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What intrigued me was that he knew of my plans for an evening with an old friend! I don’t recall mentioning my dinner date to anyone at work. How he arranged the meeting with his clients at the very same restaurant was another mystery yet to be solved.
At the bottom of the stairs, I turned, peering through the dim light, trying to decide which way to turn. By the sound of clattering dishes and the rich smell of garlic mingled with the aroma of cooking food, it was evident that the restaurant kitchens were in this part of the building. The wait staff obviously used another staircase, because the corridor where I found myself was completely deserted. I moseyed past two open doors as if I belonged there, then stopped in front of a door marked ‘Restroom’. A hundred ‘what ifs’ raced through my brain for some seconds. Leave the door unlocked. It would have been easy for anyone working in the kitchen to walk right in. On a naked woman?
I was losing my nerve. Anxiously jabbing my hand into the pocket of my skirt, I discovered the crumbled note where I stuffed it just before Cassandra arrived back at the table. The horror, the question marks. The risk excited me, but the danger seemed so unnecessary. Why here? Why was it so important for him to require me to put myself in such precarious positions?
I was about to grasp the doorknob before me, when out of nowhere a hand moved out from behind me and covered my eyes.
“I see you’re too chicken to follow through on this one,” the soft voice whispered in my ear.
“I’m afraid,” I whispered back.
“You’ll do as you’re told and trust me. If not, you end the game.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now don’t look back,” he said as he released his grip and pushed me forward.
I moved out of his hands and practically fell through the door, slamming it behind me, and in a classic pose of panic, leaning back against it, as if I’d just locked out the demon chasing me.
He had been there behind me, touching me, his heart beating against my back. We’d never been so close, except for that moment on the 5th floor when he briefly leaned in to me. This time seemed much more intimate and I could still feel him with me, as if I were caught inside his aura, attached by invisible tethers.
‘Do as I was told’ I repeated the instruction several times, trying to remember what I was supposed to do. Putting my mind to the task, I clearly recalled the note. Yes. Undress and lean against the wall.
I stared at the old fashioned bathroom. It was curiously quaint, as if at one time the restroom had been used by the restaurant’s patrons. There was natural dark wood wainscoting about waist high. Above the chair rail that ran along the perimeter of the room the walls were papered in a floral design of large pink and mauve colored roses. The paper was water stained and turning yellow with age, the roses fading with time. The commode was standard issue, and looked to be sturdy and in working order, and the washstand was of the old-fashioned pedestal style. A cabinet against the wall was made of the same dark-stained wood as the wainscoting. Rather than some dirty employee bathroom, I found my surroundings clean, even pleasant, certainly more comforting than what I had imagined finding. My surveillance of the room took just seconds, and it was seconds more disrobing according to the plan. I hung my clothes on a convenient hook—as if all this had been thought of before—then turned out the light and leaned in against the one bare wall.
I admit, the entire scene would have been more profoundly exciting if I’d followed the instructions before my master found me trembling in the corridor. The element of surprise was taken from me when he entered. And yet, the fact of my nakedness in this compromising situation was still amazing, and the heat in my body reflected that fact. By the time my mystery man entered the bathroom, my legs were itchy from the sex juice leaking down my legs. As his hands began to explore my privates, I undulated into them, encouraging the physical inspection. He began fingering my slit, running his hand along the cleft, greasing the back barrier and prodding deeply with his fingers. I gasped, then quietly moaned as he plunged fingers in both holes and fucked me hard. I was certain that he wanted me to come; I’m not sure I could have survived the event without it. For a time, he leaned into my back, with the fucking hand in my crotch and his other reaching around, caressing my breasts. He plucked my nipples between his fingers, pulling until I almost shrieked with pain. I muted my response, keeping my head about me enough to contain the desire to scream with joy. I suspected that the man was already pissed enough at me for my hesitation; I certainly didn’t need to add more scorn from him by telegraphing our scene to world outside the restroom.
I endured the physical torture, realizing the most exquisite sort of relief after he eased up. My climax was only seconds from me. My panting increased, my heart raced faster.
“Sir, please,” I seethed under my breath.
It had never quite hit me to formally ask permission to come, but I didn’t want to break his rule, and I did need to climax.
“Hang on,” he whispered, as he continued the torturous play, squeezing this breast, mauling that ass cheek, diving back into my two sex holes with his fingers.
I gasped, moaned under my breath, said a hundred silent, ‘pleases’ and still hung on. I was at the edge, and then backed off, then was at the edge again. My body seesawed for several minutes until that perfect instant, when he whispered in my ear, “Come.” He knew. He could tell that my flooded senses could take no more.
Ah! Relief rushed through me as the orgasm ripped my insides, tearing at my body. I writhed in his arms to stay on my feet. Then all that passed, and I settled myself weakly against the wall, in the same position that he’d originally required. A moment later, the lights came on.
“Eyes closed,” he reminded me.
Of course, they were closed. I didn’t dare open them.
He rested something thin against my protruding ass. And before I could figure out what it was, he struck my behind with what had to be a bamboo cane. The first cut so surprised me that I shrieked, though the second the cry was out of my mouth, I knew it was a mistake.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered into the thick, hot air. It must have been the heat from the kitchen oozing into the close room—or maybe just our body heat. After that, he rattled off eleven more cuts in a furious cadence. My body reeled with pain, cries threatening, but never voiced. I climbed the wall on tiptoe, as pain rocketed through my body upward. My ass pulled in in self-defense, my muscles clenched as tight as rocks. I learned later that these taut reflexes only make the pain worse. But I had no time to get used to the punishment, no time to relax, no time to anticipate the degree of chastisement my poor bottom received.
The second the caning was over, the lights went out again.
“Next time, you won’t hesitate, will you?” his voice seethed in my ear. I still clutched the wall as though that was some comfort. He had his fingers woven through my hair and was pulling it so tightly that it could feel it stretch the skin around my eyes.
“No, sir,” I quickly answered.
He let go, shoving me forward into the wall.
As abrupt as the two previous times, he was out of the room before I could catch my breath.
I fumbled for the light switch, gladly escaping the dark. Self-preservation made me lock the door immediately, so I’d have a few recuperating moments to myself. I gazed only briefly into the mirror, but was unable to really see the damage from the cane. I did feel punished, though. The ache would be present with me for several days.
