOMAN

A SHORT STORY COLLECTION

HARPER BLISS

CONTENTS

Special Offer from the Author

Introduction

Reunion Tour

Alphas

Overtime

Neighbours

Champagne

Off The Record

All of Me

Stair Walking

Fit for Forty

Rather

Lovely Rita

Wetter

Dress Code

Stormy Weather

New Girl

Bar Service

Personal Training

The Power of Words

Fair and Square

The Client

Match Point

Freedom

One-on-One

A Matter Of Inclination

The Opposite of Darkness

Stepping Stone

Commanding Officer

Not Yet

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About the Author

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INTRODUCTION

Back in 2012, I hesitantly came out of the writer closet with a few short stories, only to discover that I really enjoyed writing them. I went on to pen quite a few before ‘graduating’ to novellas and novels. I was fortunate enough to have a few of my short stories published in various anthologies and, over the years, published a bunch of them myself. Now, 6 years after my very first short story was published (Neighbours in the erotica anthology Smut in the City, fyi), I thought I’d put them all together in one big bundle for you to enjoy.

These days, I hardly ever write short stories anymore, so going over these was quite the nostalgia trip for me and… a rather hot re-discovery of what I used to specialise in.

I started out in erotica so, do be warned, all of these stories are much more than just romantic. Some aren’t even romantic at all but, overall, even in these short tales, my undeniable romantic streak was already coming through.

I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for starting my big lesbian fiction writing adventure with these short stories.

There are twenty-eight of them and I vividly remember writing every single one. I hope, after all these years, they bring you as much joy and satisfaction as they have done me.

Blissful reading!

Harper Bliss

REUNION TOUR

You’re a cocky little thing up there. The way you wriggle your ass—I can’t wait to stripe it with my belt. I watch you from the side of the stage. If this were a festival in Europe, my band would be headlining, but here in our home country, yours gets the number one spot. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t smart a little. I may have to take that out on you as well. It’s a win-win, really, the way you bat your lashes—your head twisted up to me—when my hand comes down on your flesh, always defying me to give more. And, when it comes to you, I never fail to have more to give.

You shimmy to the edge of the stage, lifting your arms high above your head, giving your fans—and me—a glimpse of your pale, taut belly and the little silver ring driven into the delicate skin above your belly-button.

“No one will know what it means,” I said when I arranged for Lisa to administer the piercing. “Only the two of us.” Now, every time you flash it, every single time you bare this glittering symbol of whatever we have between us for the world to see, something pierces me, too. A wave of something I don’t wish to define washes over me. I’m old enough to recognize it instantly, but still foolish enough to deny it.

Because you drive me crazy, make me feel things I haven’t felt in years. Not even taking the stage again, after a nine-year hiatus, flanked by Tommy and Matthew and Sam, my brothers in arms since 1981, affected me in the same way as the first time I saw that glint in your eyes. All it took was one glance, and I knew.

You flick your head to the right, momentarily pinning your eyes on me, and the whole motion thunders through me, leaving my panties drenched. Speaking of, you’re wearing a pair of mine underneath those leather pants—the ones that hug your ass so sublimely I need to catch my breath every time you present your back to me on the stage.

“Please allow me to present to you the next big thing,” my manager said. “The Harriettes.” You were obviously their leader, the way you hung back a bit—the way I learned to do all those years ago—to allow the others to shine during moments of lesser importance, like being introduced to a band long past its prime.

“Oh my god,” your bass player giggled. “We are such huge fans. You are our biggest inspiration.” It sounded a bit rehearsed, what with her not even been born yet the year we broke through. You appeared smarter, more composed, shrouded in that cool sort of silence that no one can take issue with.

When we shook hands, though, I detected the slightest hint of sweat on your palm, and when you met my gaze, I knew. I’m old enough to know.

You take your first of many faux-modest bows. After five months on the road, I know your routine by heart. I can only imagine the adrenaline coursing through your blood right now. Not that it doesn’t still happen to me, but the years have taken away the highest highs. I’ve learned to put it all into perspective more, to see the long-run—the end game. But I hope you’re enjoying this moment because it truly is glorious. Unencumbered by self-consciousness, lifted up by the incessant roar of the thousands of people in front of you, that one moment you sang and strutted your ass off for the past forty-five minutes. The higher your high, the more you’ll want me after.

You and your band members exit the stage, walking right past me, as usual. The first time it happened after we’d been together, it hurt a little bit, but I never held that against you. It would be like holding being young against youth. You’re pumped, ready to go back out there, to soak up whatever precious minutes of adoration you have left after your gig. Yet, for all your bravado, your magnetizing stage presence, and your—admittedly—raw, powerful vocals, you never let it go to your head.

“I need you to do this to me,” you said, the first time. But I didn’t need you to tell me that.

I wait patiently, glaring into the bright lights of the stage, the corners of my mouth lifting spontaneously as the people out there scream your name, scream for you to come back. Our own fans, like ourselves, are older now, and rarely call for encores in this unbridled, shameless, self-effacing way.

When you shuffle past me again, it’s as though I can smell you. Your sweat. The state of arousal you’ve worked yourself into during your set.

“I’ll be there,” I whisper to no one but myself. “I’ll be there when you come down.”

And I am. After you perform two more songs—The Harriettes’ first hit ‘Boyfriends’ and that cover you and the girls always insist on playing of our 1986 song ‘It’s not me’—I rush to my changing room. At least, due to my status as new wave goddess of the eighties, most venues, even festivals, easily grant me my wish for my own changing room.

If I wanted to, I could count down the minutes it takes from the applause on the other side of the stage to die down, until you knock on my door. It never takes more than five—just enough time to exchange some high fives with your bandmates—and you always knock.

“Come in,” I say, in my most earnest voice. No time for smiles just yet.

You close the door behind you and lean against it, sinking your front teeth into your bottom lip. Already, the first pang of hunger, of blind, delirious lust, shoots through me. To this day, it’s still unclear if you chose me or if I chose you. Perhaps we just chose each other. Perhaps, in that long first glance we shared, we saw what we could mean to each other.

As per our ritual, your back stays glued to my changing room door. I forbade you months ago to lock it. I get up from where I was sitting—a rather dingy couch, unworthy of the backstage of a festival of this standing—and, slowly, take a few steps in your direction. The first thing I always do, is unhook my belt and slide it, loop by loop, from around the waistband of my jeans.

Your eyes catch on it and your teeth sink deeper. There’s a twitchiness to your demeanor, a desire so great it shines through in every tiny movement you make. You don’t know this, but I feel it too. It burns through me now, and destroys me a little every time you close the door behind you again, every time you leave. But I don’t think of the pain that is to come, because this moment is not about my pain. It’s about yours.

I fold the belt in my hands, enjoying the soft caress of the well-used leather. Your eyes are glued to it. They always are. The way you can never look me in the eyes beforehand, and how you make up for that afterwards by sending defying glance after defying glance at me, as though you’ve just survived the greatest ordeal, the biggest challenge of your young life, always floors me a little, makes the crotch of my jeans go damp in a flash.

“Take them off.” As much as I admire how you look in that pair of leather pants, how they cling to you the way I sometimes want to, time is of the essence.

You kick off your shoes first. You know I want you totally naked, not a scrap of clothing lingering on your body to protect you from what I’m about to give you. I don’t go for anything less than complete surrender. Your top is next. I’m glad you’re not wearing that old faded T-shirt with my face on it. I hate to see myself crumpled on the floor like that. As usual, you’re not wearing a bra. And I didn’t even ask you this time. The sight of you, naked from the waist up, only clad in those leather pants—and those large, snaking tattoos that crowd the skin of your arms and shoulders, makes my pussy clench around nothing.

I don’t need to take a picture of you this way. I carry this image with me throughout the days. I see it in the morning just before I open my eyes and before I drift off into sleep at night. When did it become all you, I wonder? When did the balance I sought so hard to find in my life tip into your direction?

You don’t need me to tell you that I love you. I’m about to show you, again.

I arch up my eyebrows, indicating my impatience. Pants. Now. There’s no need for me to say these words, either. Your hands are pushing the leather down already, and it reminds me of the leather slipping through my hands, sliding through the gaps between my fingers. Leather and fingers. All you need. Maybe you should write a song about that?

I nod my head in the direction of the couch and, once you’ve kicked both your pants and panties off your ankles, you patter over there. And, in moments like these, I do wonder where I get the strength to not push you down and ravage you immediately. This display of youth, so present in the smoothness of your skin, the agility of your muscles, the ease with which you take the pain… it shouldn’t be for me to touch anymore, but the fact that I can, that you let me, arouses me even more. Because, for as much as you sometimes claim this is a one-way street, that you complain that you barely get to touch me, this—you naked, at my mercy—is about all I can take. Any more of you, and my old, abused heart may give up.

You know the position and you take it without direction. Your ass arched up high, your torso folded over the armrest, your legs spread wide.

I swallow hard as I approach, and take a moment to behold your beauty. The skin of your behind lost its smooth, silken, youthful un-blemished hue after our first night together. When—not if—you ever decide to take another lover, I will always be there with you, and her. I push the thought from my mind, but don’t move just yet. I let you stew, anticipate, melt.

Then, at last, I run the side of my belt along the curve of your ass. Up and down, and I need to activate all my willpower to not let my fingers follow the track of the belt. The need to touch you is so much stronger than on any other given night. Perhaps because this tour of ours only has a few more stops left. Because I can feel something is about to end, again. I guess I’ll have to write a song about this, too, in veiled terms, and with a contradictory upbeat melody.

I love you, all of you, but when it comes to your body, I love your ass most of all. It’s so firm and bouncy—and those tan lines. I told you once, in an unguarded moment, that I found tan lines inexplicably sexy. You’ve been working on yours ever since, resulting in a white V tapering downward along your crack. It makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years.

When I let the belt drop off your side, I can hear you inhale. Your body tenses with anticipation, but I wait. Just a fraction of a second, just to throw you off guard a little. I know that you know why I do this, and you adjust yourself accordingly. You make it look as though you relax, while, between your legs, that clit of yours must be thumping—screaming, like mine. Like your fans earlier. Like my heart when you knocked on the door.

The leather cracks down on your pert flesh, but you take the first blow with a solemn sort of dignity that baffles me. All throughout this secret affair of ours, so many things you’ve done have amazed me. But this, this stoicism, as though it’s the most important part of what we do, has thrown me for a loop the most.

I don’t hold back, and a pinkish stripe has formed on your skin already. Time to paint your other cheek. The room is silent, apart from the threatening, exhilarating whoosh of the belt, your intake of breath, and the stifled moan you expel as the leather touches down again.

As much as I admire how brave you are in the beginning, it’s the unraveling of you I crave the most. You make me work for it, though—although ‘work’ is hardly the correct word.

“Is this what you want?” I ask, as I pause and, with the slightest of touches, run a finger over your crack, all the way down to your soaking wet pussy lips. “Is it?” I insist.

“Yes,” you groan, your voice a flimsy echo of the one you use on stage.

I let my finger skate all the way down to your clit, and I revel in how ready you already are, but we both know we haven’t even started yet.

My finger retreats and I look you over. I can’t tear my eyes away from your behind—my biggest prize. I think of the platinum records I amassed over the years, all of them now stashed away in my basement at home, and I consider how none of them ever gave me as much satisfaction as leering at your blushing ass on display right now. My trophy. All mine.

You don’t know all of this yet—and, sure, you remind me of me when I was your age, and I didn’t have a clue either back then—but fame is always fleeting. And, most of the time, the highs barely erase the lows. This is not how I think about our romance—because, no matter the practicalities and our silently agreed upon arrangements, this is romance. I can ride this high for as long as it takes.

Still, today I need to ask. I need you to tell me what is going on in that pretty little head of yours, underneath the mask of your face, which I can’t see right now because you’ve pushed it into one of the couch cushions. At the previous stop of this tour, I had my assistant buy a T-shirt with your face on it. I was amazed to learn that they even still made those at first, but you and your band members always claim to be so old school, so I guess it makes sense.

I run the belt over the curve where your ass meets your thigh, again and again, marking the spot where it will land next.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, giving voice to my own weakness. It’s the first time I ask you this question. I slap the leather lightly against the exact spot I will paint red in a few seconds, so you know I mean business. When I discovered that spot, when I found out how it made your knees buckle when flogged from the right angle and with the right amount of pressure, my clit throbbed so hard beneath my jeans, I wanted to plunge my free hand into my pants and come for you. Only, it wouldn’t have been for you. So I didn’t do it.

You push yourself up from the cushion you have your head buried in and crane your neck, finding my eyes, but you don’t speak.

Whack. The leather finds the spot and, instantly, tears well in your big brown eyes.

“Tell me,” I say, but don’t wait for a reply. Instead, I let the belt come down again, striking you hard in the same spot again. Every time my wrist flicks, a bolt of lightning runs through my blood.

“Tell me how much you want this.” I lock my gaze on you, but your eyes close and open, blinking in that mute despair I can’t get enough of. You try to open your mouth, but I don’t give you the opportunity to form words. I rain down my belt on your tender flesh, that perfectly shaped mound that I will caress later, after you’ve gotten as much as you can take.

“Look at me.” I put as much threat in my voice as I can muster because your head is starting to drop down again, your forehead almost touching that cushion again, and I need to see your face. You can’t speak, so I need to get my answers there.

Time for my fingers to take over again. I let them travel along the fresh stripes on your flesh, before directing them to your puffed up pussy lips.

Immediately, you moan while your pupils dilate. “Fuck me,” you whisper. “Please.”

I draw my lips into a smirk—the one I used for the picture on that T-shirt of me you love to wear. “I think you need a little more.”

“I—” Your breath stalls as my finger slides a little deeper inside. Just the tip. Just to tease. “I want you so fucking much,” you manage to say after my finger has retreated and is riding upwards again, smearing some of your juices onto the most sensitive patches of your skin.

“I can tell,” I say. This is always the moment where I could go further. Where I could tell you all the reasons why you don’t deserve it yet, but I don’t believe enough in them myself to try and fake that speech for you—although I’m quite sure you’d like the tone of voice in which I would deliver the words. “Not yet, baby,” I say instead, my own bravado quickly starting to crumble. Because the courage in your eyes undoes me, more so than at any other time. Do you feel it, too? Do you feel that this is ending? Or do you have a master plan? The tabloids would have a field day, and believe me, my front page days are over.

I surprise myself with the force of the next slap on your tortured cheeks, but there it is, that glint in your eyes I’ve been waiting for. You set your jaw, as if to say that, as of now, you can take all I’ve got. Perhaps you know that I don’t have that much left, but I don’t think you do. I think you’re all in. I think you want more and, this time, I’m happy to oblige.

I let a few well-aimed slaps come down near the highest curve of your ass where, I suspect, it hurts the least. But you don’t need time to breathe, I can see it in your eyes. “Is that all you’ve got?” they seem to say. And this game we play, this charged silence between us, the quiet we fill with our own thoughts and needs and fantasies, they leave me gasping for air more than you are at this point. And I hope that you can read it on my face as well. How much I need this. How much I want you.

It’s this unrelenting want that undoes me in the end. I witness my own unraveling instead of yours. I drop the belt to the floor and position myself behind you. Even glancing backward at me, your neck twisted in an awkward, possibly painful position, you have the nerve to sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yes. I give in.” I don’t say this out loud, but I know you get the message loud and clear.

Roughly, I spread your legs as wide as they can go, and I lock my gaze on the wetness in front of me. How long will you last this time? I know you fight hard to make it last; I can feel it in the way you twitch, and in how you push your body away from me when I fuck you, but I always find the spot.

Your beauty floors me again, the smoothness of your youth, the swollen pinkness of your sex. You’re no longer looking at me, and your back curves gently into the exquisite nape of your neck—the exact spot I’d like to sink my teeth into right now. But I’m not about to fuck you because you’re young, or because it makes me feel younger. I will fuck you because you’re you, and uniquely so. Mandy Harrison—you once said your mom was a big fan and named you after me. Frontwoman of The Harriettes. The girl who can’t get enough of my belt on her ass. Sometimes, on stage, when you’re watching me, I touch the belt and the heat that rises from my core is so great, my voice drowns in it for an instant. But no one ever notices, except you.

I plunge three fingers inside of you at once. I know how wide you can stretch, and I slide in easily, lubricated by all the juices you started producing the moment you took to the stage. I fuck you. I feel you. I watch your back arch inward, your head tilt sideways, your ass slam against the palm of my hand.

Today, you don’t resist. Your body meets me as I thrust, so I give you a fourth finger, filling you up—as close as I’ll ever come to disappearing inside of you. I watch the reddening crisscrosses on your ass, admiring my work, as you grind your way to orgasm. My fingers are but a tool for you now, or perhaps that’s what you want me to believe. Our romance is certainly an unspoken one, as much to the outside world as in this cocoon we’re in now.

When you come, the groan you utter is close to your singing voice, that raw, deep howl that has all the critics raving, but this particular guttural inflection of it, is reserved just for me.

“Amanda,” you whisper, out of breath. “Fuck, Amanda.” And the way you say my name is like I’ve never heard you say anything else. It’s your code for “I love you”.

“I love you too,” I murmur, but only to myself, as I let my fingers slide from your wetness, and drape my fully-clothed body over your bare back, embracing you as though I never want to let you go.

ALPHAS

Robin’s hair looks meticulous again. I wonder if she stops at the hairdresser every morning before work. It must be statistically impossible to have a good hair day every day of the week. Does it fall as gloriously on Sundays?

“Kate?” Bruce cocks up his eyebrows.

“Yes,” I say quickly, not having a clue what they’re discussing.

“You and Robin will work this case together.” He aligns the stack of papers in front of him without taking his eyes off me. He gives me a swift nod to indicate his word is final.

“Of course.” I hide behind my best poker face. The last time Robin and I tried a case together, I had to hit a punching bag for at least an hour every night to decompress. The woman is a delight to look at but a pain to work with. It’s obvious that she thinks having the cheekbones of an angel makes her the best lawyer in the firm.

I can’t stand her, but I can’t keep my eyes off her either. Every day she wears another pristinely starched designer blouse, open at the throat, and while I’m sure the direct view at the hollow of her neck influences some jury members, I wouldn’t exactly call it expertise.

“I look forward to it.” Robin shoots me a mechanical smile—she saves the heart-warming ones for court. Today’s blouse is baby blue, bringing out the clear colour of her eyes.

I vow to not let her boss me around this time. To not let her take control the way she always does.

“That’s settled then.” Bruce ends the staff meeting. Chairs scrape against the floor. I take a deep breath before standing up.

“My office in ten?” Robin asks. She towers over the table. I follow the line of her cleavage because it’s impossible not to. It doesn’t give anything away though. Robin is all about suggestion.

“Sure.” At least I’ll have a few minutes to compose myself and check which case we’re meant to crack together.

I shuffle out of the conference room behind Robin and can’t help but inhale a whiff of her perfume. I’ve been trying to figure out which one it is—sniffing endless scented paper sticks at Sephora—but I’m a much better lawyer than I am a detective.

Nine minutes later I knock on her open door.

“Come,” she says, her voice measured and authoritative. She sits behind her desk like a queen on a throne, illuminated by light streaming from giant windows. Robin started at the firm barely a month before I did, but she’s always had a knack for securing things well above her status. My office is spacious and light, but not nearly as big and bright as Robin’s. No matter how hard I try—and sample different dry cleaners—my suits are never as crisp as hers. And my nerve always seems to crumble when I’m within three feet of her.

I sit down in a chair opposite her desk without being invited.

“Would you mind closing the door, please?” Robin’s eyes rest on me, a tight smile tugging at her lips. I know she waited for me to sit so she could ask me to get up again. It’s how alpha females like Robin assert their power—it’s the small things that get under people’s skin the most.

“Sure.” I stand and turn. Before I head for the door, I tug my skirt down to draw her attention to my legs. In situations like this, they’re the only thing I have going for me. My legs are the reason why I so easily agreed to meet in Robin’s office. I’ll get to cross and uncross them while on full display, as opposed to hidden under a desk.

I sway my hips a bit when I walk back to my chair. Her eyes follow me, but she doesn’t flinch. I cross one leg over the other and lean back, legal pad with notes on the case ready in my lap.

We both start speaking at the same time and one of those awkward moments ensues. A small crack appears in her veneer, allowing the beginning of a silly grin to peek through. She dips her head slightly and I take it as a sign that I should continue.

“I think…” I need to glance at my notes. I’m thrown by the unexpected curve of her lips and the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. Just like that, the image flashes through my mind again. The image I fall asleep to most nights. Robin’s blouse a crumpled heap on my bedroom floor. Robin face down on my bed, her wrists and ankles bound so she can’t move.

“Take your time.” The smile she sends me is so condescending it makes my blood boil. It also makes the picture in my head spark to life again in vivid colour.

“Let’s start with the witness list.” I quickly regroup. “This doctor…” I glimpse at my notes again. “Barnes. He seems—” The beep of her mobile interrupts me. Robin holds up one finger as she scans the screen. Frustration builds in my gut. Not just because of the way she treats me, but also because of how her hair slides off her forehead as she tips her head, and how her eyes narrow while she reads the text message. I envision her looking at me like that. Her eyes narrowing for different reasons and her hair clinging to her forehead in sweaty strands. It’s not easy wanting someone you dislike so much.

“I have to go.” She pushes herself out of her chair. “Jury’s out.”

“I’ll be in court all afternoon.” My body relaxes. “Let’s reschedule tomorrow.”

“No. We need an airtight strategy before the next staff meeting.” She slides her suit jacket off the back of her chair. “Are you free tonight?”

She slips her arms into the sleeves of her blazer, her chest jutting out in the process, and I have an idea. “Why don’t you come to mine?”

Her eyes widen in surprise, but I know she won’t say no. Her alpha code won’t let her. “I’d love to. Around eight?”

“Perfect.” I uncross my legs and stand up. Robin is tall, but I have at least an inch on her.

“Great.” I watch her strut out of her office, chin up and back straight, as if the world would end if she were to relax a muscle.

* * *

I’m still in my heels when Robin rings my bell. Usually, I can’t wait to get out of them as soon as I set foot in the house, but I’m planning for a hard-fought battle in which details like shoes can make all the difference.

“Nice place,” Robin says as I open the door wide for her. I wish I could see beyond the mask of her face, beyond the standard compliments, to learn what she really thinks. After all, I’m always courteous with Robin, always professional, never letting on that I want her body writhing beneath me in my bed. I may think I hate her as much as I want to, as much as I need to make myself feel comfortable, but the truth is that we’re so alike, both so driven, competitive and ruthless, and I’ve never wanted anyone more. It’s not just her regal posture and cool, impenetrable glare that draw me to her—the distance she puts between herself and everyone she deems beneath her. It’s what I suspect lies underneath.

One day, when she finally does, I want to be there when she cracks.

I gesture for her to take a seat in the sofa, but she heads straight for the dining room table, indicating this is not a social visit.

“Red or white?” I hold up two empty wine glasses.

“Do you have anything stronger?” She digs inside her briefcase and slips out a folder.

“Whiskey?” My heels click loudly on the tiles as I make my way to the liquor cabinet.

“Oh god, yes please.” A chill chases up my spine as she says the words. I realise that the second she sees through me—the instant she figures out what I really want—I will have lost.

I pour us both a double and sit down at the table at a ninety-degree angle from her. She tilts her head back as she sips and the muscles in her neck stretch so gracefully, I nearly finish my glass in one gulp.

“Rough time in court?” She eyes my half-empty glass.

“Just in general.” The smell of the whiskey blends with her perfume and I try to recall my plan of action. Then I remember it wasn’t so much a plan as a vague idea. Get her to come to my house. Divert the conversation. Have a drink or two.

As if.

“Do you mind if I take off my shoes?” She doesn’t press me for more information on the roughness of my day.

“Go right ahead.” I hear two quick thuds on the floor beneath the table.

She takes another sip from her glass and our eyes connect over the rim. I don’t look away. I hold her gaze until my blood starts hammering in my veins. Do I have her where I want her already? The image flashes through my mind again. Robin’s back arched, her bottom curved towards me, begging for more.

“Everything all right?” The glass lands on the table with a quiet bang, bursting me out of my reverie. Her voice is curt as usual. Her tone doesn’t imply that she expects an answer. She’s all business again.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” I trace a fingertip over the rim of my glass.

She leans back in her chair. I hear the fabric of her skirt rustle as she shifts her legs. “Why?”

A tiny giggle makes its way out of my throat. “God, you’re tough.” I heel my shoes off and inch my feet closer to hers underneath the table. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?” As I speak the last word, my toe brushes against her naked ankle.

She doesn’t even blink. “Why am I really here?” She doesn’t retract her foot. Her blue eyes scan mine as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“The same reason you go anywhere, I presume.” My toe travels up her shin. “Work.” I tip my upper body over the table towards her.

“This doesn’t feel like work to me.” Her eyes are still on mine. They burn with something new, something exciting, while the rest of her expression doesn’t alter.

“What does it feel like?” I trace my foot down again and catch her ankle between my soles. I realise I’m nowhere near drunk enough for this degree of audacity.

At last, she manages a smile. “I suppose I should say ‘incredibly inappropriate.’” Suddenly, one of my own ankles is trapped between her feet. She presses hard, making a point I don’t really want to get. “But.” She uncrosses her arms and slants her body in my direction. Her face is so close I can feel her breath. “Maybe I should teach you a lesson instead.”

My pulse quickens; my breath stops in my throat.

“What do you think, Kate?” She pauses, relaxing her muscles, freeing my ankle.

I nod because I can’t speak. My mouth goes bone-dry. This is not exactly what I wanted to happen, but I’ll take it.

“Good.” She pushes her chair back. I do the same. We both stand up at the same time. With one quick step she’s by my side, curling her fingers around my wrist. She seems taller than me now, more commanding. My brain stops thinking of ways to get the upper hand. “Where’s the bedroom?”

I walk us through the hallway to my room where the blinds are half-drawn. I head towards the window to close them.

“No.” She stops me with one word. “Turn around.” Her tone is not one to mess with. “Strip.”

I should have known this would be the only outcome if I made a move on her. With trembling fingers I unbutton my blouse. My skin pricks up into gooseflesh under Robin’s gaze. My nipples poke against the lace of my bra as I unzip my skirt and let it fall to the floor. I stand in front of her in just my underwear—my clit a throbbing mess—and suddenly feel self-conscious about removing it.

“I want you naked.” Robin’s voice has changed, but her demeanour has not. “Now.”

I want to make it sexy, strip slowly, but I can’t. I’m fully under her command and get rid of my underwear swiftly. The air hits my nipples and they crinkle into even harder peaks.

Robin tilts her chin with a tiny nod of approval. Already, I want more. She shifts her gaze towards the bed. “Lie down on your belly and don’t move until I say so.”

I crawl onto the bed and do as I’m told. My breath comes out in shallow puffs. Behind me I hear the rustling of clothes being taken off. I wonder if she’s naked and if she’ll allow me a glimpse.

“Spread your legs and arms wide.”

I feel her climb onto the bed with me. I stretch my arms over my head and part my legs. I watch how she ties my right hand to the bed frame with my bra and my left one with what I assume is hers. My ankles are submitted to the same treatment. From the feel of starched cotton and tiny buttons against my skin, I guess she’s using our blouses to fasten them.

I want to snicker at the irony of the situation, at the foolish boldness of my dreams, but I choose to stay as quiet as possible.

“Now, tell me, Kate.” The mattress dips again and her voice comes from behind. My backside is on full display for her and I imagine her eyes roaming across my skin. “What have you been dreaming of?” Suddenly, her body covers mine. Her hard nipples prod against my shoulder blades and her lips brush against my neck. “And remember.” She trails her tongue along the outline of my ear. “This is no time for dishonesty.”

I’m overwhelmed by the abundance of skin she piles on me, by her closeness. All I can manage is a ragged moan as I feel her bush tickle my back.

“What’s it going to be?” She asks again. “If you don’t tell me, I won’t do it.”

“Spank me,” I whisper, but my voice is too hushed for her to hear.

“Can you say that again, please?” Her knee grazes my pussy lips. “Loud and clear.”

“Spank me.” The words come out strangled, my voice already shot to pieces.

“Oh, I will.” She’s all over me and I want to grind my clit against the mattress to release the tension from my muscles, but I know better. “And you know why?”

I nod into the duvet.

“If you’re so clever, you’d better tell me.” Robin’s voice is not all menace—it’s tinged with a quiet thrill, with tiny bursts of exhilaration

“Because I deserve it.” I know this game so well. I’ve played it in my head a thousand times. The only difference being that I was doing the questioning then.

“Good.” She lifts herself away from me, leaving my skin hot and abandoned. I sense how she positions herself between my legs, near my ankles, far enough to gain momentum for a forceful blow.

“Count.” Her hand lands on my behind much harder than I had anticipated. She means business. I should have known.

It stings too much for me to utter the number immediately. Despite not being able to see her, I notice her impatience.

“I’m waiting.” The edge in her voice makes my blood beat faster towards my clit.

“One.”

Before I have the chance to gather my thoughts, her palm connects with my butt cheek again—the same one. My body tenses, my wrists pulling at their restraints.

“Two,” I barely manage, my voice stifled by the duvet I’m biting into. Pain tumbles through my body and my pussy drizzles juices.

She gives me two quick, softer slaps on the other cheek.

“Three. Four,” I count.

The fifth one elicits such a loud groan from me, that she lets me get away with not counting out loud. She knows she has me. She’s had me from the start.

The skin of my rear burns, but I want more. Of course, she doesn’t give it to me.

With the back of her hand, she caresses my cheeks, causing more wetness to trail down my legs. I feel her shuffle closer and arch my back to lift myself towards her—just as I had imagined her doing for me.

Fingers graze my opening, lingering briefly, before plunging inside. The pain, the frustration, the agonising competition between us, all of it is released from me as she twists her fingers deep inside of me.

She withdraws her fingers and lands another blow. All the muscles in my body contract, only to relax in blissful agony as she pushes her fingers back inside.

Slap. Thrust. Slap. Thrust.

I’ve long forgotten about counting as my mind frazzles to Robin’s ruthless rhythm. Each stroke of her hand brings me closer, and every pang of pain is immediately rewarded with the glorious sensation of her fingers in my cunt.

Bound and totally at her mercy, the orgasm takes me. I spasm around her fingers, wanting to keep her inside of me. My skin tingles and aches for more of her. A different image floats through my brain as the final crash of climax leaves me spent. The image of what’s taking place in my bedroom right now.

Robin quickly unties me and lies down next to me. She kisses my forehead with surprising tenderness. “There’s only room for one alpha female in our firm. I hope you know that.” She smiles before she takes me in her arms and pulls me close.

OVERTIME

Laura blinked twice. The letters in front of her started to swim. She’d been huddled over the document for hours, trying to find a loophole, a missed technicality, something that would give her an edge in tomorrow’s meeting. An unusual office silence hummed around her, closing in. She guessed she was the only one left at this hour. Maybe her colleagues weren’t so dead-set on pleasing Cathy, but it was all Laura lived for.

The triple beep of her office phone startled her. She checked the wall clock and wondered who would be calling her after ten PM.

“Burning the midnight oil?” The voice on the other end of the line was deep and throaty and, more than anything else, brimming with effortless authority.

“I’m struggling with the Wallace case.” Laura pinched her eyes shut in frustration. She could never keep her cool when Cathy called. Admitting to the boss, especially a boss like Cathy who loathed weakness, that she was getting nowhere with a case was career suicide. “But I’ll get there.” She tried to correct herself.

“Maybe I can help?” Laura wondered what the slight, almost unnoticeable shift in Cathy’s tone could mean. She couldn’t be serious, though. It must be sarcasm.

“I’m sure you have better things to do, Miss Turner.” Another slip. Laura could hit herself for this one. She was supposed to address her boss as Cathy. Despite being a firm believer in scare tactics and strict hierarchy, Cathy had insisted. She liked to play with people’s minds like that. “I mean, Cathy,” she mumbled.

“My office in two minutes.” Cathy hung up with a dry click. Laura hated that sentence because, so far, it had always meant she was in trouble. She started mentally preparing for the tongue-lashing she was about to receive. If only she had left the office earlier. Her overtime hadn’t produced anything useful and now she had Cathy to deal with as well.

She secured some stray strands of hair behind her ear and straightened the collar of her blouse in the reflection of her computer screen. A deep breath and Laura was on her feet. It was still a private audience with Cathy, she told herself. A late night rendezvous. However the psychological encouragement failed and by the time Laura knocked on Cathy’s door she was a nervous wreck, palms sweating and knees trembling. She was a grown woman, for god’s sake. Graduated at the top of her class. Recruited by Cathy herself.

“Come.” Cathy’s voice was always stern, but one-word commands made her sound like a vicious army lieutenant with too much power.

Laura opened the door and took a timid step inside. For a woman of her stature, Cathy had ridiculously bad posture. She sat hunched over her desk, her shoulders drawn up and her neck curved in an unnatural position. With icy-blue eyes she peered at Laura over dark-rimmed glasses that had slipped to the tip of her nose.

“I’m sorry, huh, Cathy.” It didn’t feel right to address a superior like that, especially one as formidable as Cathy. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m⁠—”

“Shut the door.” Cathy put her pen down and leaned back in her chair.

Her heart thumping in her throat, Laura turned around and gingerly closed the door. To her knowledge, they were the only ones left in the office, so shutting the door could only mean one thing. It was time for one of Cathy’s infamous sugar-coated, smooth-voiced scoldings that worked best behind closed doors. Cathy Turner wasn’t one to yell. She didn’t need to raise her voice to get things done.

Laura shuffled towards one of the visitor chairs and pulled it back.

“I didn’t say you could sit.” Cathy’s eyes scanned Laura’s face, her long lips drawn into her trademark sphinx-like smirk. 

Laura withdrew her hand from the chair and didn’t know what to do with it. What would appear least weak? Crossing her arms over her chest or clasping her hands together in a ladylike fashion in front of her belly?

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Laura certainly wasn’t expecting that question.

“What?” she stammered as her cheeks flamed pink.

“A boyfriend maybe?” Cathy didn’t show any emotion on her face. She asked the question as if she were inquiring about the weather forecast, as if the answer didn’t really matter.

“No. I’m single.” Laura had to force herself not to add a reverent “ma’am” at the end of her statement.

“I thought as much.” Cathy pushed her chair back and the scraping of its wheels over the floor made Laura jump.

Laura had steeled herself for a chastising speech and these personal questions were throwing her off guard. No doubt it was Cathy’s plan to break down her defences completely before she went in for the kill. Nothing was ever straightforward with her and if she couldn’t make a game out of it, it wasn’t worth investing any time in. At least Laura knew that much.

With a swift movement, Cathy pushed herself out of her chair. She briefly placed her hands on her desk, forcing the shoulder pads of her navy pinstriped blazer to puff up. She reminded Laura of a lion about to pounce, the only thing missing was the audacious licking of lips. 

“I see your ambition.”

Laura had a hard time keeping her eyes off Cathy’s legs. Her boss strutted to the front of the desk, towards her, and leaned her behind against it. Cathy planted the palms of her hands on the table-top and crossed her ankles. From day one, Laura had been enamoured with Cathy’s glossy legs. Maybe because they stood in such stark contrast to her manipulative and overbearing personality. Or maybe because, while always on display under Cathy’s pencil skirts, they were so untouchable.

“It reminds me of me. When I was your age, I was always the last one to leave the office.” Cathy pushed a strand of perfectly coiffed blond hair away from her forehead. “I was single for a long time as well.”

Was this advice on romance? Laura’s confusion grew.

“Of course, now I’m divorced.” At last, a sparse smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Maybe she thought her divorce was funny—Laura believed Cathy didn’t find anything funny. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did.” After removing her glasses, Cathy pinned her eyes back on Laura. “In the end, it’s not worth it.”

Laura couldn’t believe she was in the middle of a heart-to-heart with the mighty Cathy Turner. Truth be told, it was more of a monologue, really, but still, Cathy was confiding in her. Clearly, she was suffering from some sort of melancholy that was driving her to impart these words of wisdom on Laura. Or maybe her divorce papers had just come through.

“I won’t.” Laura felt it was a good time to speak, although she couldn’t entirely relax. She never could around Cathy. Not just because she was her boss, but also because, even long after office hours, Laura had trouble getting her off her mind. “It’s just, I’m still so young and working here⁠—”

“You don’t have to explain.” Cathy pushed herself up from the desk and put her glasses, which she still held in one hand, behind her.

Laura was glad Cathy hadn’t mentioned the Wallace case, but she had no idea what to do now that Cathy was marching towards her. Everything was quiet around them, the soft thuds of Cathy’s heels on the wooden floor the only sound. Until Cathy was so close that Laura could feel her breath against her cheek. Her own breathing was suffering and she had to swallow hard. In a year of working for Cathy, they’d probably never stood this close together.

Instinctively, Laura took a step back. She didn’t want to and it wasn’t a conscious decision, but she had to. Perhaps her body thought it the logical next step in this late night match of office Stratego, or whatever game they were playing.

“Lock the door.” Cathy’s voice was low, a little menacing and extremely sexy.

“What?”

“Turn the key to the right and lock the door.”

Laura stifled her natural reflexes to protest and did as Cathy ordered. When she spun around, her back against the door, Cathy stood mere inches away. Her eyes peered into Laura’s as a small smile crept along her lips.

Before Laura had a chance to even consider what was happening, Cathy’s hand was on her chest. Her fingers pressed against Laura’s clavicle before finding their way down the front of her blouse. Without warning or words, Cathy snuck her hand under Laura’s bra and squeezed her nipple brutally between thumb and index finger.

Laura gasped for air. A sharp pain sped through her body as Cathy pinched harder. 

Not allowing her eyes to leave Laura’s, Cathy leaned in a little closer.

“I’m only going to ask you once.” Cathy’s lips found Laura’s ear. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Laura nodded. Moving her head was all she could muster. The power of speech seemed to have escaped her the moment Cathy’s hand had landed on her skin. It was also hard to decline an offer like that when her boss’ strong fingers were squashing her nipple. And besides, she wanted nothing more than to get fucked by Cathy Turner. The deemed impossible prospect of it had fed her fantasies for months.

“Good,” Cathy growled in her ear. She’d always had something animal-like about her, something feline. Sly as a cat. Reflexes honed to always come up with a sharp reply. Her eyes looked like they could burn through darkness. And then there was that cold, distant air, designed to keep people at bay and simultaneously lure them in, people like Laura at least.

Laura felt herself go damp between the legs as Cathy kissed her neck. She trailed a path of light pecks along her jaw until she reached Laura’s trembling lips. The first thing Laura felt were teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Unsurprisingly, Cathy was not a gentle lover. 

Laura responded greedily when Cathy slipped her tongue into her mouth. She latched on as if she’d never get an opportunity to taste it again. Pangs of lust shivered up her spine. Cathy roughly undid Laura’s blouse, not caring about the delicacy of the fabric and the way the buttons were sewn into it. Laura was past wondering if she could ruffle her hands through Cathy’s sculpted hair. It felt remarkably soft when she let it flow through her fingers, not at all like the hair-sprayed mass she had expected. Yet, she was afraid to touch Cathy in any other place. Frightened to go near her breasts and explore their shape. Way too daunted to even think about opening a button of her starched blouse. It was clear who was in charge, who was always in charge.

Cathy yanked down the cups of Laura’s bra, exposing one battered and one perky nipple to the air-conditioned office air. Electricity coursed through Laura’s body. It wasn’t so much Cathy’s touches, which were sparse and rough at best—not that she minded—but the fact that she stood cornered against Cathy’s locked office door, her boss all over her. Like most things that went on in this office, it was more a mind-game than anything else. Maybe Cathy thought she had the winning hand again, but at least Laura knew that, for her, a massive orgasm was on its way. She felt it in the shortness of her breath, the goosebumps on her skin and the heat between her legs.

Cathy’s hand travelled down, to the button of her trousers. This suit had cost a fortune but Laura didn’t care if Cathy ripped it to shreds, as long as her fingers arrived where it mattered soon.

While amping up the pressure on Laura’s tortured nipple, Cathy lowered her zipper in a slow and controlled manner—as if there was any other way. As unusual as this situation was, it was still a classic Cathy moment. A demonstration of power from the boss and an extreme act of obedience by the employee. Laura wondered what Cathy would taste like, feel like under her tongue, at her mercy. Despite what was going on, and the possible opening it may bring forth, Laura knew it would never happen.

“You’re all wet for me.” Cathy’s mouth went back and forth between Laura’s lips and ear, nibbling and kissing both. “Good girl.”

Cathy’s fingers rubbed the soaking wet seam of her briefs and they were inches away from Laura’s throbbing clit. At last she released Laura’s nipple and used both her hands to tug Laura’s trousers down, underwear included. The sudden rush of air blowing between her legs, made Laura’s skin break out in goosebumps. Her clit swelled in the breeze of the AC and she could feel juices leaking from her pussy, moistening her upper thighs. She was more than ready for Cathy to fuck her.

Shaking her shoes and trousers off, Laura searched for Cathy’s eyes. Their icy stare seemed laced with a tiny sparkle, a glimmer of what usually stayed hidden. Apart from a tousled hairdo and a few creases in her blazer, Cathy’s demeanour appeared unaffected. This was in stark contrast to Laura’s dishevelled state, with her blouse torn open, her trousers crumpled on the floor, and the cups of her bra pushing her breasts up from underneath.

Cathy repositioned herself. She pinned her gaze on Laura, unblinking and unwavering, like in a deposition with a hostile witness. One hand shot straight to Laura’s neck, its thumb tracing the line of her collarbone. Laura couldn’t see Cathy’s other hand, but she sure felt it. Its fingers skated along her moist pussy lips with overwhelming tenderness. Up and down, they travelled, only inviting more wetness to ooze from between Laura’s legs.

During dull moments in meetings, Laura had often inadvertently stared at Cathy’s fingers and wondered what they would feel like pressed inside of her. Her breath hitched in her throat as Cathy parted her lips and slipped a finger between her folds, not too deep, merely probing.

“I’m going to fuck you.” Cathy peered into her eyes, as if she wanted to stare her down. “Just like you want me to.” Her voice sounded lower than Laura had ever heard it. And just like that, Cathy pushed two fingers inside.

Laura gasped and she felt her pussy clench around Cathy’s knuckles. She let her head fall back against the door, pulling her eyes away from Cathy’s triumphant grin, looking upwards. Cathy retreated slowly, letting her fingers hover at the rim of Laura’s pussy for a split second before slamming them inside again.

“Look at me,” she commanded and, as if she had no other choice in the world, Laura lowered her gaze and met Cathy’s eyes. They shone with shameless bravado, but Laura swore she could make out something else in them as well. Something she’d never seen in Cathy’s glance before, something fragile and akin to desire. Or maybe she was too caught up in her own lust, in her own world of pleasure at the mercy of Cathy’s fingers, to see things clearly.

Cathy kept thrusting her fingers inside, pulling out gently and going in with hard determination. Each stroke delivered Laura to new heights. She focused on Cathy’s eyes, letting herself drown in the cold blue of them. Her pussy sucked Cathy’s fingers in, accepting them eagerly, while her clit roared for attention. She wanted to touch herself. Her hands were idle anyway, hesitating between finding a grip on the door and tugging Cathy’s clothes off. But she knew better than to take that kind of initiative.

A mild grimace took hold of Cathy’s face every time she delved deeper inside Laura’s pussy. Cathy’s other hand dipped lower, to Laura’s other breast, kneading it roughly before going to work on the nipple. The pinch of her fingers around Laura’s nipple sent an electric jolt through her system, connecting with her pussy. Her blood seemed to sparkle, her entire body expanding and contracting around Cathy’s fingers.

Just at the right time, just when Laura felt she couldn’t take anymore, Cathy flipped her thumb over Laura’s engorged clit, setting off a round of fireworks in her brain. Fingers kept stroking her inside, touching her deep down, while the thumb of Cathy’s hand expertly nudged her clit. Laura wanted to stay in the moment forever, the moment before all fuses blew, the moment before Cathy would retreat forever.

As her climax approached, crashing into her from all angles, Laura had trouble looking into Cathy’s eyes. Her eyelids fluttered and in between the instances of darkness she noticed how Cathy’s cheeks flushed. This crack in her boss’ stoic air moved her more than anything. Laura let go and came all over Cathy’s hand, no doubt staining the cuff of her tailored blouse.