One Hour with Sir Ch. 02

The first chapter is short (only one Lit page) and well worth reading before this chapter, though this chapter can be read as a standalone story. We delve deeper into Cat's relationship with Sir and learn more about Cat's desire for submission and her jealousy of the other sluts in His orbit.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.

Midtown Manhattan, West 40 ^th Street

Friday, 10:30 a.m.

"What the fuck's the hold-up Marie?" I shouted to my executive assistant. Marie was a young one, barely twenty-three, and a recent graduate of Brown. Like many in our law firm she was cute, young and ambitious. She wanted to go to law school, but after seeing how many hours I spent in the office I was sure she was having second thoughts about her career choice.

Marie scurried into my office holding a stack of papers with irritation on her face. She was a brunette, petite, with a curvy body and a spunky disposition.

"Klemmer was monopolizing the copy machine for the Butterworth deal," she complained as she balanced the stack on the corner of my paper-laden desk. She picked up takeout containers from last night's dinner to make more room for them.

"Did you go home last night Cat?" Marie asked me as she tidied up my desk.

"For an hour. Enough time to shower and change," I said, continuing to read while I was talking.

I paused for a moment and waved the document I was working on in front of me.

"We need to file this motion by one," I told her.

"Of course," she said with her usual air of confidence. "I have our usual service on alert to deliver it. It has to be delivered to them by noon to file it on time," she reminded me, although I already knew.

"Good. I'm going to take one last look."

I had my senior associate, Trent Manion, a sixth year from Columbia, manage the production of our responsive pleading. We had a copyright suit filed against a major software company, and were responding to their request for dismissal. Trent was an ambitious motherfucker. Definitely on a partner track at our firm. Good looking kid. Just turned thirty. Sandy blonde hair. Nice build. Dating one of the paralegal in the trusts and estates department, though his eye was also on my assistant Marie. He didn't know that Marie was gay. I wondered why I knew all this and why I cared. I was more than ten years older than him and too busy to date. Sometimes you just can't turn it off.

"Shut the door Marie," I told her. She was on her way out carrying out a file box full of papers headed for the shredder. She pulled the door shut with her foot.

I took a half hour to review the pleading. It was flawless. Trent made all the changes I requested. I signed the original and called Marie to pick it up. Then I called Trent to come to my office.

Moments later he knocked on the door of my corner office and entered.

"Everything OK? he asked me. He forehead was furrowed, which meant he was worried. That was good. He had to want perfection.

"More than OK," I said. "It's perfect."

I noticed he was staring at my blouse.

"Like what you see?"

"Excuse me?"

I looked down.

"Oh no . . . I wasn't . . ." he said, flustered.

"You were . . . I guess I should be flattered," I said. My breasts were worth a second look.

His face was contrite. "I'm so sorry . . ."

"Forget about it. You did a nice job on the pleading. Keep up the good work."

"Thank you," he said, relieved. " . . . and about that other thing . . .".

"Forget it," I said again. "Sometimes it's nice to be noticed."

"Notice what?" Marie asked, coming back into my office.

"Nothing," I said, handing her the signed pleading. She left with it.

Trent gave me an amused look, knowing his little peek was between the two of us. I winked at him. He left and shut the door softly behind him.

* * *

With the pleading finished, I had a zillion phone calls to return and e-mails to respond to. The day flew by and before I knew it day had turned into night. I looked at my phone. It was already 8 p.m. Only two hours until I was to be with Sir. I felt a sudden panic. I wasn't ready and I needed to be. My one hour with Sir was my lifeline . . . my emotional connection with someone who cared for me . . . who understood me. The real me.

My business self, a partner at a Midtown Manhattan law firm, was a façade carefully constructed over the past twenty years. I was forty-two and unmarried. I'd never been married and my prospects for doing so were bleak. I spent so much time in the office I barely had time to manage a one hour a week relationship with Sir. I told myself I needed to pay more attention to my emotional needs and less time at work. I already had more money than I needed for three lifetimes. I continually questioned my unrelenting drive for success, though those questions did nothing to slow me down.

I had Marie arrange for my usual car service to take me to my apartment and then to wait for me as I readied for my session with Sir. My pulse quickened as our appointed time at 10 p.m. came closer. I closed out my daily timesheet and shut off my computer. The screens on my dual monitors went dark, and my mind went instantly to Sir's apartment, a brownstone on the Upper East Side, that was my safe place and my haven for intimacy and the free expression of my inner desires. At work, I had to control my emotions. At Sir's apartment I could be my true self.

I packed my briefcase and went down the forty-two stories in an express elevator to the marble and glass lobby of my high rise, a behemoth safely nestled in a concrete forest of tall buildings. I could see through the lobby's glass walls an exhaust plume from my black car that was idling outside. I went through one of the revolving doors and waved to the driver, who I recognized as Norman, my regular guy. He politely waved back and opened the back passenger door. He was in a black uniform with a chauffeur's cap on.

"Good evening Miss Martin-DuPont," he said as I slipped into the back seat. The smell of leather reminded me of Sir . . . and His playroom. I ran my hand across the smooth, cool leather and thought about the collar that He would soon fasten around my neck, my symbol of obedience to Him. I craved that feeling. The car slipped through the light late evening traffic, making its way to my apartment not more than ten minutes away on the Upper West Side.

My mind wandered off as I stared out the tinted window. I rolled it down and let the cool night air wash over my face. I watched the horse driven carriages roll down the side of the street, carrying young lovers, and seeing them triggered thoughts about my series of failed relationships. My last one was with Reginald "Reggie" Jameson III, a corporate transactions partner in my firm, who happened to be married to his second wife Hadley Jackson-Speers, the daughter of Danielle Jackson-Speers, the founder of an international cosmetics company. Hadley had all the money in the world and there was no chance of him ever leaving her.

I knew from the beginning that my affair with Reggie was a mistake, but his larger than life personality was an unnatural attraction for me, and at that time I didn't know the full extent of my submissive tendencies. Although Reggie was a cad, and never intended to leave his wife, I carried on with him for over a year, and it was common knowledge in the firm that the two of us were having what we thought was a clandestine affair. It was only when Marie brought to me the fact that everyone in the firm knew of our affair that I called it off one tearful night before what Reggie thought was going to be another torrid fuck session.

He was a great lover, and was the first to scrape the surface of the inner darkness that had always been inside me. For so many years I had men who were cowed by my brash personality, and sex for them was always a deferential act. Not for Reggie. He was rough with me, not always in a nice way, but it was my first taste of the surrender of control, and I found that sensation to be intoxicating. We experimented a bit with light bondage (mostly ropes, but later handcuffs as well) and my kinky streak came out in the open.

But then public knowledge of our affair ended it at exactly the wrong moment. I was left with a pit in my stomach . . . an ache. I knew there was more. I just didn't know exactly what I wanted, I just knew there was something else out there for me.

It was Marie who sent me on a different path. It began one night, shortly after my break-up with Reggie, when I was crying in my office late at night. I thought I was alone, but Marie happened to be working late that night, and when she saw me with reddened eyes she insisted on taking me out for a drink at a nearby bar. It was over the course of many drinks that she extracted the truth. After three Manhattans, I finally shared the true source of my angst, which was not the loss of Reggie, but my realization that I had deviant desires for which I had no outlet. The alcohol emboldened me to reveal my secret obsession for bondage and the surrender of control. Surprisingly, Marie had experimented with D/s, and through a friend gave me the name of a club/bar that catered to persons who shared my proclivities.

The club was innocuously named "The Leading Edge," a wood paneled members only establishment with no identifying marks on its modest frontage in the East Village. Attendees had to be sponsored to enter. Marie's friend Gillian shared my interest in submission, but as a lesbian she was pledged to a Domme. She brought me to the club one evening for one of their monthly mixers, but soon drifted off to talk with friends. I was left on my own, drink in hand, when a tall handsome man came up to me from across the room.

"I haven't seen you here before," he said to me. I'd met a million guys in a situation like this, in a bar or party, but no one had the immediate effect on me like he did. I couldn't divert my eyes from him.

"No," I said. "It's my first time here."

"Who's your sponsor?" he asked.

"Gillian," I said, pointing to her across the room.

He flashed a disarming smile. "I didn't take you for a lesbian," he said matter of factly.

"I'm not," I said. "She's just a friend."

"So you're heterosexual," he said, without an ounce of self-consciousness.

"I think so," I said, reserving my options. I'd never had sex with a woman, but I wasn't going to rule it out. He was quick to spot my indecisiveness.

"You an attorney?" he asked.

"How did you guess?" I asked.

"It was a lawyer's answer. Responsive, yet vague."

I laughed. "You know me so well," I said, kidding.

"More than you know," he said, not kidding.

"How so?" I asked.

He inched closer to me and spoke to me in a softer voice, even though others around us weren't really paying attention to our discussion.

"You want to be on your knees right now, offering yourself to me," he said plainly.

"Excuse me?" I asked, not being used to such forwardness, even though he was spot on. I would have done so if he would have told me to do it right then and there.

"You heard me. I can see it in your eyes and in your body language. It's obvious to everyone in this room."

I had no idea of what I was projecting to the others. Maybe he was right. He wasn't self-conscious but I was.

"What if I said that I was greatly insulted by your comment?" I asked, thinking I was defending my honor and forgetting for a moment where I was.

He chuckled. "I'd say you're lying to me. Tell me I'm not right."

Again, his imposing presence tongue tied me.

There was a gleam in his eyes. "Nothing kitten?" he asked me. The term of endearment was so personal this soon in our acquaintance, but it subtly set the tone for our relationship.

"Actually my name is Cat," I told him.

"Ah, Cat . . . but to me you look like a lost kitten. You're looking for something, aren't you?" he asked. "Otherwise you wouldn't be in a place like this holding a drink when you don't know anyone except your lesbian friend, who has by the way found other interests." He pointed to Gillian, who was kissing a woman in the corner of the room.

"I don't even know your name," I protested.

,

"My name is Anders Jørgensen, but my friends call me Andy."

Then he gripped my forearm with his strong left hand and leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

"Right now you want to be kneeling while I hold your hands behind your back and give you a proper fucking. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asked me. He wasn't asking me a question. He was reading my mind.

I looked at him blankly. No one had spoken to me like that before, yet every word he said was true. How was I to respond? I responded with the truth.

"Yes," I said, weakly.

He gave me his card with his address and phone number. "Be at my place on Friday, at 10 p.m., sharp."

Dazed, I took his card. I remembered nothing else about that evening, not even how I got home.

And that's how I met Sir last year. I've visited him every Friday since we first met.

* * *

When my car arrived at my apartment building, the doorman, Charles, was there to greet me wearing his usual waist coat bearing the crest of the building and white gloves. He was probably in his late 40's, an attractive man with thinning dark hair. His growing waistline made his jacket about a size too small.

"Good evening Miss Catherine," he said to me, opening the door. I could feel his eyes follow me as I walked by. As I told Trent, it was good to be noticed.

The elevator whisked me to a two bedroom flat located on the 30^th floor, with a panoramic view of Central Park. I pushed a button and the apartment was flooded with light. The place had been cleaned while I was away, and nothing was out of place. White leather sofa, chrome and glass coffee table with neatly arranged magazines on it, and colorful freshly cut flowers gracing the entranceway. A temperature controlled four hundred bottle wine cellar was situated behind a floor to ceiling glass wall in the formal dining room.

It was an absolutely gorgeous apartment and I couldn't remember the last time I had a guest visit me there.

I stopped in the galley kitchen, opening the Sub-Zero and pulling out a Perrier. I shied away from the open bottle of white wine, my usual after work drink, so that the alcohol wouldn't dull my senses. The refrigerator was a reflection of my life, cold and empty. Aside from the bottled water and condiments, there was nary a piece of fruit or a hint of a vegetable in it. My usual modus was to have take-out in the office.

I twisted the cap off the water and stood by the window, looking at the headlights of the cars far below and the street lamps illuminating the winding walkways in Central Park. I admired the people bustling about below, finding purpose in their lives. My purpose was singular, to please Sir.

I took a long hot shower, being careful to shave everywhere, and wash my hair. No scented soaps. No perfume.

I looked in the mirror. The three times a week sessions with my trainer seemed to have held off the creep of middle age. My muscles were still toned and there wasn't a hint of fat on my belly though I went up a cup size and got a bit curvier with the passage of time. I fingered the small, gold hoops that went through each nipple, a gift I received last year from Sir, which reminded me of my obedience to Him. An infinity symbol tattooed on my left ankle was a pledge that my fealty to Him was forever.

"Get your mind straight Cat," I told myself. Clarity of thought, especially when pain was administered to me, was at a premium. Sir would try to turn my head around and I had to do my best not to.

* * *

Norman came back to pick me up at my apartment at 9:30 for the crosstown trip to Sir's brownstone on the Upper East Side. We got there ten minutes early, so we sat in the car until a minute before my scheduled arrival time.

"Any plans for the weekend Miss?" Norman asked me while we were waiting. I wondered if he knew what I did when I was at Sir's. He'd been taking me there for over a year, and had never asked me a question about what I was doing there. His discretion was appreciated.

"No, Norman, I'll probably go to the office."

He nodded. "You sure are busy. I don't know how you do it ma'am."

"If I knew I'd tell you. As far as I know, it's lots of coffee."

My phone ticked over to exactly 9:59 p.m. I got out of the car and knocked on Sir's front door at precisely 10:00 p.m.

* * *

Upper East Side, E. 84 ^th Street

Friday, 10:00 p.m.

The same waifish blonde I saw the previous week opened the front door. She was wearing a white silk robe and slippers. The robe was tied only at the waist so there was no avoiding seeing her modest cleavage between the lapels of the robe. She was twenty-five, tops, and she made me feel old. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Norman watching us intently. He tipped his hand to his cap and nodded before he headed off. If he didn't know before, he would know now what I was doing every Friday night.

But that concern seemed trivial. I wondered if Sir was going to make me compete for His affection. Was this young slender blonde His shiny new plaything? Usually when He had a guest I'd only see her once. This was her second appearance and He trusted her to answer the door. She was a sexy little thing, and I'll confess it wasn't a chore to have sex with her the last time I visited Sir. I could see why Sir invited her back again but that did nothing to quell my budding jealousy.

I reminded myself that I was His constant. I was His North Star. I'd been with Him every Friday for the past year. He gave me the gold hoops I wore in my pierced nipples and He watched as I received the infinity tattoo on my ankle. He had a custom collar made for me, a black leather collar studded with small diamonds that I wore proudly as His slut. Was I reading too much into this? Or was I about to be tossed over for this comely blonde?

I was a put together attorney, calm and collected, but in Sir's presence my persona changed. I was a wanton slut, but I also raged with other emotions, the powerful of which was jealousy. The blonde slut made me feel jealous and threatened. Was she was going to take Sir from me?

We both stood in the hallway outside the playroom, undressing. After we undressed, we put our clothes in cloth lined wicker baskets sitting on a bench. My bin had my initials embroidered in the white cloth basket liner. Her liner had no markings on it. We stood side by side waiting to be let into the playroom. Sometimes He would let me in right away and sometimes I waited for ten or fifteen minutes, stewing in my own juices. It was one of His ways of playing with my emotions. The ornate antique clock on his Louis XVI console table said 10:04. That meant I'd already lost four blissful minutes with Sir.

The blonde slut stood next to me, eyes straight ahead towards the closed door, as she was trained. My eyes wandered to the side, appraising her body. She had small breasts, but breast size didn't seem important to Sir (though mine were much larger than hers). It was the sensitivity of the nipples. He could make me cum through nipple stimulation only, and that seemed to delight Him when He teased me with nipple clamps. Her nipples were pink, as opposed to my brown. Her pink nipples looked attractive when her natural blonde hair was worn in front of her shoulders. She kept a small patch of hair above her vagina, the rest of the area around her labia shaved clean. Sir usually asked his subs to be shaved completely, so He must have enjoyed seeing her light blonde pubic hair. The exception He made for her irked me.