Lotte at the Boss's Desk
Boss Secretary BDSM StoryBDSM12 min read
A story of Lotte van den Berg
Lotte takes a short contract as Maarten's secretary at his media office in Utrecht, cuff still on. The building empties. He is about to run her as boss and secretary rather than as screening strangers.
The Utrecht office had already given itself back to the rain. Late autumn sat on the glass in long wet streaks, and the canal below the media company looked black except where a streetlamp broke it into a thin, trembling ribbon of light. I had stayed at my desk after the last editor left, because I had told Lotte van den Berg to come when the building was empty, and she had come with the leather cuff still buckled on her left wrist. She was twenty-one, a professor of media studies who had taken a short contract as my secretary, and I was thirty-four and her boss for as long as that contract lasted. The stake between us was simple and ugly. If this was only employment, she ought to quit. If it was more, she would be giving me both her labour and the way she knelt.
She stood in the doorway in a dark coat with rain still bright on the shoulders, and she did not look like a woman who had wandered in by accident. She looked like a woman who had decided.
“Close the door,” I said.
She closed it, and the click that followed was small enough to vanish into the hush of the emptied floor. She crossed the carpet until she stood on the far side of my desk, and the cuff caught the lamp when she set her hands on the wood. I let her wait long enough to feel that quiet settle into her bones, then I looked at her mouth.
“Say what you are tonight,” I told her. “Say it in a full sentence, and say whether you meant the cinema.”
Lotte did not rush. She held the room the way she always did, with language that took its time, and then she gave me the whole of it without looking away. “I am your secretary tonight, Maarten, and I meant the cinema. I meant the cuff and the command, and I walked here because I wanted to be under this desk more than I wanted to be respectable.”
“On your knees,” I said.
She came around the desk without pretending she had not heard me. Her coat came off and dropped over the visitor chair. Under it she wore a black skirt and a blouse that had no business in a building after hours, and she went down on the office floor with a care that was not fear. It was choice. I pushed my chair back far enough for her to fit, and I opened my belt while she watched, the leather whispering through the loops. My cock was already hard when I took it out. She looked at it the way she looked at an argument she intended to win, and then she put her mouth on me.
The underside of the desk was a cheap landscape of cables and dust, and Lotte made it into a place she had chosen. Her knees found the carpet. Her hands found my thighs. She took the head of my cock between her lips and sucked until spit shone on the shaft, and I put one hand in her hair without forcing her down, because I wanted to feel her decide to stay. She could have stood up. She could have left the post and the contract and the cuff. She stayed. She took more of me, slow at first, then wetter, and the sound of it filled the office the way a meeting never would.
I opened a file on the screen as if work still mattered. It did not. What mattered was the heat of her mouth and the way she breathed through her nose when she took me deeper. Spit ran down my cock and over her chin. She pulled back only long enough to lick it up and go down again, and I felt her throat work around me. The building hummed. Rain ticked the glass. I kept my voice even because I wanted her to hear that I could still run a room while she sucked me.
“You are my secretary,” I said. “You take dictation and you take cock, and you do not get up until I tell you.”
She made a sound that was not a word and kept going. Her tongue pressed the underside. Her lips stretched. When she gagged she did not pull off; she stayed there with her eyes wet and her hands tight on my legs, and that was the moment I knew she had not come here to perform listening. She had come here to be used and to want it. I stroked her hair once, not gently, and she answered by taking me to the root until her nose pressed my stomach. Spit dropped onto the carpet between her knees. I let her stay there until my thighs tightened, then I eased her back by the hair so I could see her mouth, shiny and open, and the cuff still locked on her wrist like a sentence she had not taken back.
“Up,” I said.
I pulled her to her feet and turned her before she could find her balance. The desk met her hips. I folded her over it with a hand between her shoulder blades, and her cheek went to the wood beside the keyboard. The skirt came up. She wore nothing under it, which I had not asked for and which made my palm itch. I put my hand on her ass and felt her wait for it, the way a body waits when it has already said yes.
The first spank landed flat and loud. She jerked and then pushed back into my hand as if she wanted the second before I had decided to give it. I gave it. I gave her more, the skin going hot under my palm, the sound of it carrying down the empty corridor where no one remained to hear a boss take his secretary apart. She breathed hard against the desk. When I paused she did not fill the silence with a performance of endurance. She said, in that unhurried way of hers, that she wanted my hand and she wanted my cock, and that she would not be split into a woman who lectured by day and a lesser thing after dark.
“Stay down,” I said.
I kicked her feet apart and spat on my cock and put the head against her. She was wet enough that I slid in on the first push, and the noise she made was filthy and grateful. I took her in long strokes that made the desk knock the wall, a dull rhythm that would have been a scandal at noon and was only ours now. My hands held her hips. Each thrust shoved her against the edge until papers slid and a pen rolled off and hit the floor. I called her what she had asked to be. The girl who takes dictation. The girl who takes cock. She clenched around me when I said it, and I spanked her again while I fucked her, the sting and the stretch arriving together, and she came up on her toes as if she could take more of both.
I leaned over her back and spoke against her hair. “You meant it. You are going to take this until the desk marks the paint.”
She did. The wall received the knock of cheap furniture and expensive want, and Lotte’s voice broke into sounds that were not lectures. I reached under her and found her clit with two fingers and rubbed her in time with my hips, and she soaked my hand while I kept driving into her. The office smelled of rain and sex. Her blouse had ridden up. The cuff knocked the wood each time I shoved her forward, a small animal sound of leather on laminate, and I thought, with a clarity that frightened me, that I did not want this to stay inside these walls.
I pulled out long enough to take off my tie. The silk was still warm from my collar. I brought her wrists together at the small of her back and bound them, not cruelly, not loosely, and she tested the knot the way a person tests a door they do not actually want opened. I turned her enough to see her face. Her mouth was wet. Her eyes were bright. She looked like a woman who had not been reduced, only concentrated.
“Ask,” I said.
She asked in a full sentence, because that was how she told the truth. She wanted my fingers. She wanted to come on them while she could not use her hands. She wanted me to watch her do it as his secretary and not as a guest. I put my hand between her legs from behind and found her open and slick, and I pushed two fingers into her cunt and a third when she pushed back onto them. My thumb found her clit. I worked her without hurry and without mercy, the wet sound of it louder than the rain, and she tried to brace on the desk with bound wrists and could not, which made her shake.
I talked her through it because I wanted her to hear herself being run. I told her she was the girl bent over a media desk in Utrecht with her boss’s tie on her wrists. I told her she could come when she was ready and not before she said my name. She said it. She said Maarten as if it were both a title and a private word, and then she came on my fingers in a long, ugly, honest clench that ran through her thighs and up into her shoulders. I kept my hand moving until she whimpered and tried to close her legs, and even then I only slowed, because I wanted the aftershocks as much as the peak. Spit and her own wetness shone on my knuckles. I brought my fingers to her mouth and she sucked them without being told, which nearly finished me.
I put her back down over the desk and took my cock in my fist. I had been close since her mouth. I stroked myself against the cleft of her ass, the head dragging through the heat I had left there, and I came on her back in thick stripes that reached the bound wrists and the rumpled blouse. She held still for it. She breathed through it. When I was empty I put a palm on the mess and spread it a little, not as a claim I had not already made, but as a reminder she could feel.
“Thank me,” I said. “As my secretary.”
Lotte’s voice was wrecked and still precise. “Thank you, sir. Thank you for using me at your desk. I am your secretary tonight, and I meant every filthy minute of it.”
I untied her wrists and rubbed the marks the silk had left, because intensity was not injury and I would not pretend otherwise. She stayed folded over the wood a moment longer, as if standing up would return her to a version of herself she was not ready to be. I cleaned her with tissues from the drawer, slow over the small of her back, and she let me. When she finally stood, her legs were unsteady and her mouth found mine without asking permission. The kiss was not polite. It tasted like my cock and her own come, and she smiled into it with a warmth that was not a tactic.
The office sofa sat under the window where the canal threw back the streetlights. I sat first and brought her into my lap, still in charge, still dressed enough to look like a man who had not left his post. Her skirt was around her waist. I put her on my cock facing me and let her sink down at the pace I set with my hands on her hips. This was slower. It was not softer in the way that mattered. I held her down when she tried to rise too fast, and I gave her a short upward thrust when she needed to be reminded who was running the hour. She put her boundless hands on my shoulders now and used them, riding with a roll that made her breath catch.
I watched her face because her face was the point. Pleasure moved through it without shame. When I told her she was mine outside the building, not only as staff, she did not perform a careful pause. She took the sentence in, and her cunt tightened around me as if her body had voted first.
“I want you in the street the way I want you here,” I said. “I want you as mine when there is no desk and no contract. Marry me.”
She kept moving on me while she answered, which was obscene and exactly right. “Yes. I will marry you, Maarten. I want you outside this building as yours, not only as the man who signs my hours.”
I fucked her through that yes. The sofa creaked. Her forehead dropped to mine. I reached between us and rubbed her clit until she came again, quieter this time, shaking in my arms, and I followed her with a last deep push that left me pulsing inside her. We stayed joined while the rain kept at the glass. I told her there would be a date. I told her I had already booked a room after it, a dungeon that would not look like an office and would not pretend we were only playing at hierarchy. She nodded against my mouth. The cuff was still on. She did not take it off.
We dressed without turning the overhead lights back on. Her blouse was wrinkled. My tie would never sit the same. I helped her into the coat and I buttoned it myself, which made her laugh once, a warm sound that belonged to a woman who had not been diminished by kneeling. In the lift down to the lobby she stood close enough that I could smell myself on her, and she named the attraction as plainly as she named the weather, which in Utrecht in late autumn was a kind of loyalty.
On the wet pavement I took her hand. The wedding date was set before we reached the corner, a Saturday in winter, and I told her the dungeon was booked for the night after the party, when the public vows would be finished and the private ones could start. She said yes again. She squeezed my fingers. What she did not say, while the canal ran black beside us and the cuff stayed hidden under her sleeve, was the fear I could almost taste on her silence. She had accepted love inside the protocol. She had not yet told me she was afraid a husband who owned her at night would own the public woman too, and put the kneeling in a drawer where no lecture could reach it. We walked on as a couple with a marriage in view, and the rain kept falling as if it had all the time in the world.
