It’s been quite a pivot from last weekend when I was gloriously dominated by the Goddess Amanda. Monday morning we were back at work, home office of course, but all business. And so it’s been all week. Busy, long hours, real work.
Amanda has had me wearing casual business outfits this week, such that I could walk into a conference room for a business meeting and be properly and respectably attired.
Yet she has mastered the hidden erotic detail — having me wear underneath lace top stockings, or breast bands, or a waist chain bearing a dangling jingle bell. She has kept me in a collar and heels all week, and as always, sans bra and panties, details that would seem to matter less when it’s just her and me at home. I am a strip-party for her mind: she knows what’s I’m not wearing underneath as well as those secret adornments she’s decorated me with. So, in the midst of real work all week, while she keeps me dressed, I am her fantasy life.
We work in separate parts of the house, a setup that serves practical purposes. For one, we actually get more done working separately. For another, it provides her privacy for teleconference meetings. She doesn’t mind if I’m privy to them, but clients might, and the semblance of separation conveys professionalism. Our separate work spaces at home also seem to put us in the mindset of business work.
But our home office arrangement offers some other realities: I need to walk across the house to bring documents to Amanda in her study. I could send them to her instantly by email, but she likes seeing me walk into her office, and she likes that I have to wait for her to finish what she’s reading or reviewing before looking up at me. She also likes when I drop something and she can watch me bend over to pick it up.
Occasionally she will come to my writing room for a file, or to tell me something she could have told me by calling my cell. In doing so, she walks through the living room and past the wet bar, where a day earlier she had me tied, bound, and pussy-splayed from behind.
I know this because she tells me: “I was remembering the wet bar yesterday,” she says.
“Oh,” I reply without looking up from the spreadsheet. “How’s that working for you?”
And then she picks up the file she wants, pauses to undress me with her eyes, and returns to her office on the other side of the house.
So while we pivoted into the work week and we actually have been productive each and every day, the memories of last weekend — the instant replays of my submissions — are all around us, my sexual humiliations dangling and spent like party streamers the morning after.
Anyone watching us this week would have seen a businesswoman and her assistant doing their jobs: I got the master spreadsheet done on Tuesday and wrote up a draft of a client letter by Wednesday morning. We reviewed together the priority list, and we had a conference call with the home office. Amanda had twenty Zoom meetings with clients and employees. We got a lot done.
But an observer would not know our subtext. “The kitchen floor looks really clean,” Amanda says, a seemingly innocent observation. An observer would not know that Amanda is intentionally reminding us both of my body soaked in suds last weekend, my breasts flattening against the tile, twin wet mops like none other.
Today, Friday, she has me in a simple shirtdress, a bit retro as she likes to do sometimes. It covers me completely, and comes to below my knees, but Amanda knows that beneath this common dress is my naked body, piglet-pink, pale, and all perked up.
Whatever my clothing, whatever our work or home context, she peers below my surfaces with X-ray specs. There, underneath, she sees me, pure sex and flesh. That excites her.
And it excites me that I excite her. As a pair, even while working, we are serially erotic.