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MMS – Chapter 16 – Anything

by | mms | 0 comments

I awoke to a sharp pain.

I had turned in my sleep and was leaning on my sore and bruised thigh. The pain was low and warm and gave me bad dreams I couldn’t remember.

It was early morning. Gray light from the window. Birds chirped in the distance. I remembered family trips to Maine. A cabin in the country.

Turning on my back, I rubbed my sore flesh. My thighs, my breasts, some profound soreness deep inside of me where Marcy had left her final remembrances.

I smiled at that and kept my hand just above that spot.

I drifted in and out of sleep for a while like that, unsure what was memory or dream or fantasy as I laid in the soft bed, the dim light.

A knock came at seven thirty. I woke with a start.

“Coming,” I said, getting up and finding a robe on a nearby chair.

Chase came in with an earnest face. He carried a bunch of clothes on hangers and a shopping bag. He put them at the foot of the bed and then went back into the hall and brought in a large silver tray.

With the aplomb of a hotel bellhop, he found a little folding table in the open closet, set it up one-handed next to my bed and put the tray on it. The tray had a large silver dome on top, which he dramatically lifted.

“No tip necessary, ma’am. I hope you have a lovely day,” he said with a wink.

I laughed and went to hug him, but he abruptly turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Like so many things I didn’t understand what was happening. Until I saw the letter on the tray.

There were croissants and strawberries, a bit of bacon, two soft boiled eggs, a pot of coffee, and a white envelope, in it was a typed letter.

“I’ll need your services at nine, promptly. There is an office on the third floor. Turn right after the stairs. Last door on the right. J.M.”

The nervousness was somehow comforting. After the wildness of the last day, of the last few weeks, the way Mr. McIntyre made my heart race was at least familiar, even if the prospect of using my “services” in some third-floor office wasn’t.

The strawberries were small and very ripe. The croissant was very good, still warm. I had no stomach for the eggs, but I ate everything else and drank half the coffee.

The clothes Chase brought in turned out to be a charcoal gray suit, knee-length skirt, and matching blazer. A slightly shimmery pearl colored blouse. The most beautiful shoes, dark red like Marcy’s- oh the thought of it made me feel faint.

Nude stockings, white panties, bra, and garter.

A bag of toiletries. Chanel No. 5.

The shower was very hot, and the water pressure felt decadent after a year with my lousy apartment’s drippy shower. I took my time drying off. I laughed at my reflection in the full-length mirror, naked with a towel in a big beehive on my head.

I put on the beautiful lingerie. It felt like I was putting on a costume. The clothes were so well made and exactly my size. The perfume was delicate. Finally the shoes. Looking at myself in the mirror I blushed. I was beautiful.

I sat and did my hair, did my makeup, tried to remember and replicate the things Marcy had done for me. All the time I watched the clock.

At a quarter to nine, I left my little guest room and found my way up the stairs. The third floor was quiet and lit by the intense morning sun coming in many windows. I turned right, and I counted four doors on each side. How many rooms could a house have?

The sign on the last door said, Jacob McIntyre. It looked almost identical to the one on his office door back at Fitzgerald.

The morning rush came. The high of nine a.m., getting his coffee, being his good girl, hoping he would say my name.

I opened the door and saw a desk, not unlike the one at the office. The same model typewriter. Heck, the walls were painted the same color.

As I walked over to the desk, an identical intercom box squawked.

“Abby, is there a problem with the coffee?”

Oh, God. The understanding that we were in some simulacrum of our office disappeared instantly. I looked around and saw the thermus. My heart swelled. It was on top of a small refrigerator. Opening it, there was milk.

I made the coffee as he liked it and then looking around noticed the other door.

“Abby?” Said the intercom.

I took the mug and went to the other door. It opened to his main office. Almost the same desk. The room was large, probably larger than his office in the city. All that was missing was the view of the Manhattan skyline.

He was reading the paper. In was in a simple black suit, white shirt, light blue tie. I presented his coffee. He didn’t look up, but sipped it and nodded in approval.

I went back to the other room. I was starting to feel unsure of what was real. Where were we?

Sitting down at the desk I saw there was work to do. There was a letter to type. Some other little tasks. Everything had been made to look like it was real. Was it real?

It all took about an hour. Just when I was finishing things up, Mr. McIntyre came out of his office and looked down at me.

He took a deep breath, then took off his suit jacket and hung it up on the coat rack. He unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt and rolled them up to his elbows. Then he walked over to me.

There was something about watching him roll up his sleeves that always did something to me. Like he was about to get down to serious business.

“Abigail, do you think I am an intelligent man?” He said, standing behind me, just out of sight.

“Of-of course, Mr. McIntyre,” I babbled, completely confused.

“Would you say and am an astute student of the

human condition?”

“Y-yes, sir,” I said, wishing I could see him, growing more and more worried.

“So it’s shouldn’t be surprising to learn that there was very little in your diary that I didn’t already know. I was quite aware of your nervousness, your shaking legs, your inability to look me in the eye. Even your rather obvious desire,” he said, with the words touched with kindness.

I was safe, and he was telling me nice things, still, I felt tears coming.

He put his hands on my shoulders, something I’d longed for him to do for so long. His hands were large, heavy, warm.

“It’s been difficult for me as well, you know. Seeing how eager you were. How much you wanted. Knowing I could have you anytime I wanted,” he said, his hands squeezing my shoulders a little.

I felt like a rag doll on his hands.

“But as much as I have rules for everyone I keep in my life, I have many more rules for myself. Does that make sense?”

I nodded, the pressure of his hands and their little squeezes were hypnotic.

“And as much as we have our games and our roles and all of our adventures it is imperative to me that the workplace is kept out of it. That no one is ever made uncomfortable and that we act professionally,” he said, letting go of my shoulder and brushing my cheek with his thumb.

He swiveled the chair around so that I faced him.

“So, if you’d like to continue as my personal assistant, things are going to have to change a bit,” he said thoughtfully.

I nodded.

“Do you know who Benjamin Howard Worth is?”

I was taken aback. My brain had some memory, but everyone was foggy.

“Um, isn’t he, some partner is another firm?” I guessed.

Mr. McIntyre smiled.

“He is one of the founding partners of Oldorf & Worth, one of the most profitable firms in the world. He has been courting me for years to come work for him, even though he knows I won’t. He’s a good man, 62, mostly plays golf, works three days a week. He needs a good secretary, someone who can do a little of everything,” he said.

My heart broke. My face dropped, and I saw him frown.

“While I need a personal assistant, here in this office and perhaps at my private office in the city. Someone to organize my affairs. Someone who knows me and knows what I want. That will, of course, not be a paying job, but then Mr. Worth will pay top dollar for my ex-secretary.”

It took me a minute to process everything he was saying. A new job for a wealthy but older man who only worked three days a week. The rest of the time I would be Mr. McIntyre’s girl.

“I can’t pay you and have you be with me romantically. Do you understand that? It just doesn’t work. I need you to have a good job that is not connected to me. Ben Worth is excited to meet you. Do you think that arraignment might work for you?”

I tried to steady my brain. I tried to figure out everything he was telling me.

“So I would have a good high paying job three days a week that isn’t connected to you. And then a few days a week-” I said but trailed off.

“You would be mine,” he said, crouching down and putting his hands on my knees.

“You would do the tasks I set for you here or where ever else I tell you to go. You’ll do whatever I tell you. You’ll do everything in your power to make me happy. You’ll be my ‘Girl Friday’ at my beck and call and-” he said with a grin, but I cut him off.

“Yes!”

Just the way he squeezed my shoulder, he squeezed my knee, moving up to my thigh. I stopped breathing for a moment.

In a flash, he moved forward, his hand around my neck. I wasn’t prepared. I froze. His massive hand around my throat and my heart stopping in fright.

“Abigail, I’m going to insist you answer me in the manner I have become accustomed. ‘Yes, Mr. McIntyre’ or ‘yes, sir.’” he said, enunciating each word of his own name.

My face was burning, my eyes tearing, I tried to nod, but I felt faint.

He let me go, and I gasped for air.

“Yes, Mr. McIntyre!” I said before I coughed.

With that, he straightened up and loosened his tie. I don’t think I’d ever seen him loosen his tie before.

“Excellent. We can proceed with your new role. Similar in many respects to your old position, with some particular differences and new responsibilities. On days you come here, or to my Manhattan private office, you will organize my correspondences, opening most though I will have a list of those I specifically don’t want you to touch. There may be letters I wish you to type up either from my written notes or via dictation,” he said, pacing in front of me.

“A few times a month I have social gatherings, which will involve the two of us sitting together to organize guest lists and so on. That’s something I’ve very keen on having your help with.”

I smiled at that. I smiled at the idea of sitting with him and helping him create something. I wondered if I would get to attend those gatherings as well.

As if reading my mind, gosh I hope he couldn’t do that, he looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said, “of course you’ll be attending the events we plan. I think you’ll enjoy them very much.”

I blushed at that, and perhaps I swooned a little too.

“You’ll find my rules in this office are generally similar to the ones at the firm, with a few exceptions and a few additions,” he said cracking his knuckles.

The image of him cracking his knuckles was sort of burned into my memory from then on. His strong arms flexing. The way his shoulders stretched the fabric of his white shirt at that moment, making him look like he would rip out of it.

“Here, I’m also at liberty to correct any errors you make more directly. Do you understand?” he said, his voice growing harder?

I wanted to say yes, but the way he was standing over me, I could only squeak.

“Yes-sir-I mean, Mister-” but he pulled me out of the chair.

“I think we will work best if we get things straight from the beginning, Abigail,” he said as he kicked the chair away from us.

It clattered on the other side of the room, and his sudden violence petrified me.

He pushed me over the desk roughly, papers flying all over. My mouth was dry. It was hard to even fully process what was happening.

He placed his hand on my back and pressed. I flattened out, resting my chest and belly on the desk.

“How many mornings have I watch you squirm behind that desk. Your cheeks going red if I brushed against you. I always wondered how wet you got when I teased and hovered over you,” he said, slowly pulling up my skirt with his other hand.

His hand on my back immobilized me, though I doubt I could move anyhow. My skirt was pushed all the way up, laying over my back, exposing my ass then down the backs of my thighs. His fingers were on my skin, finally.

The feelings were so much. I wanted everything. I was drowning in want, but his fingers were so slow. It was torture.

“So I think an excellent protocol for us to implement is that when I see you squirming, I should never hesitate to bend you over your desk and inspect you,” he said, his hand moving back up my thigh, then tracing the very bottoms of the leg of my panties.

I couldn’t help raising my hips for him. I was rutting like a cat in heat. His fingers were so close. The moved to my inner thighs, and I spread my legs for him. I heard him make an almost imperceptibly small chuckle.

His fingers closed in on the heat between my legs. My eyes closed.

“Soaked, just as I thought. Oh Abigail, so predictable.”

I tried to collect myself. This was it. He was really touching me. I had to show him I could be good. I had to prove I was just as good at sex as I was collating papers and fetching his coffee.

“I’m always wet for you, Mr. McIntyre. You can check whenever you want, of course,” I said, trying to sound sexy but mostly being out of breath and trying not to mumble.

Looking behind my shoulder, I saw him pause at that. One perfect eyebrow raised.

“Oh? That’s good to know. We’ll have to add that to your little laminated checklist. Get Mr. McIntyre’s coffee. Show Mr. McIntyre how we I am.”

He laughed, and I squirmed. I wanted to be a woman to him, a sex object, but I was a joke.

He tugged my panties to the side, and my breath caught as the cool air of the room touched my sensitive wet pussy.

“Inspections will be common though. You’ll have to learn to present yourself like this. Face down on the desk, ass as high as you can get it.”

With that, I pushed my ass higher, getting on the tips of my toes. I wiggled my butt.

The word “inspection” did things to me. The way he looked at my diary he would peek between my legs every morning. Fuck.

My hands spread on the cool wood of the desk and his fingers were on my inner thighs and then between my thighs and then opening up the most intimate part of my body and it took all the strength I had built up all those mornings being so good for him not to close my legs or twist of his grip or cry or scream.

“Excellent,” he said very simply.

Why did I die at that moment? It was ridiculous to be so ecstatic about his approval. Approval of what? But there it was, warm sticky pride deep inside of me.

“As good as you have been, we are entering a new phase in our partnership, and I believe some preemptive measures need to be taken to ensure good behavior and attention to detail. For instance how you hesitate when I ask you something or replying in an appropriate manner,” he said suddenly very serious.

Then he spanked me.

It’s so strange, how the crop and the flogger and cane hurt in different ways, but his hand, his big strong hand, which certainly couldn’t have hurt more, stung in a way none of those implements did. It was this big full and holistic pain. It pushed my body forward into the desk. It took my breath away.

He spanked me again and again. I held on to the desk as he did. My panties were still pulled to the side, and his hand came so close it my pussy again and again.

The caning was something gloriously painful. Something I would always remember and perhaps even crave sometimes. Something I would eventually find a cycle of desire for, slowly building up the courage to take again.

But spanking, Mr. McInytre’s spanking, oh I wanted it every day. It was skin on skin. The heat of his palm and the way he sort of grabbed me after each strike.

Just like I forgot that it was a makebelieve office, I forgot that this spanking was supposed to be a punishment. Was I supposed to fear it? Every hit was like a kiss.

I heard myself moan as he hit me. Every hit made these vibrations that seemed to penetrate me like fingers.

He was going harder, too. I braced for it. I gritted my teeth. I don’t know how to explain what was going on in my head, but I wanted it all from him. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted him to hurt me. I wanted him to kiss me.

Oh, he hadn’t kissed me! I thought suddenly.

He stopped noticing my sudden confusion.

“Thank you, Mr. McIntyre, I’m going to take the memory of this lesson with me every day and remember it whenever I feel myself hesitating,” I said, realizing my eyes were wet.

He shook his head.

“The lesson has just started, Abigail.”

“Abigail, I want you to stand up and take off all of your clothes except for your garter belt and stockings, then I want you to sit up on this desk,” he said with no more feeling in his voice than when he told me to order him a turkey sandwich for lunch.

The word ‘anything’ echoed in my mind as I thought about what he’d just told me to do. I wanted to do anything, but my body wouldn’t move.

“I-” I started in a whisper, but I was cut off.

Mr. McIntyre sighed deeply and walked around me, appraising me.

“What do you want to say, Abigail? You said you were willing to do anything, but so far those words have meant very little,” he said with a disappointed turn in his glaze that broke my heart.

I had done so much. I had tried so hard. Hell, the three of them had seen me naked in some form. Marcy had me stripped in front of them. She’d fucked me. Still, there was something about undressing in front of him, though. I wanted to, I really did, but I couldn’t get my body to move.

“Abigail, I think a lot of people in this world are very confused about the difference between the words ‘can’t’ and ‘won’t.’ You are capable of removing your clothes. Nothing is stopping you from getting on this desk other than your mind and, although you may not believe it, you are in control of that. You say you’re willing to do anything, I’ve told you what I want, and now it’s up to you.”

I nodded as I felt my hot red face grow wet. They were the kind of tears that I didn’t even feel fall from my eyes. All I felt was my cheeks and neck wet as the tears rain down them.

“Abigail-” he started, but I was doing it.

At that moment it was less that I decided to start undressing than I felt my body move of its own accord.

I slipped my shoes off and placed them under the desk. Then I unbuttoned my blouse. I closed my eyes and felt my face flush again, another wave of red, another surge of embarrassment.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and I did.

The delay between his orders and my movement had been removed, finally. There was a freedom at that moment that made me well up.

I took my bra off before my skirt. It went against the natural logic in my head to wait until the last possible moment to expose my breasts and my-I couldn’t even think of what word to use. Then came my skirt, I unsnapped my garter, pulling down my panties, the ones Marcy had brought me, and then I snapped my garters back in place when the silky underwear were pooled at my ankles.

There I was, my pale skin blotchy because my whole body was blushing. The little bruises on my breasts were pale yellow and green. My hands were shaking and cold. The cool air of the room on my skin, between my legs. I had to hold in a sob as I felt wetness between my thighs as well as on my face.

“Abigail, on the desk. You’re not done,” Mr. McIntyre reminded me, though his voice was softer now, almost kind.

I climbed up on the desk, hyper-aware of how silly I must look and how every bit of my body was exposed. I awkwardly sat down, feeling the sting of the bruises on my thighs. Looking down I saw them surprisingly faded already. They were becoming red and purple and yellow galaxies like in a science fiction movie.

He stood in front of me and spread my legs, then he moved closer and stood between my legs facing me, still taller than me. I looked up at him.

“We’re going to break that habit of yours, Abby,” he said looking into my eyes.

I nodded. I wanted to apologize, but I remembered what he said about it. I bit my tongue and tried to maintain eye contact even though I was filled with shame.

“You are going to do what I say, when I say it,” he said very slowly, very deliberately.

“I’m going to do what you say, when you say it, Mr. McIntyre,” I repeated.

Then he took my cheek in his hand, very lightly. I pressed against his hand.

Then he smacked me across the face.

I don’t remember if I’d ever really been smacked across the face that way before, not even as a child. My reaction was intense. Fear gripped me.

He did it again. I started crying, full on crying.

“I’m trying, I’ll do better,” I said between sobs.

He lifted my chin to look at him again.

“I know you will. You always make me proud. I know this is difficult. You are trying so hard. I’m going to help you,” he said.

I didn’t know if he would hit me again. I didn’t know if I wanted him to. It was different than everything else. It seemed like everything he did was completely new to me.

He was still holding my cheek. I moved a little and kissed his thumb. I kissed all of his fingers, and he let me. I sucked his middle finger, and he smiled a little.

“I’m going to help, but I’m never going to make it easy. Do you understand?”

I nodded and then remembering I said “yes, Mr. McIntyre,” with his finger still in my mouth.

That slapping had made me go from wanton to something else. Desperate. It made me feel like an animal somehow. Like it tore away some bit of that thing that held me back from everything I desired.

“I want to be good for you,” I said, looking him in the eye, then sucking his fingers again.

His hand slipped into my hair, and he yanked hard. I winced. He took his fingers out of my mouth and moved closer. The world was slow motion. He was going to kiss me. I couldn’t help but let out a little whimper of need.

I licked my lips and tried to close the distance between us, but he held me fast by my hair.

Then, that chuckle. I shook his head as he looked at me, mocking my desire.

“Please!” I begged.

He laughed more, his one hand continuing to hold me by my hair, his other reaching down between my legs.

I yelped as his fingers touched my soaked pussy. I sucked in a long breath as he toyed with me. I pushed myself towards him. His finger slipped into me, and I gasped.

“Thank you, Mr. McIntyre,” I hissed.

“Look at me,” he said, and I tried.

It was so hard with his fingers on my clit, but I did it.

“You’re going to be strong and ask me for what you want,” his finger moving in slow circles.

What did I want? I wanted to come. I wanted him to hold me. I couldn’t hesitate.

“Hit me again, please,” I said.

To this day I don’t know why I asked for that, but I did, and he let go of my hair and smacked me right across the face once, and the world’s spun and my eyes burned and his finger kept going.

“Please-”

His finger moved a little faster a little harder just a little more.

“Please kiss me,” I whispered.

Then I was kissing Mr. McIntyre. My head swam with all of the memories of all of the mornings I wanted him to do it. My heart pounded. It was different than all the other kisses, strong and powerful with his hand back in my hair and his fingers still-still-going.

I’ll always remember my first kiss with Mr. McIntyre because it was long and slow and perfect and at the end of it I came.

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