"
What
did you say?"
Donna glared across at Michael, who stood, in his usual laconic, self-assured way, arms folded, leaning against the bedroom doorframe. As usual, his dark brown eyes seemed to bore deep into hers, somehow a direct route to her innermost thoughts, unearthing all the embarrassing, personal little secrets that lay dormant within the recesses of her mind. Despite herself, Donna blushed and she hated herself for outwardly exposing her anger and embarrassment.
Michael eased himself off the doorframe, but kept his arms folded. "I'm not usually given to repeating myself," he said, in his usual, well-spoken and quiet voice, the same commanding tone always present, "Nor am I used to being questioned by one such as you. But as you're new to this, I will allow you to question me and I will repeat myself."
Donna scowled.
'One such as you'
! She fought hard to control her anger and…. and some other emotion which shouldn't be there. The audacity of the man! To talk to her like that! After all, he was that much older than her; she was even doing him a favour really, by being here in the first place.
Well, I am!
she told herself.
"I said, you have the makings of an ideal slave," said Michael, as matter-of-factly as though he were discussing her suitability to take on some new office duty. "So let's make a start, shall we? Kneel. Now."
Donna forced herself to give a derisive snort of laughter. "What do you think I am?
Who
do you think you are?" Damn it, she was becoming flustered.
Keep it cool, Donna,
she told herself.
Michael unfolded his arms and slowly walked towards her. Even his walk was laid-back, unhurried…. leonine even, like some sort of big cat on the prowl. Except that he wasn't a lion, and Donna wasn't about to flatter him with that kind of metaphor. Besides, lions had manes, and Michael was… well… a bit sparse in the mane department. She stood her ground and hoped that the swallowing motion she made had gone undetected by him. Now he was close up to her at the living room door. She flinched slightly as he brought one hand up and rested it on that doorframe and smiled his infuriating little smile. How she wanted to slap that smile off his face.
"I think you are a potentially good slave and I'm willing to take you on and give you a try," purred Michael. "I don't generally make offers like this, in fact – " another smile- "I have never offered to be a Master, although plenty of woman have offered themselves as slaves. Women with far more to give up than just their self-esteem."
"Self-esteem? How can any woman who wants to become a slave have self-esteem anyway?" spat Donna. "I'm not some stupid little bimbo who hangs on your every word, Michael. I run my own desk, I have my own client base. I – I –"
Yet still he looked at her, head slightly cocked, like some kindly uncle indulging a precocious niece. And he was throwing her just by looking at her like that. If he said
that's nice, dear
, he couldn't make it any more patronizing.
"I'm – I'm qualified!" finished Donna, the last words blurted out, her cheeks in full flush now, more with embarrassment at her choice of words to justify her position and standing in life, rather than the subject under scrutiny.
Michael leaned forward, and once again, she felt her heart quickening at his very presence, as she scanned his face, took in his close-cropped fair hair, greying at the temples, chin dark and rough, although obviously recently shaved. He wasn't even rugged, or conventionally handsome in the sense of the 'attractive older man'. Of course, he carried himself well, he had bags of natural self-confidence, but then one didn't get to his position in life without self -confidence. He wasn't even particularly well built. True, he wasn't slight and he wasn't markedly overweight, but nor was his especially muscular. And, being fair, you could hardly say he had a saturnine charm. But there was something almost devilish about his demeanour and Donna could well understand why women found him attractive, in the same way she had. Then again, money and influence were an aphrodisiac all of their own. One thing was for sure; Michael wasn't the run-of-the-mill, nicely settled or not-long-divorced man in his early forties. But a Master? And her his Slave? It was outrageous!
"I am not disputing your intelligence or qualifications, nor am I unsatisfied with your obviously feminine charms," said Michael slowly and deliberately. "If anything, hey are all excellent attributes in one seeking to give herself over to a Master totally. I would still permit you to have your career and a certain amount of personal freedom, but this would all be permitted by my express permission."
"You're really something else, aren't you?" gasped Donna incredulously. "What makes you think I want to be your slave?"
"I don't think, I know."
"That's it!" exclaimed Donna angrily, "I'm out of here!" she turned on her heel to go, took two steps towards the front door then swung round again and brought her face close to Michael's. He didn't move, he didn't flinch, His expression altered not one jot at her anger, and his eyes simply followed her movements.
"Okay, I'll admit – you are good in bed and yes, I did enjoy being handcuffed a couple of times and it was a real buzz when you cut my bra and panties off with a knife, but that's it. Maybe I shouldn't have gone there. You've obviously got the wrong idea about me. Yes, you're still a valued client, but I'll get one of my colleagues – probably Jeff – to handle your account from now on. But there is no way you are going to humiliate me any further with talk of slaves and submission and –"
Donna reeled back as the back of Michael's hand lashed across her cheek and sent her spinning towards the front door. In fact, if she hadn't slammed into the door she'd have fallen down. Her head swam, bright lights flashed before her eyes and the taste of blood indicated that she'd bitten her lip or her tongue. But more shocking than any of that was the fact that he'd hit her. He'd
hit
her!
What sort of a man hits a woman like that?
Suddenly her head was jerked up and she felt his big hand on her neck. Not round her neck, not squeezing or trying to throttle her, but holding her there, forcing her head up so that she looked into his eyes. She saw her own frightened eyes reflected in the dark pools of his brown pupils as he brought his face towards hers.
"Never
, never
presume to undermine me and tell me what you will do.
Ever
." His words were calm, but icy, not menacing, not theatrical, but simply words which brooked no argument, no dissent. He was stating a fact.
"Pl-please – let me go," babbled Donna, feeling her bladder tingling and about the betray her. "Please Michael. You-You're frightening me!"
Michael's hand dropped to the lapel of her jacket and gripped it, then swung her away from the front door and against the wall. She felt a couple of buttons rip away from her tight jacket as he did so and gasped as the breath was knocked out of her as she hit the wall.
"I am
not
frightening you," he said calmly. "You are frightening yourself. However, I have no wish to see you beg to leave. I'll see you beg to be my slave soon enough." With that he released his grip on her jacket and even smoothed her rumpled garments down. He calmly crossed to the front door and opened it wide for he and indicated with his hand. "You may leave."
Donna willed her shaking legs to obey and lurched towards the door, grabbing her handbag from the hall table as she passed it and catapulted herself out of the charged atmosphere of the apartment into the coolness of the landing beyond. Within seconds she was clattering down the stairs, almost losing her shoes in the process, wrenching open the main door to the apartment building and was out into the early evening twilight.
She leaned against the wall of the apartment building and gratefully sucked in the cool evening air, steadying her nerves. Home! She had to get home. Maybe then she could calm down. Think rationally. Maybe call the police? Lodge a complaint certainly. Who did he think he was? It wasn't like he was her boyfriend or anything, not that even being her boyfriend would give him the right to slap her about like that.
Donna wished she'd never accepted his invitation to dinner all those weeks ago, soon after she'd been given responsibility for his prestigious and lucrative account. It was a high honour for her, to be entrusted with one of her mercantile bank's most valued customers. Oh yes, he was pleased with her handling of his portfolio, but he was obviously attracted to her. And who wouldn't be? Of course she was attractive; long dark hair, slim enough figure, a very acceptable bosom. She dressed well, she was intelligent and what middle aged man wouldn't want to be seen with a young woman at least fifteen years his junior?
What sort of a man hit a woman….?
Donna realised that she was walking – almost running – in the direction of her own apartment now, eschewing a taxi, although it was a fair old walk to her place. No, she needed the time to think. Just what had happened back there? Was she angry with him for his assertion that she would want to be his slave, or was she angry because it didn't sound quite so…. terrible?
In fact – and did she dare admit this to herself…. All her life she'd yearned to belong, to be cosseted and looked after, valued, loved. And of course she'd read about bondage, even indulged in some with Michael of course… and yet whole dom/sub thing, she'd decided that side of it didn't appeal so much to her. And yet…. Michael's version of it was obviously his very own.
Ten minutes later and Donna was slamming her own front door behind her, stepping over the letters on the doormat, which had been delivered after she'd left for work that morning, excited then at the prospect of dinner out with Michael after work, accepting his offer to call at his apartment straight from work. She'd known that sex would probably be on the cards, but that was fine – what better way to end a busy day and build up an appetite? But when he'd calmly stood there and told her to strip and kneel before him as his slave…. it was just….
bizarre!
What sort of a man…?
But now Donna had other urgent worries on her mind. She might have been thinking one thing with her conscious, rational mind, but her subconscious mind had been telling her something else and what's more, it had been telling her through her body!
Ignoring her dormant pc in her living room which no doubt would contain many e-mails if she logged on, Donna crashed into her bathroom and tore her jacket off, the last of the buttons
plinking
to the floor, followed in similar fashion by her blouse. She wrenched her trousers down around her ankles with one swift motion and examined her panties, which were saturated. But not with urine. No, this was her own juices, released in a virtual torrent by the slap she'd received, the way Michael had grabbed her, talked to her,
told
her what she wanted to be!
