I looked at my watch and tried to ignore the flash of irritation which accompanied the realisation that she was already ten minutes late. Helena always played this game: she liked to push my buttons, and in fact the more she learned about the things that annoyed me, the more she seemed to enjoy exploiting that knowledge. I’d have taken greater offence if she had reserved such treatment for me alone, but from what I’d observed, it fit a general pattern of insouciant disregard for the preferences and priorities of the people with whom she surrounded herself; she got away with it only because she also knew how and when to flick a switch and make you feel like you were the centre of her universe.
Fifteen minutes. I knew that she would have no problem getting past the security guard on the ground floor of our building; we’d been meeting like this for a couple of months, and anyway, Helena carried herself with the sort of authoritative air to which most people instinctively defer. She wouldn’t call – she disliked talking on the phone, as it denied her the opportunity to control the conversation with her eyes and her body – but I always knew when she’d arrived, as a text would invariably summon me to come downstairs and satisfy her.
My foot tapped out an impatient rhythm under the desk, as I debated whether or not to go and check the bathroom. The pragmatist in me worried that maybe her mobile battery had died, and that she’d leave if I didn’t come; on the other hand, I’d always waited for her message before leaving the office, and I knew how infuriating it would be to see the sly upward curl of her lips if she walked in to find that I’d broken that habit.
And it was at that point, with the lingering image of her self-satisfied smirk, that something inside me snapped. I pushed myself up from my chair and walked toward the door to the stairwell, taking the thick plastic ruler from my desk with me. I knew then that we’d been building up to this moment; that she’d wanted to see how far she could take things before I gave her the punishment she’d told me she enjoyed. It had startled me the first time she breathed that into my ear, her arms wrapped loosely around my neck as we sat in the pub by the river. “I like to be hurt”, she whispered, softly enough that I wasn’t sure I’d heard her properly. “I like to be used. To be turned into your whore.”
I thought about those words as I jogged down the stairs. Her skin had been warm against mine as she said them, and the heat had raised a matching, prickly flush on my chest and down between my legs; until she’d broken the spell by smiling at me, all teeth and dimples, and nipping playfully at my earlobe. Now though, the heat was back, and I gripped the ruler hard, till the sharp edge dug deep into the palm of my hand. I tucked it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, and flexed my fingers, feeling the blood tingle through them.
The first floor of our building had been completely unoccupied since a small start-up had gone bust a couple of months after moving in there. Helena worked nights at a bar in the city, so had taken to visiting me during the daytime, whenever she was bored or in need of my cock. The first few times, we’d locked ourselves away in the disabled toilet, but we soon discovered that she took particular pleasure from being fucked in the men’s bathroom, with its high, gleaming walls for her moans to echo around. It was that door which I pushed open, having negotiated the three flights of stairs down from my office.
I half-expected to find the room empty, and I cursed myself when I saw her delight at the look of surprise on my face. Helena was leaning back against the wash counter, her skirt short enough that the bottom of the marble pressed against the bare skin on the back of her thighs. She’d already stripped down to her bra, which I was certain had been carefully selected to match her skirt and shoes – Helena left very little to chance, and she was well aware not only of the impact that her body had on men, but of how best to maximise and exploit that impact. As I walked into the room, she remained against the counter, waiting for me to reach her.
“God, I thought you’d never show up”, she said. I looked at her, trying to meet her gaze while keeping my own intentions from showing in my eyes. She reached out a hand and pressed it against the front of my suit trousers. “Mm good, you’re hard already. I really need to be fucked.”
I let her brush her fingers up over my cock, then watched as she turned to face the counter, her ass thrust back toward me. Slowly I lifted her skirt, and curled a finger down under the waistband of the simple cotton panties she was so fond of wearing. I gave them a sharp tug, pulling upward so she could feel them tight against her cunt. I held them there for a few seconds, and gently pushed one of the knuckles of my other hand down between her legs, noting with approval how wet the soft material was. She shifted her feet, moving them further apart so she could sink down onto my hand and increase the pressure on her cunt, but I eased her back up again. She half-turned her head to look at me, quizzically, and I leaned in close, my lips seeking the exposed skin down behind her ear.
“No Helena, not today. Today you’re going to find out what happens to dirty little sluts who don’t give a fuck about other people. Dirty little sluts who think they know what it’s like to be used. Understood?”
I twisted her hair between my fingers and turned her head back to face the mirror. I thought I saw a half-smile flicker across her lips, but when she dipped her chin down in a quick nod of assent her eyes were wide, and as I slid the ruler out of my jacket pocket, her breathing seemed to stop for a second, before resuming with one long, ragged sigh.
To be continued…