Under his Desk (Ch3)
Introduction:
Chapter 3
Since my white master bent me over his desk and showed me what I am
Oh shut the fuck up brain. God what happened?! When I got here this morning I felt so empowered and fierce. I was taking control — moving our relationship forward. Now I feel so helpless and feeble, kneeling naked under his desk and leaking tears and cum onto the carpet — getting off on being humiliated and completely at his mercy. Calling him master! Begging him to fuck me!
My emotional compass is spinning like a top, out of control between horny and horrified. My stomache tingles and churns with lust and excitement. I hate myself, but I can’t deny how badly I want this — how amazing it feels to surrender my body to him. His beautiful, expensive shoe is resting lightly on my hip. I run my finger lightly across it thoughtfully; his foot-rest. I can’t imagine what this means for me. Where this is going. I’ve always had a plan, but, this desire inside me has changed everything. What does it lead to? How does this end?
“I’m going to get them situated. Make coffee, and I’ll be back in a bit Ok?”
“Ok” I croak timidly from under his desk like this is all perfectly normal. Since my first day here I’ve gotten these lusty little twinges when he tells me to make coffee. I sought out this job because I’m an artist like him. I mean I knew I’d have to pay my dues before I became anything close to his peer but make coffee? Such a 1950’s mysoginist thing to ask. But nothing prepared me for how much that teensy, meaningless bit of disrespect would turn me on. I mean the “grown ups” tell you things about sex you know? About how it’s supposed to work, and how it should feel — about your role in the whole relationship thing. But nothing has prepared me for this. He stands up, buttoning his pants and making for the door, and I crawl out pensively as I hear it shut.
Nobody tells you how to feel when humiliation like this gets you off. When it makes you wet when a man tells you do things. And not hot things like take off your shirt, but stupid, mundane shit like make coffee, or order a replacement 50mm lens. Nobody tells you about the “suck my cock” hidden inside the “make 5 copies of this receipt“. Yesterday he made me hold a reflector boom, and standing there like a human C-Stand while the slutty white magazine-model posed and preened for him, I nearly fucking creamed myself.
Pensively, I check the drawer with my clothes in it. It’s locked. I’ll be naked until he unlocks it. My master has taken my clothes. I shudder. Honestly? I want to demand them back just to hear him laugh in my powerless, tear-stained face. I want him to wield his power over me. I want to hear the words he’ll use to bring me to heel, and feel the back of his hand when he bitch-slaps me into submission and commands me to get the fuck back under his desk where I belong. God help me. I want to rub myself off right now. I want him to walk in and catch me naked in his office, masturbating at the thought of being denied my clothes, and then I want him to punish me for it.
That’s gross. I’m gross. Oh shut the fuck up brain.
Nobody tells you how to feel when you masturbate yourself to sleep for weeks to the image of a man like Matt spanking you, or tying you down and raping your ass while you cry and moan like a schoolgirl. Nobody warns you about the boiling lust that will be thrashing in your stomach when you surrender your clothes to him, or when you crawl out from under his mahogany desk after having been used, to wipe his cum off your thighs and make him coffee like I am now. Pouring it lovingly into the cup I know is his favorite, and placing it in the spot next to the blotter where I know he usually keeps it himself before crawling obediently back into my place on my hands and knees to await his next command. My place. This is my place.
This is what I want. I don’t want to be his girlfriend. Nor do I have low self-esteem. I’m smoking hot and men want me. I’m the asian mother-fucking Scarlett Johansson. I’ve had boyfriends, and I’m over that. I’m BETTER than that. More. I’m a different kind of animal. Something that every man dreams about but very few men are worthy of.
Jesus, what’s WRONG with me?! WHY do I want these things so badly? And what the literal FUCK is turning me on about the racist cliche of being an asian slave to a white master?! That is some dark mother-fucking shit. I’m not a racist! I’m a feminist! A GOOD feminist. I mean I even tweet feminist shit. Well, I retweet feminist shit…
she says kneeling obediently under her white master’s desk
Oh shut up brain.
His door bangs open without warning and he strides in with the key grip. They’re talking focal lengths and marks and lighting like they always are. “Where’s Rachel?” the key asks. “She’s around” Matt answers, sipping the coffee I left for him; leaning above me on his desk calmly. Just 3/4″ of wood between his hips and my face. I touch the wood shakily, the feeling of his cock in my throat still fresh in my mind. How can he be so calm?
You see that? Matt is the kind of man who deserves me. Listen to him chatting like he hasn’t a a care in the world while his PA kneels naked and quaking below him. Waiting in agonizing anticipation for his abuse. I touch the wood where his hip rests. My hands shake uncontrollably. I’ve seen him take what he wants. I’ve hidden on the catwalk, watching him fuck super-models through a 300mm lens. Now I’ve felt him bend me over his desk and fuck me. I don’t want to marry him and go to his kids fucking PTA meetings. Why would I want that?
I want to choking in the collar attached to the leash his haughty, annoying, white girlfriend impatiently yanks. I want to be humiliated and degraded and used for his pleasure. I want to clean his hot cum from the throbbing, destroyed cunts of his conquests with my tongue and service him like the fuck-slave he was born to own. I can give him that, and he can give me what I need in return.
The Key-grip leaves and I hear him rummaging in a closet. The sound of wires scraping the outside of the desk. Momentarily his arm drops a phone handset on the floor in front of me. It’s mine. The one from my desk. He pushes it toward me and I take it, pulling it under the desk with me, blinking in surprise.
“Order lunch for 20. Maybe specialties or something else simple. Something vegetarian for the models.”
“Ok, um. Chicken salad for you?” I offer. Fuck, he’s going to keep me naked under his desk all day this is so HOT.
“You know what I want Rachel”
Yeah. I know just exactly what you want. “um. Yes Matt. I think I do.”
The sound of scribbling as he makes some notes.
“Matt?”
“yeah?”
“I want you to have what you want.”
“I know.” Non-chalant. All-business. Like he enslaves a twenty-year-old asian goddess every tuesday. His footsteps, heading toward the studio door
“I mean”, he pauses for me to finish “I want you to keep it.”
“I know what you need. Shut up and order lunch.” the door closes.
I pick up the handset, and order.
45 excruciatingly long minutes later he leaves the crew to eat lunch with me, sitting down at his chair, and scooting in.
“Here” he commands, spreading his legs and patting his inner thigh. I nuzzle into his crotch; my naked chest settles across the edge of his leather chair as I lay my cheek against the denim of his inner thigh. I feel him go hard against my cheek; his massive tool easily longer than my petite face. He feeds me by hand, between taking bites of his own sandwich; his fingertips lingering on my lips. I kiss and lick at them lovingly.
“What’s your name?” he asks curiously, wrinkling up the paper his lunch came in and tossing it into the wastebasket.
“um. Rachel?” I answer, not taking his meaning. He grabs my hair, hauling me unexpectedly up over his knee. I gasp, planting my hands on the floor to steady myself. My exposed ass is in his lap now, and he smacks it loudly with his hand. I stifle a startled cry at the blow.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and again I don’t understand what he means. He knows my name.
“My name is Rachel” SMACK again he spanks me. Harder this time. It stings brightly and my breasts and hips jiggle with the force of it. I can’t think clearly about his question. My brain can’t get over the fact that he’s actually spanking me. He’s bending me over his knee like a schoolgirl and spanking me in his office. Salacious want boils in my chest and neck. His hand holds my head roughly in place and my hip is pinned by the edge of his desk. He’s so strong. I couldn’t escape if I wanted to, which I don’t. This is what it means to be man-handled. This was where that word was born.
“You’re real name. What’s your real name?” he demands, impatient. His hand hovers above my rapidly reddening butt-cheek, and I don’t know how to answer. If I did, I’m not sure I would, because I want him to hit me again. I want to feel his control. I want him to make me his bitch.
“I.. I don’t know” I answer, closing my eyes in expectation. SMACK comes the blow, the sound of it echoing in the office. I grunt lustily, wanting to thank him like a slut, but I resist. My ass stings raggedly, and I wonder if he can see my asshole. He can do anything he wants. Laughter and chatting in the studio as the models and crew eat lunch. They have no idea I’m being spanked 20 feet away. Any of them could walk in at any moment.
“YOUR NAME” he demands, and finally it dawns on me. He wants me to name myself. Bitch? Cunt? Slave? Whore? What am I? What do I want my master to call me?
SMACK he spanks me again and SMACK again. “Uh! thank you master” I mutter like a whore. My already warm, soggy cunt starts to drip into his lap.
SMACK “ugh thank you”
SMACK “MMM thank you”
SMACK “AH! thank you”
SMACK “CHINK” I hear myself squeal. The talking pauses outside. They heard me.
“What?” Matt blinks, incredulously. I know. I can hardly believe it myself.
“Chink.” I repeat myself, blushing as I look up at him. “I’m your chink”
He nods, seeming to understand, and gives my sore ass a gentle caress. “That’s my good little chink” he coos, trying it out. “Do you want to come out and help with the shoot?”
“Yes please, master” I eagerly beg.
“Ok” he smiles, unlocking his desk and opening the drawer with my clothes. “No underwear for you today though.”
I reach into the drawer, clumsily retrieving my blouse and skirt. He closes it again, lifting me up by my hair. I stand, leaning against the desk between his open legs, facing him while I slip into and button my shirt. He holds my eyes, ignoring my body as I dress and I bask in his attention. I say nothing, gazing back with my lips parted. I wore this thin white blouse to accentuate my lacy bra for him. Without it, my naked breasts will sometimes be visible when they press against the fabric. He knows this, and I assume he intends the crew to have a bit of a show. That’s fine with me. They’re his tits now. All of me his. He can show them to whomever he wants. Anyway, it won’t be the first time the crew has gotten a little peek at a beautiful rack. I leave the top three buttons undone. If my master wants me slutty for his crew it should be done properly.
“We should be wrapped at 9, but I want you to leave at 4. Go home, pack a bag, and be back under my desk like a good little chink by 8. You’re coming home with me.”
I step into my skirt, “Thank you Master.” zipping up the back. I want to fuck him. I want him to use my mouth. I want to wrap my tongue around his cock as his hand tightens mercilessly around my neck. I want him to take me — to take everything I am. Instead he lifts my blouse, softly kissing my stomach beneath my waistline. My knees weaken as his warm stubble works up to my flat belly-button. His hands find my chest, his articulate fingers closing around my nipples and squeezing sharply. They go hard for him, chafing against the fabric exquisitely. I may as well not even be wearing a shirt.
“Ok” he stands. “let’s get to work”
