Planned Over
Fall into her devious schemes. Femdom Erotica. Episode X0.5
Sean was sitting in his cubicle at work and eating a messy sandwich when she called. It was from a place on Burbank near the freeway that used an oily pickle relish as a core component. Nevertheless, it was beyond delicious despite that extra degree of difficulty, and when the office ordered from there, he never hesitated to jump on. But that left him hunched over an unfolded newspaper serving as a drop cloth, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, talking over his shoulder to his coworkers as they took similar pains not to foul their clothes or desks, when his phone buzzed.
The name on the ID read: Angela Misswicked.
He froze, panic setting in, a raccoon feeling the trap click shut around his paw at the moment the steps of the hunter approach.
He had a habit of naming phone contacts with their online handles as last names to make it easier to remember who they were after the relationships inevitably fizzled. He had been telling himself all week that he needed to change her contact to her real name. He already knew he could never forget her.
He had known her barely two months, but they had been the best two months of his life. She was beautiful, and better than that, a terribly interesting person as well, full of wit and charm. And the power of her dominance was all but overwhelming. He wanted desperately to please her.
The phone buzzed again, but his hands were covered in grease, and his sandwich was already breaking down. He looked around, not sure what to do.
The phone rang again.
He’d heard of Dommes dismissing a potential boy for not picking up the phone fast enough. But that was just something people said, right? Some head game to keep a boy on his toes. It had to be. He was in no mood to find out.
“You gonna answer that?” A coworker asked.
Real fear knifed into him when he thought the coworker might have read the name on his phone.
“Yeah,” Sean mumbled as he plopped the sandwich onto the newspaper and snatched up the phone without wiping his hands. Drops of oil fell from the phone to his shirt. He grabbed up a napkin as the phone rang a third time. Trying to wipe his hands and the device while simultaneously answering the call.
The line clicked open and he said, “Hello.”
—
“Hello, boy.”
Her voice has just enough dark tension in it to tell him what his role is in this call. An outsider, say on a speaker phone, wouldn’t hear it, but he does. He knows she’s probing, expecting him to tell her if there are others in earshot. When he doesn’t’ respond, she continues with more confidence, her tone growing more commanding.
“It took you a long time to pick up, are you with people?”
“Yeah, a bunch of us are having lunch.” He is amazed at how good that sounded, how it didn’t sound slutty or servile. Near the end of it his voice went a little hoarse, and that made his pulse flare, but he thinks no one noticed.
“Politely excuse yourself and go to that big window that looks over the street.”
“Excuse me for a second,” he says to the room.
Then he finishes wiping his hands and discards the napkin and rises and crosses the room and looks out the giant, floor-to-ceiling sheet of glass. It looks out over a green city street, and the Santa Monica mountains beyond. As soon as his back is to the room, he feels a flush rising in his face that he can no longer suppress.
His shorts feel tight.
“Okay. I’m clear.”
“Good. I appreciate discretion, boy, so I’m not going to punish you for not addressing me properly. But now, I think you know what to say.”
“Yes Ma’am, thank you Ma’am.”
These protocols are still new. Each one feels thrilling and profound. Each new directive of hers makes his pulse flutter.
Last week it was “Call me, Ma’am.” The week before that it was the beginning of nightly check-in texts when they weren’t together. Each, a new strand in a steadily tightening knot.
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, I was at work and I couldn’t get anything done.”
He smiles. “What were you thinking?”
“Lots of things, but I wasn’t just thinking… I was planning. I was imagining your ass, naked and bent over on my bed, and all the things I would do to it, and all the little noises you would make. All the begging. All the things I would make you promise…”
He hears her draw a deep breath at that. His own breathing has gone shallow.
Even though no one can see him with his face pressed to the glass, unless they get right beside him, which no one would do, the transparency of the glass itself makes him feel totally exposed. He told her once about these windows. He called her once from this position and assured her it was relatively private.
She had said then, “Private, except the whole valley can see you.”
Now she says, “Look down.”
He does, and on Alameda Street, three stories below, he sees her leaning against the hood of her parked car.
“Hello slut.” He hears the voice over the phone, but though she’s too far away to really see her lips move, her body stirs just enough to connect it to her words.
His breath hitches.
“Hi,” he rasps.
He’s getting hard now.
He really likes her.
“I gotta say… When I start thinking about a boy as much as I’m thinking about you… Well, it means the things I’m planning aren’t just wishes. It means they’re going to happen.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” His voice cracks, and he can all but see her cheeks dimpling in satisfaction over his yearning vulnerability.
“Oh, you’ll find out, slut. You know, I went to five different stores on my way here. Two that sell sex toys, two that sell underwear, and one that sells horse tack.”
He draws a sharp involuntary gasp.
“Now, I have to get back to my day, but before I do, I want you to give me a little treat.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Pinch your nipple through your shirt until it makes you squeal, or whatever noise a greedy pain slut like you makes when he suffers for a superior woman.”
“Yes ma’am.” His hand is already rising when he says it.
He finds his nipple quickly; it’s tingling before his fingers even take hold. Then he begins to squeeze, first lightly, just to gauge the real pressure of a dull ache. Then he bears down and the pain sharpens.
He lets out a little whimper, hoping that it will be enough, terrified he will be found out.
“Harder she snaps.”
His hand gets carried away, and the pain is instant, and he gives a real groan.
He sees her hips sway in satisfaction on the other end of the phone.
“Good. Good, boy.” She gives a happy sigh before she finishes the call. “Now get back to work and call me when you’re on your way home. I may need you to run a few errands for me… I have plans.”
He sees her move in the street and can tell she’s about to hang up.
Desperate to show just how grateful and subservient he can be, he blurts out , “Yes Ma’am, thank you Ma’am,” right as the line goes dead.
—
When he turned away from the glass, he half expected the room to be staring at him, but thankfully the large bullpen seemed oblivious to his clandestine submission. Still he was all but certain his face was flushed, and he hurried to the bathroom just to put himself together. He took a stall, eager to close the aluminum door and let his breathing come back to earth.
He was tempted, albeit briefly, to pull down his pants and stroke himself to orgasm right then and there. However, there was an almost constant stream of traffic, people coming in and out of the large multi-stall bathroom, and he knew doing that would have invited near certain discovery.
He marveled for a moment that he would be so much less damaged by being outed as a horn dog wanker, than a true believing pervert. He chuckled ruefully at that and then flushed the empty toilet performatively and left the stall. He quickly splashed some water on his face and smoothed out his hair, confident that he looked normal again, and gave no clue to what had sent him into the John.
And then he saw it. His jaw opened in shock, and he said “Fuck” under his breath.
On the breast of his shirt, aligned right over his nipple, was a grease stain. A dark spot, instantly visible against the white fabric. Actually, it looked like two spots that had seeped to merge together. Of course, only the most dogged conspiracist could possibly conjure the titty twisting narrative that had led to him rubbing his greasy fingers on his clothes, but that didn’t stop him from assuming that would be the default assumption of every coworker he saw for the rest of the day.
He felt his nipple ache a little then, or maybe it was just the memory of an ache.
A memory triggered by desire, a corner of his mind, stroked by greasy hands, unable to want anything but her.
His erection was no memory, and he couldn’t wait for the day to be over so it could lead him back to her.