Ben Rawsall – dark blonde, green eyed, six feet three or so and a charismatic dresser to boot. He wore a navy blue suit, with a white pocket square and some tassled loafers as the rest of the office moped around in black and striped suits. It was clear from our first meeting that he wasn’t interested in ‘conventional’, there was no HR department, there were no obvious rules, there was nothing to stop him doing whatever the fuck he wanted. I liked that in a man. 

He was in his mid-to-late 30s, but he looked tremendous for his age. Handsome, the angles in his face carved in an acute symmetrical manner, his broader shoulders leading down in a luscious trail to his thin waist. I could always see how muscular his legs were against the close-fitting pants. He hired me after a tense encounter at a university mixer, the chemistry in the air from the start. After a few charged moments in his corner office, one hand on my throat and his other hand stroking me underneath my panties, it became obvious we couldn’t maintain just a ‘professional’ relationship, he wanted to know how far he could take me. Time was spent between Excel sheets and bed sheets. Most of my hours became dedicated to pleasing him, in the office and out of it, like a good little girl should. Just four weeks out of my torrid and sexually deprived relationship with James, I became a slave to Mister Rawsall, waiting for every instruction.  Read more »