Take It, Pt. 05

He almost didn't notice the box. It was plain--black matte, no label. Tucked in with his interoffice mail like it belonged there. The red tissue paper gave it away. A signature, of sorts. He locked his office door before opening it.

Inside, nestled like a threat dressed as a gift, was a cock ring. Smooth black silicone. Two rings. One for his cock and one for his balls. Sleek. Flexible. And the pad at the base was clearly remote-controlled.

Beneath it: a folded piece of heavy cardstock, her handwriting sharp and deliberate.

You'll wear it for the rest of the day.

You'll think of me every time you shift in your chair. Every time you want. Every time you don't.

I'll know if you take it off.

Yes, it's remote-controlled.

No, you don't get to ask when.

Do your job.

Don't come.

You come when I say you can.

--Mistress Juliet

His hands shook. He was already hard. He slid off his chair, checked the lock again, then unzipped. The air felt sharp against his skin. Everything in him buzzed.

He eased it on, slow and careful. First the large ring around his balls and the smaller one tight around the base of his cock. The pressure was immediate. Firm. Present. Her.

By the time he sat back down, he was sweating. His computer pinged.

CONF ROOM 3 -- Simmons brief. Witness is here. 10 minutes.

His mouth went dry. He adjusted himself and stood, every movement now mapped against the silent pulse between his legs. He smoothed his suit. Picked up the filewand walked out the door.

Every step whispered the same truth:

She owns you.

And she's watching.

The witness was sweating. So was he, but for entirely different reasons.

He sat at the head of the conference table, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, Simmons file open in front of him. Across from him, opposing counsel shifted uncomfortably. The court reporter's fingers tapped keys in steady bursts.

He kept his eyes on the witness.

"You said in your statement that you didn't review the contract until after signing. Is that correct?"

The witness stammered, eyes darting to his attorney. He waited, calm on the outside. Calculated. In control. And then it happened. The ring activated--low hum, sharp pulse. Stealing the breath straight out of his lungs.

He gripped his pen tighter. Didn't move. Didn't twitch. Just inhaled through his nose and forced his face into neutrality.

Oh, fuck.

She was watching. Or guessing. Or both.

A second pulse. Longer this time.

He cleared his throat. Adjusted his posture.

"Yes or no?" he asked the witness, voice perfectly even. But his thighs had tensed. His jaw clenched. His cock strained against the ring. The court reporter didn't even glance up.

Another pulse. Then a pause.

He risked a glance at his phone screen, tucked next to his legal pad. One new message.

You're doing so well. Don't come.

He exhaled through his teeth. Closed his eyes for half a second. Reset.

"Yes or no?" he repeated, opening the next page of the brief with a hand that barely trembled.

The ring stayed on. Buzzed again. A higher setting. He didn't let it show. Not in his face. Not in his voice. Not in the room. But inside? She was unraveling him. And he loved her for it.

He finished the deposition and the second the court reporter closed her laptop, his phone vibrated.

Bathroom around the corner. Five minutes. Don't make me wait.

He didn't reply. He didn't need to. He gathered the Simmons file, thanked the court reporter, exchanged a few clipped pleasantries with opposing counsel. His voice was steady. His hands, not quite.

By the time he made it to the private restroom on the executive floor, his pulse was already hammering. She was inside. Leaning against the counter, arms folded, expression unreadable. Her auburn hair was pinned up. Dark-framed glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, giving her an edge of academic detachment that made his knees weak. She was wearing a trench coat cinched at the waist, but he could see the edges of what she wore beneath it: a black pencil skirt that hugged the curve of her hips, black tights, and sharp black heels that made her just tall enough to look down at him without trying.

He closed the door behind him and locked it.

She didn't speak. Just looked him over--eyes moving from his flushed face to the slight, visible strain in his tailored pants. Then she stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Did you take it off?" she asked.

"No, Mistress."

"Let me see."

His hands moved instantly. Belt. Button. Zipper. He opened himself to her. Laid bare his obedience. She stepped in closer.

Her hand slid into his pants--skin on skin--and wrapped around him. The first time she touched his cock. He gasped--deep, guttural, involuntary.

She was so calm. So devastatingly calm. And he was trying not to burst at this first. This almost tender touch of her hand.

"Still wearing it," she murmured, fingers tightening. "Good boy."

He gritted his teeth, thighs trembling beneath her touch. She moved her hand slowly, not stroking--possessing.

"You kept it on all day?" she asked, her thumb brushing the sensitive spot just below the ring.

"Yes, Mistress."

"You didn't come?"

"No, Mistress. I--I almost--"

"But you didn't."

"No."

She smiled. The kind of smile that promised both mercy and more torment.

"You may not come," she said. "Not here. Not yet. I just wanted to see if you'd earned the right to be touched."

Her hand stayed a second longer. Warm. Certain. Then she withdrew it. Refastened his pants herself, slow and precise.

"You're dismissed," she said.

And just before she opened the door, she looked back over her shoulder.

"Next time, I won't stop."