My eyes droop. I smooth the wrinkles on my skirt in a valiant attempt at life as the incessant droning of the intern lulls me to sleep. The day is at its close. It is the eve of the weekend and the demands of my work have taken their toll. Across from the long table, the intern concludes his presentation with an unconvincing appeal for questions. None are forthcoming. He finally gathers his notes and shuffles over to his seat. The room is silent.
I look up and around the table. All eyes are on me. Doe-eyed new hires and veterans at the job – a mix of apprehension, admiration, and envy in their gazes, with inklings of repressed desire. Unfazed, I look past their waiting faces at the expansive windows of our sky-rise. The shimmering skyline is silhouetted by the setting sun. My refuge from mundanity is out there. The silence is palpable.
“Well done. Let’s continue this next week.” I commend the intern, rising with a burst of motion. The trance is broken. The intern slumps in relief. Everyone scuttles for their belongings. The meeting is over. “Enjoy your weekend” I smile at the room. I get mumbled ‘thank you’s, genuine smiles, and hearty waves as the room empties. It’s also there: the constant undercurrent of their want. It runs through their stolen glances and sometimes their shameless stares. I have been attuned to that sentiment. It has been made – satisfying, yes, but only just. And by design.
—
I soak the paper towel and wipe my pits. Bliss. It is a humid day. My reflection stares at me across the sink. Stoic. Beautiful. Impenetrable. Liar.
The faint hum of a vacuum cleaner begins in the distance. The office is almost empty.
—
Night reigns by the time I exit the interstate. The last vestiges of my exhaustion at work are evaporating. I stretch my shoulders as I wait at the traffic lights. The radio is playing a classical melody. The languorous notes are poignant with the promise of a crescendo. The music parallels the faint ache pulsing in my body. I do not mind.
My house is a right turn from the intersection. I drive on straight.
—
A blast of cool air welcomes me into the apartment. I step in and take a deep breath. The lights are dim. I take off my heels and massage my calves. Straightening up, I stretch my back, eliciting an involuntary groan from my lips. Refuge. The living room and kitchen are immaculate, as usual. The utensils show some wear. They have been used well. The familiar aroma of cinnamon and coffee hangs in the air, reminding me of a hearty breakfast. An instrumental tune is playing in the bedroom.
The half ajar door beckons me. I take a moment. And another. The music has become quieter. I pick up my overnight bag and cross the threshold. The furnishings are spartan but brim with character. To my right, against the wall is a work desk. The tabletop reflects the soft glow of the computer screens. To my left is a walk-in closet. The smells of faint cologne and freshly laundered suits are imprinted on my brain. I have been in the closet enough that I know my way around without looking. Then again, I had practice navigating in its confines without sight. And ironically, I was rarely walked in.
Two bookshelves flank the room. To the far left is the bathroom. On the corner across from me is the bed. It has an occupant. Curled up beneath a blanket, book in hand, leaning back against the headboard, her slender form is watching me warily. A face of an ingenue meets my gaze. She smiles.
“You’re back early from college. How was your day?” I ask.
Putting the book down, and carefully folding back the blanket, she straightens up out of bed. I’m almost a head taller than her. She’s dressed in a white blouse, a tartan skirt, and a black lacy choker. “I was excused early from my dormitory. I’ve been looking forward to this, thank you for asking,” she replies, “madonna”.
Madonna. My lady. We can begin. I acquiesce. “Draw me a bath.”
—
The bathroom air is thick with the muffling haze rising up from the hot water. The steady flames of the half-melted candles cast familiar shadows across the walls. I’m lying in the bathtub, hair tied in a topknot, with my head resting back on a towel. I raise my arm to examine it in the candle light. It glistens mesmerizingly in the subtle glow.
A knock on the door. She re-enters the bathroom, attired for the task at hand. I am very partial to the dark line of her choker being the only interruption across the smooth curves of her flesh. She stands at a distance, demurely, hands folded in front of her. I beckon her closer.
“Wash me.”
“Yes, madonna.”
Folding a towel on the floor, she kneels on it next to the bathtub. She picks up a washcloth and starts rubbing in some soap. I rest my arm along the rim of the tub next to her. My skin prickles with condensing droplets of water. My insides are coiling in anticipation.
Finally, she places the washcloth on my forearm and methodically starts soaping my body. The slow zig-zag of the coarse cloth makes its way up my shoulders, and across, and down the other arm. Her hands apply steady gentle pressure to let me feel her warmth through the cloth. The motion is rough, only just. I can feel it abrading the grime of the day off of me. I let my muscles relax, and slump even further into the tub under her careful ministrations. She is quiet. Her breathing is calm. The rhythm is the metronome of my descent into oblivion. I close my eyes.
The arms done, she shifts her attention to my legs. Scooting down to the end of the tub, she focuses on the left. With one hand, she grasps it where my calf is widest. Her fingers squeeze firmly as she gently lifts it in the water. With the other hand, she starts lathering my shin. Each stroke of the soapy washcloth above is mirrored underneath by her index finger. Back and forth, back and forth. From my calf to the inside of my knee. The feathery strokes stoke a familiar ache out of dormancy. The locus of my senses converges into the palm of her hand. Through the haze, I hear a click. Back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes the cloth strays up and above my shin, charting new territory on my thigh, while her index finger waits in the crease of my knee. Thereafter they both retreat in unison. The excursions are becoming more daring.
I look at her through my lashes. Her gaze is intent, following her hand ever higher. The dark pools of her eyes reflect fire. I can sense her breathing is labored. Mine is, too. The deliberate pumping of my heart is evident in the pulsing of my extremities. I am not allowed to let it get this far. Desire and guilt. Desire for what proceeds guilt. So, mostly desire.
After an eternity of suspense, her hands slide up in earnest. Spreading the washcloth across my thigh under both hands, she begins her massage. It is under water. Any pretense of soaping my leg is lost. Each stroke of her palms pools more liquid heat into the sanctum of my being. With each stroke, her fingers stop precipitously close to where I desire them most. I have but to give a command and it will be within my reach. He wouldn’t know. Perhaps he should, I think wickedly.
“Ladies.”
—
My eyes snap open. Her hands still. A single word spoken quietly, laced deafeningly with authority. I look up at the mirror across from the bathroom door. His form is silhouetted in the frame. The dim fiery light from the bedroom forms an aura about his person. He is clad in a dark suit. I can faintly make the sharp outline of a white shirt collar and the glint of a wristwatch’s metallic rim. He waits in the shadows.
I turn my gaze back to her as she looks down at me. Our eyes are wide. Our bodies are still. My skin prickles with goosebumps. A thread of acknowledgment passes between us. We turn up in unison.
“Yes, sir.”
—
We stand in the dimly-lit bedroom, a shoulder width apart. Dry. Naked. My eyes follow him as he undresses in the distance. His form moves lithely. He shrugs off the coat and removes his tie. His shirt hugs his broad shoulders. Unbuttoning his sleeves, he rolls them up to just below the elbows. I can see the bands of sinew undulating with each motion of his arms. The wait is beautiful agony.
He finally turns and starts towards us. His dark gaze holds mine as he closes the distance. I drop my eyes. We are less than a foot apart. My gaze is level with the exposed hollow of his neck. The familiar scent of his cologne invades my nostrils. The width of his shoulders dominates my field of view. The deep breaths contrast with the frantic beating of my heart.
“My lady.”
With a rustle of fabric, he raises his hand and cups the side of my neck. His thumb traces the line of my jaw. Gently but firmly, he nudges my face up to meet his eyes. I can see into the depths of his dilated pupils. My gaze flits from eye to eye. My heart beats against the cage of my chest. I can see his eyes crinkle with the hint of a smirk. Still holding my gaze, he leans down and plants his lips on mine.
My body’s response is instant. Electricity runs down my spine as I lean into him. With a groan, I arch my neck to press into his lips. I feel them curve up and hear a throaty grunt signalling his satisfaction. His fingers tighten around my neck to hold me in place. I can feel his tongue caress the crease of my mouth, and I yield to his advance.
His tongue withdraws, leaving me straining with want. Gently, he pushes me back into place. With a parting stroke of his thumb across my lips, he steps over to her.
Up until now, she’d been standing face forward, eyes down. The rapid rise and fall of her bosom belies her demure countenance. He puts a curled finger under her chin and brings up her face. Their eyes meet. He leans closer, and plants a kiss on her forehead.
“Pet.”
I can see her eyes close at contact and her body squirm in pleasure at his voice. Slowly, he brings his hands to the nape of her neck and unclasps the choker with a practiced flick. The lacy fabric slides down her breasts and lands into his other outstretched hand. He turns it over in between his long fingers, eyes following the slithering band.
“Tell me, my lady”, he asks without looking up, “do you know how you transgressed?”
I look at him sideways. My mouth is dry. “Yes, sir”.
He nods, sauntering over to me. “And do you know how you will recompense me for disobedience?”
I know it. I dread it. I long for it. “Yes, sir.”
His palm is extended towards me, the unassuming choker hanging from it, awaiting its next bearer.
I pick it up and clasp it around my bare throat. The constriction is comfortable in its familiarity.
“Thank you, sir.” I say.
“You’re welcome”, he acknowledges, “pet.” Turning around, he commands her: “My lady, on your back.”
She immediately complies. Backing into the bed, she settles on the edge of the mattress and lies back. Her knees are raised, feet resting on the edge next to her bare buttocks. He gestures at me to come stand in front of the exposed girl. I comply.
His fingers clasp the nape of my neck. “You will be disciplined for your disobedience”. His fingers tighten. “And you will pay your respects to my lady”. His other hand moves to unbuckle his belt. “Kneel”.
Chest heaving, I get down on my hands and knees. My face is level with the spread legs of – madonna. My lips are but a foot away. Her head is raised in the distance, looking at me over the planes of her stomach. In the dim light, I can make out the glisten in the folds of her womanhood. I salivate.
He is almost ready. I can feel his footfalls behind me as he gathers his implements for the exercise. In the straining silence, my eyes meet hers. We hold our gaze. Separated from this girl, madonna, in years, wealth, renown – this evening, I am at the receiving end of the dictates of power. I was his prima donna: first lady. But I am first only among equals.
She can read my thoughts in my expression. One eyebrow imperceptibly raised, I catch a hint of a smirk in her lips. I do not break her gaze. I smirk back.
From behind me, I hear the snap of leather across skin.
“Begin.”
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/m04ubu/prima_inter_pares_authority_exchange