The Efficient Ms. Sara

He was a little bothered about the girl. Oh, she had all the qualifications he needed in a P.A. and the interview had shown that her IT and administrative skills were more than he could have hoped for – undeniably, Sara Kennedy was the best of a good bunch of applicants, with the added bonus of fluent French and German. But he was a little bothered on two counts – first, she had no actual experience and second, well, second was the fact that he would very definitely have to keep her away from Miriam’s eyes. Miriam – Mil – was one of those wives whose ideal P.A. for her husband would be sixty, mannish, ugly and fat but with a loving family etc., etc., and preferably with ironclad, religion-based morality. So the bother about Ms Sara Kennedy was that she was none of those things. Rather, she was twenty-six, all female, good to look at and slender. He revised that description mentally over the morning’s first coffee: twenty-six, stunning figure though perhaps a tad boyish, the boyishness made up for by the way her breasts thrust-out her immaculate business suit rather more than he found comfortable. Ugly she was not, striking she was; a mass of chestnut hair, the pale complexion that goes with redheads and profuse freckles that showered her face and gave every indication of continuing over her shoulders and where-else. Martin Chetry, drinking his cold coffee in the quiet office, allowed himself a moment’s mental imagery of taking Ms Kennedy to bed and her squeals of delight at finding him the world’s greatest, most imaginative and untiring lover.

He had daydreams like that about many women but they were only daydreams: at night, when Mil was asleep – Mil was always asleep – he fantasized differently and very privately. Cup in hand, he experimented mentally with what he called his private fantasy scenarios and Ms Sara Kennedy but it wouldn’t do, redheads were almost always an assertive, emotional lot, not given to Submission. ‘Absolute Submission’ as he liked to call the core of his private fantasies. Martin returned his mind to the present and to flicking pages to find Aaronson’s mobile number; Teddy Aaronson owed close on eleven thousand and Martin’s one-man (and a PA) business needed it.

The rest of Friday dragged, although Aaronson did promise him a cheque and the usual pre-weekend round of debt-collecting calls was more successful in promises than usual. Saturday dragged of course, accompanying Mil to the weekly hit at Sainsbury’s and washing and polishing the car most of the afternoon.

‘Why you don’t take the car down to the carwash I shall never know’ was her regular querulous complaint from the kitchen window and ‘needs to be done properly’ his excuse. In reality it was an excuse for being out of the house for a couple of hours, sometimes three. Saturday evening, that particular Saturday evening, there was neither Greg nor anybody else to march down to the King George Pub with. He sat on the sofa, Mil in ‘her’ chair and Mil choosing the programs. ‘Let’s see what films are on’. Mil saw what films were on, and chose one. ‘The Sound of Music’ was having its umpteen-thousandth repeat but she knew better than even to suggest that, much as she adored the thing. Mil settled for ‘Strictly Ballroom’. Martin opened a beer and tried to find something he’d not already read in the Saturday newspaper supplements. He opened more beer as the evening progressed so that by the time she announced ‘bedtime’ he was sleepy, unsteady and sexless.

To her credit, Mil always insisted that Sunday was his day off from working so hard for her’ and on Sunday mornings he shut himself in the conservatory with the Sunday papers first, then, laptop on the coffee-table, reviewed the week’s work and the month’s finances. Sunday afternoons he escaped to watch the local soccer team down at the recreation ground. This particular Sunday, in October, it was soccer, a good game that lifted his spirits to the extent that shortly after Mil had announced ‘bedtime’ in her childish way and he’d complied, he fucked her enjoyably.

Monday was nothing like he’d imagined or fantasized, Sara Kennedy was demure, nicely shy and nervous the first morning in her first real job, but efficient, common, sensible and scarily adept at once with the contorted file-structure his ineptness had imposed on the office PC.

“Would you like me to errr rationalize this?” she asked, having spent all of forty seconds finding the folder he wanted, half the time it normally took him. ‘Rationalizing’ the whole thing into what she called a ‘tree’ took about fifteen minutes and the result was, to Martin, embarrassingly simple to use. Despite her total unfamiliarity with the work and with him, the two of them managed to get through more work in that one day than he normally did in two and by Friday he was reveling in the fact that his new P.A. was already proving a treasure and extremely good-for-the-eye too. So much so that by the second Friday, after a really nice little coup that netted the business and him nearly thirty K, he was wild enough to let a private fantasy creep into the end of the day. He’d allowed her to relax her self-imposed ‘smart business suit’ uniform and at four-fifteen she was kneeling on the floor sorting old papers, her boyish backside stretching what must have been a very expensive pair of deep green ‘designer’ jeans.

“I doubt if I can get this all sorted and filed today – sorry. I’d stay if I could but.”
He made a joke of saying, “Now, now, Ms. Kennedy, can’t leave a job half finished. I shall have to chain you to your desk”

The ‘joke’ elicited a response, accompanied by a most peculiar look, to the extent that he thought he’d really offended her.

“As long as it’s not for too long.” She should have giggled at that point, but she just looked at him.

“How long?”

For the life of him he couldn’t think of a way to lead the exchange down the paths of the private fantasy. He wanted to but was, even more than usual, unsure how far he might go, how far it could be carried as a ‘joke’ before the inevitable let-down.

“… Errr, oh, until you’ve finished, of course.”

Face bent to the papers on the floor, she said clearly “that might take hours”.

Astonished, he thought it might be an opening, he hoped it might be an opening but he had no idea what to do with it.

“I ought to chain you to your desk all the time.” Now he knew he’d done the usual thing and stepped out of the joking-banter into bad taste. So the fantasy that had been growing in his mind, interfering with reality, just collapsed.

She stayed until almost five, then vanished into the little bathroom behind her desk, emerging five or so minutes later to pause in the open doorway.

“About three and a half meters, I guess.” she said, moving to pick up her bag and turning to the office door.

Martin looked at her in puzzlement.

“‘About three and a half meters of what?”

“Chain. If you’re going to chain me to my desk, I have to be able to go to the bathroom.  Goodnight, Sir.”

Driving home, he slid comfortably into the fantasy of his chained P.A., to the extent that the nicest erection he’d had for a long time was jabbing through his trousers at the rim of the steering wheel. That night, after Mil fell asleep, it returned, accompanied by mental imagery of a red-headed siren, complete with long and clinking chain, spilling his coffee and, unasked, leaning over to open the drawer for the strap. Saturday morning he relished by making at least some of his fantasy real by the intensely sexual pleasure of actually buying ‘three and a half’ meters of chromed chain and two chromed padlocks. He knew he was letting his fantasy run away with him but it was compulsive and anyway he could give her the chain first thing Monday as a continuation of the joke. He didn’t have to buy a strap to put in the desk-drawer; there was that sample length of two-inch rubber belting in the garage.

On Sunday afternoon the fantasy was taking over and he fought it sullenly, knowing that the little package of chain and padlocks was going too far. Even as a silly joke.

He knew it on Monday morning and very nearly didn’t do as he’d planned and spill the shiny, clinking stuff onto her desk when she sat down. He knew it when he’d knelt in the office that morning, early, and screwed a steel eye into the little washroom’s doorjamb. Make a joke of it, but do it properly.

Sara Kennedy looked at the chain, then looked up at him with a very serious expression, so much so that he frantically prepared placatory responses to what was to come.

“Round my ankle, I suppose, but what about the other end?”

“Oh. Errrr…” and he made as big a grin as he could manage. “The eye-bolt thing, behind you, bottom of the door frame.” He was going to say, going to say “now, I want to get that estimate off this morning” but Ms Sara Kennedy said “Yes, Sir,” and held out a slender leg clad in dark grey denim.

Choking, Martin managed to drag it a little further: “I’ve really half a mind to lock a chain round that ankle you know.”

She lifted her leg a little and used both hands to draw back the denim.

The chain didn’t make any noise on the office carpet and she wore it all day. She’d brought a packed lunch, whether as a precaution or by chance he didn’t know. A hundred times he’d wanted to broach the subject of The Chain but didn’t know how, didn’t want to take the risk of demolishing what was for him a seriously growing erotic experience. He kept her until five thirty – she didn’t ask to go – and then tossed her the key to the little padlock.

“You may go, Sara,” was all he said, hoping his tone and dismissive manner might provoke some response.

“Thank you, Sir,” and she unlocked the chain, piled its links neatly on the floor by her desk and left. For three mornings she came in, chained herself, gave him the key and, when he threw it back to her, in the evening, she said just “Thank you, Sir.”

What she was thinking all day or at any time of the day when the silvery chain snaked behind her across the floor, what she was thinking he had no idea and didn’t know how to ask. The whole thing was ridiculous, completely ridiculous.

Why was she continuing with it? In a few scattered moments he wondered, hoped that she really wanted, sexually wanted, to be kept on a chain, but then reality pounced back. He desperately didn’t want to say, “OK Sara, let’s end the chain joke.”

On Friday he was late, an hour late because of the damn car. At ten he pushed into the inner office to find her at the filing cabinet. No chain. What to say? ‘No chain, Sara?’ She’d grin, the chain would be nowhere in sight and it would all be over. A joke dragged out too long. A sweet fantasy killed.

She looked down as if to see it trailing tautly across the carpet.

“Oh. Sir. I was late Sir. I forgot, I’m sorrrry,” and she stepped across to her desk, bent, put a foot on the chair and he heard the links rattle and the lock click. The sight of her, face all worried, fumbling to extract the little key, thrust a bone-hard erection upwards under his clothes and the private fantasy took over his grasp of reality.

In a voice he hardly recognized, he stammered:

“L-late is bad, Sara. Being unchained in my office is very b-bad.” What to say, what to say? It didn’t come out as evenly as he wanted because of his dry throat and because of the sexual urgency in his body. “B-bad has to be p-pun-punished, Very b-bad has to be – to be – b – bea –beaten.”

Resignation on the spot, even some sort of charge of verbal assault, was there such a thing? Oh God, the newspapers, Mil. She was standing there by her desk, suddenly whiter then ever in the face, both hands gripping the little key.

“Yes, Sir.” What?

“Yes, Sir, what?” he asked, trying to be amusing and the Master both at the same time.

“I h-have to be b-beaten, Sir.” There was a silence and she hung her head. In a flash of delicious comprehension, Martin realized she was scared.

“P-please Sir, I’ve – I’ve never – I’ve never been. Been b-beaten Sir, not si-since p-p-private school, Sir.

It was then that Martin Chetry took the chance of his life, not that he could help it for his mind was filling with the powerful imagery from his private fantasies. But enough remained of reality for him to hesitate, then say:

“You really want to be beaten, don’t you?” and then to wonder what he’d said,

She was looking at the carpet and the little heap of chain, but the voice in which she replied was the voice of the Sara he’d interviewed those days ago, precise and determined.

“Yes, I really want to be beaten. And, things.”

“‘Things’?”

“Everything. You want to do  -  to beat me – anything else – you want.”

He just said “yes, everything.” He didn’t even have to reach into his private fantasy mind for the next line. It was on his lips. Reality had gone now and there was no way to get it back. He didn’t want to get it back. He wanted this.

“Come here, Sara,” and he watched his hand pull open the desk drawer and lift out the thick red rubber strap. “You need this. Sara,”

“Y-yes S-sir,” and the voice was that of the nervous girl again, just above a whisper. Sara came hesitantly across the carpet, the chain snaking silently.

There was a little glimmer of horrid reality in his mind as she reached his desk, a glimmer of such things as ‘assault’ and ‘scandal’ and police.

“Bend over the desk, reach out and hold the other side.”

The charcoal grey jeans stretched tightly over the firm, round bottom. Take them down Sara. No not this time. The red rubber strap was warm in his hand. I’ve never done this before I’m going to beat a girl, I’m going to really do, it I’m going to come in my pants.

Thwackkkk! Oh shit, this is so good.

Thwackkkk! “O-hh, o-hh S-sirrr!”

Thwackkkk! Sara Kennedy said ‘uhh’ and shifted her bottom, lifted one leg at the knee.

Thawackkkk! “Uhhhh. Ahhh”.  And then she was almost still, almost silent.

Thwackkkk! But she lifted on her toes and thrust out her backside for the next, inviting it Thwackkkk!

There was a moment, only a moment when the only sounds in the small room were Martin Chetry’s heavy breathing, a tiny chink from the chain and Ms Sara Kennedy sniffing back tears.

She didn’t get up from her right-angle bend over his desk. She unfastened her jeans while she was still bent. Pushed them down, pushed yellow briefs down over a small, creamy-white ass already reddening in long blotchy-stripes.

He fucked Ms Sara Kennedy very hard and long, wonderfully, muttering ‘oh, oh, oh my.  As she rose onto her toes and moaned, then cried out as he flooded into her. Flooded into her, on and on, hosed her in there. And the private fantasy was real.

He knew every line for he’d been creating it and rehearsing it for so very long.

“Get back to your desk, Sara.”

“Yes, Sir.”

As she rose, turned stiffly and reached to pull up her jeans he pushed his hips forward,

“Clean me first. Mouth please.”

There was a moment of hesitation and fright in her and he realized she’d never done any of this before, but she’d fantasized. Just fantasized in bed in long moments when she was feeling ‘down’ and wanted to escape. Privately, secretly, read about such things on the Internet for years.

He lifted the rubber strap and brought it down flat across her white thighs.

“Clean me … kneel, Sara.”

No, she’d never done anything like this before and having to teach her hesitant fingers, having to lift her chin, raise her genuinely tearstained face with the strap doubled in his hand and tell her precisely what she had to do, that made his penis harden again in her slender, freckled hands. He came into her mouth as she was learning to suck him clean and she backed away, choking, semen running from her lips. He thrashed her for that, then sent her back to her desk to phone the Clerk at the Licensing Authority, still with tears running on her pale cheeks, still swallowing. At five thirty he threw her the key to her chain.

“How was your day, Ms Kennedy?” There was a drawn out hesitation. Then –

“A-as it s-should b-be, Sir.”

On Saturday, he drove to Bournemouth, to Westward’s hardware shop, then to a few others. On Sunday he spent the afternoon in the office, in the unused storeroom beside the washroom. On Sunday night he wrote, in his private mind, his Training Plan for Sara Kennedy.

Monday morning he drove to the office very early and opened up the storeroom behind her desk, beside the washroom making sure it was ready, making sure the goodies from Westward were laid on the shelves. He had a continuous and delicious erection when he woke that morning and it was still with him when she entered the office at eight forty.

“Stand by your desk, Sara. Don’t bother with your chain. I have some things to say.”

She stood, head down a little, lips just, just barely smiling a little. Hands behind her back properly. He’d rehearsed it mentally enough, after all.

“I have decided that you need training, Sara. You need to be trained in Discipline and Obedience. Absolute Obedience. Acceptance, but not just Acceptance, but Absolute Submission. You are going to learn everything you ever dreamed about, experience everything. The only part of you that will remain when I have trained you is your name – Sara – and when I am satisfied with you I will change that as well. There will be no choices for you, only the desire to please me. Only the automatic need to please me, to submit to me as my property. I will teach you total submission Sara.”

“I will beat it into you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To make your fantasies your reality, that’s what you need.

You may speak girl, two words. You will say ‘Yes, Sir’.” The delicious hesitation in her again, then, quietly, “Yes, Sir.”

Fortunately, with foresight, he’d pinned a notice to the office outer-door. Office closed Monday and Tuesday for Staff Training. It was true enough, Sara’s training. Things were about to change for Sara Kennedy.

“Come here girl, turn your back to me”. She did. He reached round and unfastened the top three buttons of her jeans, reached in with both hands and found her warm, wet sex. She started, flinched a little, then stood still.

“Say ‘Sir, please may I be wanked.”

A whisper: ‘Sir, p-please m-may I be – wanked.”

“Louder, girl.”

“Sir. Please may I be – wanked.”

She made little indrawn breaths as he wanked her, wanked her steadily and quite roughly, then shoved her ass quickly, into his groin as she came over his fingers. He felt her clit poking between her juicing lips like a miniature erection.

“Do your jeans up Sara and get back to work at your desk,”

Things were about to change for Sara Kennedy, accommodations for a start. In the next half hour he sent her to her lodging with a note that she had been called away suddenly. He had her write it in her own hand
.
“You will be staying here during the week, I will make more permanent arrangements by Friday.”

The door to the windowless storeroom was open. “This is your room. Inside please, Sara.”

He sat on the plank bed, stood her face to the bare whitewashed wall and told her the Training Plan.

“Pay attention Sara, absolute silence, please.” She cried silently. When his words provoked her into responding with light sobs, they were cut short by the rubber strap across her. “Obedience Sara, Absolute Obedience. I said silence.”

He made her strip. She had wonderful firm breasts. It took a little to overcome her reality and send her into her private fantasies. She was resisting, of course she was resisting and he had to topple her out of reality into those fantasies she knew so well.

“On the bed, on your back, Sara.”

She lay still, trembling, eyes closed, freckled cheeks wet with silent tears. He only had cheap washing-line for her ankles and wrists; there’d not been time to arrange for some chain. She lay almost still while he roped her into a wide X on the bed. She was naked and spread-eagled, slender and white with richly freckles shoulders and arms and he wanted to fill her with semen, fill her with it, but he was in his Role now.

“A little serious disciplinary training, Sara, then you have office work to do.”

He’d thought long and hard about this bit. He cut away the glorious chestnut curls over her mound, to be shaved later. She moaned quietly as he parted her lips down there to see. She shook and tried to writhe when he came back into view from the cupboard, with a cheap white gym shoe in one hand. The idea had come from the Internet. He beat her mound, not hard, slowly and for a long time, while she subsided from violent struggling to a state where she arched her back, lifted her hips, widened the parting of her thighs to meet each wupp! of the patterned rubber sole.

Wupp! This is extremely good for you, Sara.
Wupp! It is like morning exercises.
Wupp! It will not be necessary.
Wupp! To do it every day.
Wupp! But on regular occasions.
Wupp! Her labia became flushed, dark red and she was very wet, staining the cheap mattress.

At ten fifteen, moving very carefully and gingerly, she fastened her chain in the office, sat down very carefully and started up the PC to read the day’s e-mails. Dressed in a severe white blouse and black jacket and skirt, hair carefully arranged, the chain invisible behind the desk there was nothing to see of interest about Sara Kennedy, save perhaps for a paleness on her face and some hesitancy about her movements. There was the occasional gleam of a tear, for she had not yet quite stepped into her fantasies. Still there was a faint jab of resistance, of fear, now and again that day, but only on that day. It was when Martin Chetry thrashed her, naked, with the rubber strap that evening, that reality fled and Sara Kennedy slid quickly into her fantasy world. Where the beating made her orgasm so powerfully, so completely that there was no going back.

Martin watched her mottled backside thrust back and back to the kiss of the rubber strap, watched the gleam of moisture on her labia, watched the pool of fluid form under her on the rubber sheeted bed, and knew he had released her. The first step was to orgasm during a beating. Not to dare to think of being fucked unless he told her she was to be fucked. He was completely satisfied. Now he could begin.

Of course he had The Plan. Most of it was from his years of constructing fantasies in his mind but now it was to be made reality. The heavily used folder on his laptop, opened only with the password, already contained a ‘project’ chart. A plan of the critical practicalities was to be overcome. His fantasy female in all the files was called ‘Susan’. Now he spent some time changing ‘Susan’ to ‘Sara’. Then he toyed with ‘Objective Two’ the Place in which to live out his new life with Sara.

Martin felt a tremor of real excitement. He was going to do it, really do it. With trembling fingers on the keyboard he highlighted ‘Move this Folder’ and moved it from ‘Draft Plan’ to ‘Actual Plan’.

In ‘Actual Plan’ there was the fantasy form: ‘Original Name of Submissive?” it asked.

SARA MARGARET KENNEDY he typed. ‘Training Name of Submissive’. SARA.

‘Trained Name of Submissive?” He thought long and hard, hand inside his trousers on a stone-hard erection. ‘Trained Name of Submissive.’ GIRL.  And then he opened his money files, added up everything, totaled everything, divided the total by two and moved one half into the secret ‘Actual Plan’ and the other to the unprotected file ‘Mil’s money’.

And in amazement that this was happening, searched his fantasy look-ups for the phone numbers of Estate Agents in three of his favorite remote places, and then accessed Westward’s website.

Two days later, in the office, he gave her the strap-in dildo, holding it out to her so that when she took it, hesitant still, she was forced to close her fingers round the glossy fat rubber penis with the straps dangling.

“Put it in Sara”

The freckles on her face disappeared in the deep flush as she lowered her jeans and then discovered that she had to awkwardly part her legs to offer the thing to her own slit.

“Right in, please.” Right in, slowly, slowly. She was breathing hard.

“Hold your blouse up so I can strap it in,” and the little lock at the small of her back went click.

“If ever you attempt to take it out without my order, I’ll whip your fat breasts, Sara.”

“Y-yes, S-sir”

“No, Sara. You only have a very limited vocabulary. ‘Yes Sir’ is unnecessary. You may say ‘Please Sir’.”

“Your vocabulary is currently limited to ‘Please Sir’.”

“P-please, Sir,”

“‘Please Sir’?” You really want your tits whipped?”

“Sir…Sir?” She was petrified.

It took twelve minutes by his watch until she stammered ‘Please Sir’ another four before she obeyed his instruction to lift her blouse up, drop her bra and stand with her hands lifting her clothing. He’d never seen anyone shake as she did. Just one flat, hard whapp! across each of the delicious, thrusting, freckled boobs. She shouted ‘aaaarh’ and turned away, crouching with both arms over her tender, reddening flesh.

“Get dressed. Next time I will beat them.”

It was all easier than he’d ever imagined, even easier than the trouble-free world of his fantasies. For three months Sara went about his office, chained and with the fat, warm rubber dildo in her, slept in the storeroom chained spread eagled to the bed, pooled urine on the rubber sheet.  She was fed by him at weekends and was ritually beaten by him once each day. The demands of executing The Plan meant that he had no time to further her Training just yet.

On Friday the nineteenth he kept her in the office until well after dark. Outside waited the second-hand Ford 4-WD already loaded with his property and hers. Ten pm came: “Right, girl, everything moveable into the car, you have twenty minutes.”

Probably she guessed that this was ‘it’, but she labored efficiently enough for eighteen minutes. In the bare store room he made her strip, lie on the concrete floor, then he bound her with thin green nylon rope: ankles, knees, wrists behind her back, elbows together. Then the five-foot length of inch-thick bamboo, bound at neck, waist and ankles so that she was rigid.  Sara kept her eyes closed while he bound her.

“Mouth”. She opened her mouth for the rubber plug-gag.   She looked a little surprised as he pulled the red swim-cap over her eyes.  Martin patted the protruding butt of the fat dildo.

“Good girl”. It was more difficult than he expected to get her into the big black body bag but he managed it with much swearing and much sweat. Into the back of the Ford in the dark, then climbed into the driving seat, overcome with sexual excitement.

Four hours and forty-seven minutes later he drove into the barn beside the house, pulled shut the wide doors and switched off, sitting there a moment as he realized that he was mentally and physically exhausted. With an effort he dragged the heavy body bag out of the car and released her to stand properly, naked with her hands behind her back and her head bowed, on the bare floor. Her knees kept giving way at first from the tight confinement and she was gleaming with her own urine from the waist down. His six or seven clandestine visits to the house in the past months had enabled him to prepare for most eventualities but not for his own exhaustion. The Plan must change for a few hours. Martin slept in the big bed in the big bedroom.

Sara Kennedy, tried to sleep in the fortunately warm ‘guest’ bathroom, sitting upright and facing the wall, tied to the toilet. She wasn’t crying, wasn’t frightened, wasn’t anything. She knew some of the things coming to her and she wanted them to happen. If only they didn’t hurt too much, or if they hurt, then please could she be taught to have orgasms when they did, if that was proper.