Anna Ixstassou, A Reluctant Witch in The Land of BDSM:
Shame and Delight at His Hands
By Aimélie Aames
Copyright 2012 Aimélie Aames
Cover Artwork Copyright 2012 Aimélie Aames
Smashwords Edition
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Disclaimer
The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Mature Content
This work of fiction contains sexually explicit material and is intended only for persons over the age of 18. By downloading and opening this document, you are stating that you are of legal age to access and view this work of fiction. All of the characters involved in the sexual situations in this story are intended to be 18 years of age or older, whether they are explicitly described as such or not.
Anna Ixstassou: Shame and Delight at His Hands
He pulls the cord that runs from my wrists up through a pulley above my head. My arms rise higher and I feel the low ache in my shoulders flame up in protest. I'm on the tips of my toes now, my calves are starting to burn and I can't help it if every time he makes an adjustment I only get wetter.
I should've known better, being who I am. Or, maybe, that's the reason why I didn't see this coming. Too close, too blind to remark what should have been obvious from the start.
The pulley creaks with my weight and a quiet whimper escapes through my lips. I bite down any other sound that might try to get by my guard. The master is exigent and will only make me pay if I don't follow his rules to the letter.
He doesn't notice, though, as he ties off the thin rope at a little T post thing. It reminds me of something I once saw on a sailboat, only smaller, and that seems just about right for this guy. A sailboat type...no, a yacht type of guy. He has it written all over him, with his broad chest and heavy arms. I've never seen anyone with shoulders so square. It's as if he was press formed in a mold destined to turn out lovely men. Which is what he is. Lovely, gorgeous, take your pick of whatever man candy euphemism strikes your fancy. He's all that and then some.
He bends down now and slides his hand down across my bare belly. It's flat and tight. I bust my ass at the gym and skip the pasta. The price to pay for abs that make men want to touch me, to lick me up and down like a lollipop.
He keeps going down with his hand and slips it in between my thighs, pausing just for a moment at my aching, wet epicenter. He knows I'm turned on, but refuses me and my needs, sliding his hand down my legs instead. At my ankles are a pair of leather straps that he buckles around each, cinching them in tight before finally descending to the tiny platform where I'm standing. I didn't notice before but it's actually two platforms that he unlatches and pushes apart. They follow the track of the half circle rail mounted to the wall behind me. The effect is that suddenly my legs are spread wide open and there's nothing I can do about it.
Do I care that much? It's hard to say. On one hand, what I went through yesterday with him at the controls was awful. He made me feel like absolute shit. On the other hand, I came back today, didn't I? Yeah, I did.
I think it's because he's just that beautiful. And, I use that word, beautiful, for a reason, because it isn't often that it applies well to men. Men are handsome, or rugged, or built. But this guy...he has it all. He owns the company I work for, he's built like the wet dream of a Greek goddess, and, right now, at this very moment, I'm what he's thinking about. I'm at the center of his every intention and filling his lovely green eyes with lust. And all of that's just fine except for one thing.
He's the devil.
There he is before me, perfect in so many ways...but the devil, just the same. You don't think you're ever going to meet the devil, right? That it takes a dark circle of naked worshippers off on some hill in the woods. It has to be at night, the moon up high and full, and the wind whispering of foul portents. There should be some blood letting first, then everyone whips themselves into a frenzied orgy that is meant to call up the dark one.
Only the devil takes so many forms. I know this. I am my mother's daughter, after all. But the only thing I had to do was to ask for a meeting with the boss. Mistake? You tell me once I get done with this story....
"Honey, you've just got to keep at it," Pauline said over her coffee.
We were in the break room and she was doing her best to cheer me up. We were alone, except for Margery Ackerman over in her corner. Marge from Upstairs is what most people called her. Smartly dressed and impeccably coiffed for her age, she was silver haired elegance on two legs. On the other hand, she never deigned to speak to any of us lowly personnel from downstairs. She ignored us as usual, flipping pages on a clipboard while sipping her own coffee.
"Keep at it? Cripes, Polly, I've been spinning my wheels for two years, ten, twelve hours a day, weekends. It's not as if I didn't deserve it." I was close to tears, but didn't want to admit it.
Pauline replied, "You'll get your chance, Anna. It just takes time and then, one of these days, someone upstairs will notice how hard you work. You'll get a promotion...just not this time." She had said "someone" pretty loudly while staring right at Margery Ackerman who kept her nose in her papers, appearing not to notice.
"Well, look," said Pauline, "I've got to run. Try not to let it get you down so much, hon."
The formal refusal for my promotion was there on the table, crumpled into a ball. I just nodded at Pauline, afraid to say anything and have my voice crack. No tears, I thought, not here.
She walked out, her hips swinging. Sometimes I had thoughts about Pauline, but for the moment, my normally insatiable curiosity was the last thing on my mind.
My upper lip trembling, I was about to sip from my own coffee when from very close behind me, a voice said, "You disappoint me."
I hissed as the hot drink spilled onto my hand. Marge from Upstairs had just startled the hell out of me.
"I beg your pardon?" I said over my shoulder to her while wiping up coffee with a tissue.
"Merit has nothing to do with it. And, if that's what you really think, then your naivété is, frankly, keeping you right where you belong. Buried down here with the rest of them."
Margery peered down at me over her half-eye readers, looking for all the world like a wise old owl. An owl who maybe had something to say after all.
"I'm not naive and that's not what I want," I replied, wishing I didn't sound so much like an angry kid.
"Then," she said, in return, "you had better be hungry...very hungry." Her voice hung on the last word, almost purring it.
"I am," I replied. "I've got what it takes and will do whatever is necessary to prove it."
"Good," she said. "Once upon a time, I myself was in your shoes, only the man at the helm upstairs was Ewan Crest's father, Carlin. That was a man with particular appetites..."
Just then, I got a flash of Margery...which happens sometimes. I can flash on anything, almost at any moment, and it happens often enough that I know to trust what I see. It was an image so stark it almost hurt as it popped into my head. Marge from Upstairs twenty years younger and dressed up in black rubber and knee high boots, a rider's crop in her hand. There was blood seeping at the corner of her mouth, but she was smiling this huge, lascivious grin, her impeccably straight teeth tinged in pink.
What the hell..?, I thought.
"...dressed correctly," Margery was saying.
"I'm sorry," I said, "Could you repeat that?"
"I said that the apple didn't fall far from the tree. With his father gone, Ewan has developed a keen interest in finding new talent, especially in-house.
"Be ready at any moment and, above all, dress correctly," she finished before marching out of the break room, her back so straight I wondered if she was hiding a corset under that business suit jacket. Or, maybe some other cruelly fitted unmentionable.
Uh oh, I said to myself, this could get intense.
But that was alright. I was up for anything, anything at all to prove to myself that I could do this on my own. To prove to my mother that I did not need her to intervene, even if that would have made things so much easier.
I can do this.
On my way home, there were autumn leaves swirling in the evening air, at times blanketing the sidewalks as I crunched my way through them. My place was back among the brownstones, a nice loft in a quiet neighborhood. Weather permitting, I preferred hoofing it home. Good for the figure, as they say.
The wind lifted and I thought I heard rustling above me in the treetops where a few stubborn leaves were still clinging. Then, just before me on the sidewalk, they were swept up in a mini tornado, like a dust devil only with leaves, before falling down flat as if someone had just turned off the wind machine.
They had fallen down in an unmistakable pattern. A question mark made of leaves, as clear as could be.
I kicked them apart, storming through them and coming to the first crack I could find on the sidewalk, I stamped down hard upon it. Mother! Stop your meddling.
Of course, stepping on a crack was of no use. It would be no worse than a hang nail for her. It was the message that counted.
The tree tops rustled again and then I saw something take flight, winging in silhouette across the rising moon.
Anyone else would have believed they had seen a crow, or maybe some kind of deformed pigeon on steroids. Me...I knew better. I know a flying monkey when I see one.
The following morning, there were signs and plenty of them. I had to dump my first cup of coffee. The milk I'd poured into it had curdled during the night. Then I found a crack in my cereal bowl and I didn't remember knocking it around or anything. Worse still, my little cereal O's wouldn't group up in the milk no matter how much I scooted them around with my spoon.
I should have seen it coming. But, like I said, I don't think I really wanted to admit it. There's a reason that curiosity killed the cat, after all...
When I got in at work, I saw it there, perched upon my desk like a white dove. A slip of paper, torn from a well organized clipboard, I imagined. Upon it, careful, block letter handwriting that said, "Upstairs. 11 a.m.", and that was all, no signature. I ran my finger across the pencilled words, closing my eyes. Knee high boots, bloody grin...Margery Ackerman was written all over it.
I smiled, even as the butterflies fluttered by in my stomach. I was going upstairs.
I was there, perched on the edge of a very deep leather chair with a pert secretary across from me, at precisely 10:55. If I had not missed my guess, Mr. Ewan Crest was a stickler for being on time. So am I, for that matter.
I breathed in deeply and slowly, doing my best to stay calm even though I knew that what was about to happen was probably the most important moment of my entire career. So much was riding on this, one little misstep could be a deal breaker. I took a deep breath, knowing the effect it had as my white, dress shirt drew tight across my breasts. My bra was of a very sheer silk and nylon blend, no padding. I wanted it to be perfectly clear to whoever might notice if I happened to have a shiver of excitement. With full 36C's, I leave little to the imagination with the least chill.
I had once toyed with the idea of implants, but the thought of losing sensitivity, even if the possibility was remote, just left me cold. I love breast play. Take that away and I'd be one unhappy woman.
The secretary's phone rang. She picked up without saying a word, her eyes flicking to me as she listened. She set it back down and said, "Mr. Crest will see you now. It's through that door."
She pointed to a dark mahogany door just beyond her desk and it was all I could do not to leap up from my chair like a jack in the box. Deep breaths, that's the key, I told myself as I did my best to calmly walk across the room.
There was a corridor on the other side of the door which opened on either side to a series of large, empty meeting rooms. At corridor's end, another dark door, the other side of which held my future. I did not hesitate opening it.
An enormous office, lined in plate glass windows overlooked the city from two angles. To say that it took my breath away is saying too little.
Well into the room was a desk and at that desk, there was a nameplate on a little exotic wood stand...Ewan Crest, CEO and President. It might have said "ruler of all that lies beneath him" and I would not have been at all surprised.
His chair was empty so I stood still, wishing I could sit down and wondering if I should have gone to pee just one more time before taking the elevator to the top floor. It's just nerves, I told myself.
And then, it felt as though a pair of hamsters had suddenly bitten down on both of my thumbs at once, an electric zing of pain stinging me hard. I nearly cried out as I looked down, irrationally sure I would see dripping blood. Only there was nothing to see and as I looked up, he stepped into the room.
By the pricking of my thumbs....
And, in he walked, as wicked as they come.
"Anna...Anna Ixstassou," he said, glancing down at a folder in his hands. He looked up at me and I was transfixed with the most profoundly green eyes I'd ever seen. It was like looking into the sea, calm for the moment, but also a force of nature capable of lifting up in violence in the very next breath.
"Yes sir," I replied, hoping that my voice didn't tremble as much as I thought it had.
His gaze did not release me as he said, "Curious name, that. I looked it up...Basque, right?"
I couldn't say exactly why, but his question didn't feel like he expected an answer and before I could take my next breath, he continued, "Well, let's hope some of that old world charm brings us something interesting today...something flavored with originality."
"Yes sir," I stammered out again, feeling foolish for repeating myself.
He sighed and closed the folder, looking at me. He was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt that hugged his upper body like a glove. He had passed his Ivy League days rowing competitively and it showed marvelously, chiseled as he was with a broad chest sweeping up to heavy square shoulders. I'd looked him up, too, and knew that he'd captained several sculling teams to victory, except that now it seemed the victory was all his, owner of the body of an Adonis. His close cropped hair was sandy brown with the fine, natural highlights of someone who spent time outdoors. And his skin, oh his beautiful skin, was not tan. Tan is too shallow a word for the deep bronze color that clothed this magnificent man.
He smiled a bright, even smile and I felt myself turning moist between my legs as his cheeks tightened in delicious lines of humor. I wanted to lick him, right then and there.
"Anna, you need to understand that in private, I don't care for the word, 'sir'. I'm sure you can think of something more appropriate, given a little time. But before you open that gorgeous mouth of yours again, I need you to turn around."
I nearly repeated myself once more before closing my mouth with an audible click, turning around quickly to face away from him.
"Ok. That's good," he said from behind me. I swear that in that moment my ass got hot as his laser green gaze swept over me from a distance.
I was wearing my man-killer pants. I'd paid way too much to have the beige linen pants tailored to perfectly encase my bottom before flaring out again with trim little pleats that said, sharp-dressed-business-woman-with-extreme-ass-action. They were tight in all the right places with just a hint of camel toe. Naturally, I was wearing a string to avoid panty lines and was very grateful for all those hours on the stair master. I have a fine, meaty caboose and I'm not shy about showing it.
I felt more than heard him approach me, as if he were fevered and the heat of him buffeted me from behind. He placed his hands upon my shoulders, and then I could feel him come very close to press against me, something firm, long and thick pressing upon my ass.
"Anna Ixstassou, you have a body that interests me," he said quietly into my ear. "And, you should know that when something interests me, I keep at it until there is nothing left for me to learn."
His hands turned me around to face him.
"I'm going to learn a thing or two about you," he finished.
He stepped away and walked around to his desk where a carafe and a glass waited. He poured the glass full to the brim and said, "Please have some water, Anna."
I wasn't thirsty but to be polite there didn't seem any good way to refuse. I stepped over to the desk, saying, "Thank you," before taking a small sip.
As I was about to set the glass back down, Ewan frowned and said, "Have some water...now."
His tone had become as glacial as the water was tepid. I took it back up and drank it down to the last.
He didn't look at me, but poured the glass full to the brim once more, and then with a wave of his hand, indicated what he wanted.
I picked it back up, thinking what a strange way of testing my resolve, and drank it dry once more.
"Thank you, sir," I said and then could have kicked myself.
He did look at me, then, his eyes narrowing and his brow furrowed.
"So, what part about saying 'sir' did you not understand, Anna? Because if you can't come up with some other way to address me, well, I'm afraid that our time together will be all too short.
"You're not here to waste my time, are you?" he finished.
I replied, my voice shaking, "No...master...I do not wish to waste your time."
His radiant, almost extravagant smile lit his face as he said, "Perfect! I knew you would be a smart girl and figure things out for yourself, Anna. I'm so pleased you didn't disappoint me.
"Now undress for me, my little Basque. I have something fun in mind for you."
My stomach flip-flopped as his words echoed in me ears. I'd known it all along...it was why I was wearing a new string, a little lacy at the edges, but hot as hell. And damned if I didn't suddenly feel a rush of warmth between my legs in the same moment that my cheeks burned bright red.
I moved quickly, afraid to hesitate before the "master". I knew he would approve of my being decisive once a choice was made.