The Cost of Success!

I am a successful businesswoman. Or at least I was, until he came along. I have always prided myself on my intellect, my attention to detail, and my ability to multi-task. I manage a fairly large landscape company, staffed almost entirely by men, and am generally regarded as being tough as nails. At home, it is much the same, as my husband is content to leave household management to me. My children are not quite as easy to intimidate, but nonetheless, I am always in control. Or used to be...

He applied for a job one scorching hot day in July. I was short-staffed, and behind schedule on an installation project, so was probably less selective than I ordinarily would have been. Even so, right away, I knew he was going to be trouble. He sat without asking, appeared totally relaxed, and held my eyes with an intensity that made me feel like I was the one being appraised. His references were impeccable, though, and he certainly gave the appearance of knowing his way around a shovel. He was tall, very tan, and the tight T-shirt and jeans did nothing to disguise his muscular physique. I allowed myself a quick mental debate, weighing my need for labor against my initial reaction to the man. I had an excellent track record at snap character judgments, and serious warning bells were going off here, but I persuaded myself that my personal feelings had nothing to do with his ability to landscape. I told him that he was hired, and shook his hand. Had I not already been a little anxious, the electricity that flowed between our fingers would have done it. The deadline was rapidly approaching, though, so I took him outside and introduced him to the foreman.

Over the next few weeks, I began to think that my fears had been groundless, as Jake rapidly proved himself invaluable. My foreman raved about him, and he did seem to fit in effortlessly. Landscapers are a strange bunch, and on more than one occasion, I had been forced to let people go, simply because the majority of the men refused to work with them. Jake had no such issues, and seemed to be well liked. I was quite busy with new projects, but made it to the job site at least three or four times a week to check on progress. When I did, I always felt his gaze on me, but dismissed it as normal male posturing. Even though I was the boss, I was not immune to the occasional admiring glances at my body, but knew better than to take it personally. His stare, however, was different, and always made me feel as though he could see beneath my clothing. The work was getting done, though, so I chalked it up to an overactive imagination, and went about my business.

The last week in August, the project was finally finished, the client was happy, and the check was in the bank. I had worked everyone to exhaustion, so invited them all for a round of beers at the local pub. Ordinarily, I didn't socialize with the men, but that night I felt like I could make an exception. We went right after work, so we were all in sweaty jeans and T-shirts, but the atmosphere was quite festive. I had a couple of beers on an empty stomach, which went to my head quickly. I was just thinking about leaving when I felt a prickling at the back of my neck, and turned around to meet Jake's insolent leer. Suddenly, I was aware of the super-charged air conditioning in the bar, and the fact that my nipples were hardening. I made my excuses, and beat a hasty retreat to my office, which was within walking distance of the pub.

I had work to do, I always did, but tonight my office was more of an escape, and a place to think. I paced back and forth, wondering what I should do about Jake. Could I really fire such a good worker, just because he made me uncomfortable? And if I was honest with myself, "uncomfortable" really wasn't the right word. He made me feel naked, vulnerable, and completely out of control. None of which were appropriate feelings for an employee to create in an employer. The knock on my door cut through my inner turmoil, and somehow, I knew it was him. I opened the door cautiously, ready to explain that I was busy, but he pushed his way in easily, ignoring my feeble protests. Taking a handful of my hair, he tilted my head back, and his mouth was on mine in a way I hadn't been kissed in a long time. His rough calloused hand found my breasts, and then he released my hair, and grabbing the neck of my T-shirt, ripped it in two as if it were a sheet of paper.

I work out five days a week, and am no stranger to a shovel myself, but my struggles were as nothing to this man. I would have screamed, but at this hour, no one would hear, and he knew it as well as I did. He ripped off my bra as easily as he had my shirt, and bent his head to suck and bite my nipples, holding my wrists effortlessly with one hand. Now clad only in jeans, I began to plead with him, realizing that I was powerless to stop him. His only response was to spin me around, and bend me over my desk, tying my wrists tightly behind my back with the remnants of my shirt. He reached underneath me, unbuckled my belt, and pulled it out of the belt loops with one fluid motion. Then he unzipped my jeans, and yanked them down to my knees. I heard the snick of a knife being opened, and my panties were cut off of me, as well. I heard my belt buckle jingle a split second before the doubled-up belt hit my bare bottom. I screamed, as much out of fear as from the pain, and tried to stand, but he pinned me easily to my desk with one hand, as the other swung the belt again and again.

"Beg me" were the first words he'd spoken since he forced his way into my office. His hands in my hair pulled my face off the desk, and the words were whispered in my ear. Telling him to fuck himself was probably not the smartest response, and he renewed his attack with the belt. Tears of rage and futility ran down my face, but worse, the juices began to flow between my legs as well. As if he could read my mind, he lay down the belt, and slid his fingers knowingly between my legs. "I know what you want, but you've kept me waiting all this time, so now you'll have to beg me for it."

He continued spanking me, but now he used his hand, and after every third or fourth resounding slap, he would stroke my pussy, and chuckle about how wet I was. I wanted so badly to hurt him, or at least make him stop, but that was just my ego. My body betrayed me, and my back began to arch into the blows, and my thighs opened. Finally, the word he'd been waiting for escaped my mouth of its own volition. "Please..."

"Please what, Melissa? You'll have to do better than that." The next slap was harder than ever and on that tender spot where cheek meets thigh.

"Please...stop..."

"I don't think that's what you really want, now is it?" His voice was triumphant, because he knew the answer.

"No..." I whispered, and received another hard slap, in the exact same place.

"You will address me as 'Sir' from now on!"

"No Sir. Don't stop!" There. I had crossed the line, just that easily. And from that step, it was much easier to say "Fuck me, please? Sir?" And with those two short sentences, I was his, and he knew it. He left me tied and bent over the desk, and fucked me long, slow, and hard. With one hand in my hair, he pulled my head back so that he could lean over and bite my ear lobe. The other hand alternated between twisting my nipple viciously, and slapping my already sore bottom. I have never been multi-orgasmic, but I came again and again before he finally let out a low groan and collapsed on top of me.

The rest, as they say, is history. He demanded, and received, a promotion and a raise. He now reports directly to me, and during our private meetings, I am required to kneel and service him at a moment's notice. He still bends me over the desk quite frequently, but now, I have to beg for it first. I would love to be able to say that he video-taped the whole episode, and used it to blackmail me, but I can't. His edge was that he understood me better than anyone ever had, and gave me what I needed desperately. I am in constant fear of being found out, but just like any other addict, will risk anything for my favorite drug -- total submission.