Miss Phillips Takes Dictation 01

She came up the stairs on nervous high heels, her overnight bag full of what he'd instructed her to pack. In her hand she clutched her transcription of his voice mail which she had typed while sitting in a steno chair, wearing a tight black skirt, a starched white blouse, and a black push-up bra and lace panties. Just as she was wearing now under the outer clothing he had instructed – her most conservative business suit covering her most daring lingerie. She recited the text of the message as she had initially read it, and as he and told her to memorize it, listening to his voice, powerful and gentle and firm. Her lips now caressed the words as he had taught her to do.

"Writer seeks secretary he will mentor in creative writing/publishing.

"Sexy, creative, mature, occasionally brilliant, dominant writer is seeking a submissive curious secretary who has reached the point in her life when she is ready to explore her need to take dictation . . . and occasionally be disciplined in a mutually satisfying way. You have organizational skills, you are attracted to writers and you've always wanted to write.

You're attractive, sexy, single, divorced or separated, literate and articulate, and have deep memories or fantasies that maybe you believe you shouldn't have, but you feel the need to explore in a safe environment. . .

For the interview, you'll find yourself naked and draped across my lap, open, vulnerable and exposed as I ask you intimate and probing questions about your earliest sexual experiences and wildest fantasies with bare bottom encouragement.

I'm in my mid-fifties, neither built like Arnold nor hung like Northern Dancer, a wild imagination, a commanding voice and a powerful sex drive. I write much more than erotica and I self-publish -- where your secretarial assistance is required. I'll nurture your writing with encouragement, informed editing, a gentle voice, surprising suggestions, practical advice and a fun, firm hand.

If you find yourself aroused at this point, even though you've never done anything like this before -- perhaps because you've never done anything like this before -- please submit. If we click, this is a long term position. If not, we'll had a fun, creative night, exploring -- and you've had a writing lesson.

Photo and pertinent resume gets courteous response.

"Good evening, Miss Phillips." Warm, welcoming smile; rumbling and sophisticated baritone, iron in velvet. The piercing blue eyes seemed to be bending her over and inspecting her.

She shuddered and it was like a wet dog shaking itself; she actually felt a drop of moisture fly from her pussy, past the skimpy fabric of her panties, to splash, warm and embarrassing against the bare skin of her inner thighs, above the suspender belt he had instructed she wear.

"Come through," he said and lead through a bachelor's kitchen into a library where book shelves and filing cabinets towered like escalating ideas and where a black steno chair faced a black desk chair leaning against a large desk.

He stopped her in front a full length mirror, taking and setting her overnight bag on a table.

He had told her in their discussions -- still it took her breath away when it happened -- he would strip her at the beginning of the interview.

He spun her round as if she were younger, about to be undressed for bed. His expression calm, unhurried. Her face was red and flushed, her breathing best described as panting.

He quietly undid each of the buttons on her starched white blouse. He pulled it open roughly, then turned her toward the mirror while he took the blouse down and put it on a hanger.

(They had some comedy there because it wouldn't stay on the hanger and she had to suppress her giggles, half suspecting he was doing it to relax her. He casually enjoyed the moment with her then his went instantly stern again.)

He turned to the mirror and removed her push-up bra, tossing it aside. His hands tickled her nipples as if they young buds. Her blush covered her face and her breasts. Her nipples jutted, accusing her, betraying her arousal. He tweaked them and she moaned.

She remembered a flash of their online interview.

How do you feel?

Embarrassed and aroused.

They so often come together for you.

Yes, she said, wondering how he knew. She had told him little about herself then.

They both stared in the mirror now at her body, and into each other's eyes. Man and Woman, Dom and sub, their eyes discussing trust, dares and needs.

He ripped her skirt off. She stood there like a panting animal in her black suspender belt as his hand slowly reached for the elastics of her panties. In an agonizingly slow and humiliatingly revealing motion he pulled them down -- exposing the tips of her glistening lips.

The room was full of the pungent aroma of her need. She stood in garter belt, stockings and heels, in front of the mirror, reciting the message he had told her to memorize like a mantra. He threw her panties away.

He inhaled and spoke in her ear, his voice: rough silk.

"That's a lovely perfume you're wearing, Miss Phillips. A man could get used to having that around his office. Pleased be seated."

She walked, more or less naked to the chair, crossed her legs. He smiled. Almost hyperventilating she uncrossed them and left them only slightly parted.

"Now, Miss Phillips," he said amiably. "Tell me why you want to be my secretary."

"Oh, God," she gulped. "Well I've always attracted to creative men and dominant men and I'm a good secretary, and I like to read, and your ad made me so wet and made me think about things that happened a long time ago but I'm turned on by them and confused about them, and you seemed to understand and I think you're a really good writer, I mean, just from your ad, I mean I'm sure you write more than singles ads, much more, and I really think I'd like dictation from you. Oh God, I can't believe I'm doing this. I've never done anything like this before. I'm babbling. Please stop me."

His smile widened as she spoke, "I thought you put that rather well."

"I always wanted to write," she blurted, shocked herself that she'd said it even of course he knew it.

"You do write. All the time," he said, "e-mails, memos, letters."

"But it's not creative writing."

"More creative than you think. Do you sometimes struggle to find the right word?"

"Yes. It proves I don't have a very good vocabulary," she smiled.

He smiled back at her, "Proves you care enough about words to wait for the right one to arrive."

"I hope so," she nodded, thinking the interview was going rather well. Although she'd never done one half-naked before . . .

"Do you have ideas for stories?"

"Lots of them, but I can never get started."

"If I told you your literary house was burning down and you could only save one story idea, what would it be?"

"It's about Regency London, but I don't know enough about the period."

"Google it later. In the meantime write a letter to a friend."

"I beg your pardon."

He smiled.

"And you beg so prettily."

He enjoyed the blush that spread over her body as he continued.

"You know her, your heroine – she's mostly you -- have her write a letter to a friend about her day. Make sure there's a shopping trip involved. You might find you know more about the era than you think."

She smiled. "Yes, sir."

"Perks of the job if you get it," he smiled. "Call this one a freebie. Send it to me by next week. I look forward to seeing it."

He talked about his work. Her laughter pleased him.

He detailed his decision to e-publish, both erotic and non-erotic. "I'm old school, I'm looking for a secretary who will not only take dictation but organize aspects of the publishing, web presence, social media, etc. At some points, especially with travel, she'll also have to organize me, I'm afraid."

He smiled, reached out and gently but quite firmly plumped her nipples together, once, twice -- the third time hurt just a bit, but exquisitely. His fingers owned her.

He waited until she had recovered her breath and then continued calmly, talking about financial and other matters, all of which seemed more than reasonable to her if unorthodox.

"She will also help research my first erotic novel, taking dictation collared and naked."

She gulped, struggled to take it all in and blurted out the first question free from the log jam in her brain.

"What is your first erotic novel called?"

He told her.

"What's it about?"

"About two hundred pages, I guess. How's your typing?"

"It's good. Um, what kind of research?"

"We'll need to discover exactly what the central character feels about her adventures. These would be some of your first writing assignments."

"So I'd be, like, a fictional character in the story?"

"Not any more."

"I beg your pardon."

"And you still beg and blush very sweetly, it covers your body like fine burgundy. You'd be a fictional character based on you."

"How would that be different?"

"To begin with, you'd have a different name."

"What name did you have in mind?"

"Miss Phillips."

"Well, it's certainly nothing like my own name. Physical description?"

"Different and pretty vague anyway."

"And will I be in all of the adventures? Will we act all of them out?"

She flashed on some of the adventures she had already had in the pre-interview phase. The day he'd told her to wear her most daring panties to work under her business attire. It embarrassed her how much it aroused her to follow his order, to be secretly exposed -- a secret she suspected some of her co-workers might have been very interested to learn.

And then when he'd told her at noon to strip the panties off in the office washroom and put them in her purse she admitted to him by text that there was a very wet spot in the gusset of her lingerie.

She walked to her desk with the lips of her vulva and the pucker between her cheeks exposed to the open air that flowed up capriciously under her skirt. She prayed she was not giving off a scent.

She was very proud of his comment when he read the diary she had been instructed to keep: "I could almost feel and hear your panting."

"Only some of them. Writing is usually a combination of what we've experienced and what we've imagined. Much of the time I'll be dictating stories about other characters. But you'd be a submissive sweetheart, a girlhood dream of a literary heroine, an erotic Jane Eyre. . . People will say it makes Fifty Shades of Grey look like an anatomy lesson."

She laughed.

"Makes the Kama Sutra look like a game of Twister."

She was still laughing.

"Makes the Story of O look like buying a consonant."

Her breasts wobbled as she laughed now.

His voice was the sudden, full, snap of a bullwhip.

"Stand up, please, Miss Phillips."

She stood, almost toppling over in her haste.

"Walk over here." He lifted her by her elbow and walked back to the mirror as a fresh blush covered her cheeks and breasts.

"Miss Phillips . . ." he began.

"Yes, sir."

"Men have used dungeons to dominate, whips, chains, clamps, bondage," each word caressing and rumbling in her inner ear . . .

Your ear is your most virginal opening, he had told her. A man has never taken you there, penetrated you there, taken you in the theatre of your mind where you dance naked in your hunger, exposed and yearning.

"I will use one finger, Miss Phillips."

He casually braced his index finger against his thumb, held it next to her nipple and FLICKED.

She emitted a confused gust of shock, pain and pleasure -- feeling herself on the very rim of orgasm.

"How does that make you feel, Miss Phillips?"

She panted, the room full of her arousal. Her personal scent: Bordello.

She had arrived immaculately coiffed. She was now disheveled and in heat.

She took a deep breath and gave up holding anything back.

"I'm so wet, Master," she blurted, using the word to address him although he had never demanded it.

He smiled at her fondly. "You please me," he said.

He flicked her other nipple.

"You realize that I am going to dominate you."

He began to flick around the soft flesh of her breasts.

"Yes, Master."

"How does that make you feel?"

He lightly flicked her on the edge of each nostril.

"So turned on, Master."

"Open your mouth." He flicked her tongue.

"You've wanted to be dominated for such a long time, haven't you Miss Phillips?"

"Yes, Master."

"Have you ever called a man, Master, before Miss Phillips?"

"Never!"

"Yet you have chosen to do so. Squat, please."

"Yes, Master."

"Open your legs, show me how wet you are."

He began flicking the inside of her thighs advancing with agonizing slowness up from the knees.

"Why?"

"Why?" she panted.

"Why have you chosen to call me Master?"

She struggled through the confusion of her lust.

"Because it seems right, Master," she breathed.

"Do you like the taste of the word in your mouth?"

"Yes, Master."

"Say it again and taste the word."

"Yes, Master." She ran her tongue in hungry sensuality around the inside of her mouth and over her lips, feeling like an animal.

"It tastes like my cum after I have rough fucked your throat."

She whimpered. He flicked her clit.

She came in long heaving sighs, rippling ecstasy.

"Turn around and bend over please," Miss Phillips.

It felt so humiliating and so right.

She turned her head and could see her panting face and heaving breasts in the mirror. She felt herself licking her lips as if her arousal was something she could taste on her own body.

"Spread your cheeks please."

She reached back -- powerfully aroused at the moment of her deepest humiliation.

She spread her buttocks slowly, not teasingly but as if she they were reluctantly giving up the sight of her secret virgin treasure.

Devastatingly lightly, in exquisite slow motion, he flicked the rim of her anus and almost as if by accident his forefinger gently penetrated her puckered opening.

Her arousal had caused her every orifice to sweat and she cooed just a bit as he rested his finger tip there and moved it so slowly it like a pulse.

She moaned.

"Turn your head and look in the mirror please Miss Phillips. What do you see?"

"Oh, god, a very horny woman, Master."

"Well, why didn't you say so!?" he asked in mock surprise.

He spanked her bottom playfully as he stood up. He opened the door.

"We'll continue the interview in the Master Bedroom. Please enter on all fours."

He stopped her with his hand on her elbow. "The bed is close to the door. You can get on all fours once you get onto it."

"Thank you, Master."

He inhaled sensuously.

"That really is lovely perfume you're wearing tonight, Miss Phillips."

To be continued . . .