What happened that night between Mr Mersault and I will remain etched in my memory. For weeks the guilt, and shame hung over me like a life sentence, consuming my free thoughts and my fantasies. Mr Mersault had since moved out of the city, taking his car collection and his business with him. It’s been a long week, one of those Wednesdays that feels like it should be Friday already, I lie in bed in my old grey T Shirt, Mersault crossing my mind yet again. I squirm under my sheets and fall asleep, wet between the legs.

By 6am the next morning I am already on my way to work. Willie B Hardigain was on it’s way out, it was an open secret, yet most of the staff had decided to stay, a collective loyalty we all had to Mr Hardigain for the opportunities he had afforded us, a bunch of talented misfits who for one reason or another were unlikely to get hired elsewhere. Our last shot at saving the business, a merger with the next leading competitor, had fallen apart last minuite, leaving the company in a bad way and with no way out. Hardigain had called in every favour owed to him, but now the last of his generation in the city, faces were changing and favours were hard to come by. To add to this, a former PA who worked for the firm in the 80’s had decided to press for an (almost definitely credible) workplace harassment suit, claiming inappropriate contact and sexist language was used against herself and other junior staff members. This matter had been settled out of court in the 90s with a six figure payout and an NDA that Mr Hardigain was unfortunately finding out wasn’t as airtight as he thought. In his emails I’d noticed him selling off two of the higher value pieces in his art collection, even the lavish business dinners had begun to run out of steam – our Thursday table at Petrus, regretfully given to someone else by the very apologetic maitre’d for the first time in 15 years.

And not just the business had changed. Mr Hardigain, my rock, my mentor had unfortunately gone soft. The weekly spankings I was contractually obliged to receive, ceased after a few weeks- I stood, bent over his desk at precisely 4:15pm, waiting for the sting of his big, warm hand, but one day it did not arrive.

“That’s enough of that Billie” he said, gesturing for me to pull my skirt back up over my white lacy suspender set. I stood there awkwardly, and instead he pulled me towards him and kissed me. I was secretly annoyed – part of me had very much enjoyed those spankings, but the dynamic just wasn’t the same. I supposed he liked me too much to fuck me like he used to. Now, we made love twice a week, went to the Opera, we’d finish tail ends of his whisky collection in the office and sometimes fall asleep there, other times check into Claridges, strolling into work the next day at 10am in last nights clothes. He had become a formative part of my career in the City – well liked and formerly well connected, Mr Hardigain had moulded me into the consummate PA. Occasionally he could escape for a weekend, to a plush country hotel, or his Villa in Mallorca. Save that one, unforgettable night I had remained (mostly) faithful. Sure, there was that broker I met at Coq D’Argent, but that barely lasted five minutes so hardly counted as “cheating”. Oh, and that moment of madness during one of our weekends away at Limewood – the property developer… a fumble in the hallway whilst Mr Hardigain slept just meters away! That was exciting!!! What was his name…

“Billie?”
I jump slightly at the sound of Mr Hardigains deep voice saying my name, I’d barely heard the question, completely lost in thought
“Er yes, so er…. anyway it’s a possibility we could still get a bail out from JTL, but they would be relocating half the office to Hong Kong so it would save the business but ruin the company if you know what I mean…”

I say, absent mindedly. Yet another idea that wouldn’t work of course, and I suspected Hardigain would stay in this office until the bitter end. Until the bailiffs were prising art off the walls. I look at Mr Hardigain, tired but not yet defeated, sat behind his beautiful desk at what used to the the most influential office in town. From under his desk he reaches for a bottle of Lagavulin, just the tail end left, and pours the remainder into a Waterford cut crystal glass. He downs it quickly and beckons for me to come over.

I sit on his lap and he buries his face into my hair, breathing in deeply. I’m wearing an inappropriately high Louboutin, my favourite pencil skirt and a pink-ish silk blouse. Stockings and suspenders of course, Tom Ford glasses, my hair straight to my backside and a tempting slick of shiny red lipstick. I feel Mr Hardigains cock harden beneath me. He pulls me close to him and kisses me deeply. Lost in the moment, I kiss him, bearing my soul through my lips. I kiss him to remember what it’s like to be in love, to forget what it’s like to be bored and alone. I kiss him with a mad passion, my hand frantically unzipping his trousers. He stands me up, facing the beautiful desk, and pulls my skirt down to my ankles, revealing a lacy pink stocking and suspender set – one of his favourites. He pulls my panties to one side and slides two firm fingers inside me. I collapse onto the desk and allow him to roughly finger me from behind to the point of orgasm. Still fully clothed and with one hand around my neck, he pulls his sticky fingers out, rubbing them over my clit. I beg for him to stop (but not really) as my body is consumed by an earth shattering multiple orgasm.

“Fuck me harder!”
I scream, my fingernails clawing the desk for purchase
“Patrique!!! Fuck me harder Patr… “

“What did you say?”

The moment stops at once, and a deafening silence grips the room.
“I er… well I was just…”

“Patrique?”
I hear an undeniable shake of anger in Mr Hardigains voice, an icy eruption bubbling inside of him
“As in, Patrique… Mersault? …Are you two? Have you…?”

Oh fuck.

“No!” I lie, unashamedly “No I just… I don’t know why I said that I was just thinking about something and I….”

It’s no use. We both know what I said and it can’t be undone. A knot tightens in the pitt of my stomach as I turn to watch Mr Hardigain swiftly zip back up his trousers and reach back under his desk for another tail end of whiskey, Habiki this time, swigging straight from the bottle. I try to catch his eye but his won’t meet mine. He is deeply offended, as is to be expected when in the throes of pleasure, the woman you’re madly in love with screams out your enemies name.

I pull my panties and skirt up, reapply my lipstick and try to be cool. Mr Hardigain still won’t look at me. I reach for his hand but he slides it away and pretends to be typing on his laptop which is clearly switched off. I have hurt him, and I sense now more than ever, that we are coming to the end of the road. I’ve this habit you see, of fucking things up unintentionally – such is the case when you’re a slave to lust.

“So anyway Billie” Mr Hardigain says, in a rushed, business like tone, “We have a meeting in Board Room B at 3pm, it’s on the thirteenth floor. Now get out of my office.”

He might as well have spat the words in my face, not that I’d have minded. Passion, any passion has to be better than this. I gather my belongings and turn to leave, hoping to catch Mr Hardigains eye over my shoulder, (he always watches me leave,) but not today. Not so much as a glance. Just before my hand reaches the door handle, he speaks

“I would have expected loyalty from you of all people, Billie.”
This time his voice does not waver. “Afterall, you were a penniless whore when I met you.”

The words reach my ears like a cold hard slap at the altar. I turn around, my hair swishing past my backside and over my shoulder.

“I think we both know,”
I retort, and this time our eyes meet – his ablaze with anger and mine with indignant fury, “That this time next year, Mr Hardigain, you will be the penniless whore.”

I turn on my heel, slamming the door behind me, and strut, in all my confident magnificence, to the ladies bathroom, where I sit in a cubicle and cry for ten minutes, deeply wounded by his words.

It has all gone wrong.

But what good is feeling sorry for myself? I must pull myself together. I blink the tears from my eyes and adjust my blouse;
I’ve a 3pm to make.

–


It’s funny you can work in a building your whole life and not know what goes on behind certain doors. At 2:50, the lift door opens on the thirteenth floor and it occurs to me that I didn’t even know there was a Board Room B. I’d been sure this room had been rented by another company in the building… a storeroom for office supplies or something.

Anyway, I had resolved to apologise to Mr Hardigain and beg his forgiveness. He has been so kind to me, he took a chance of me, my weakness was not his fault, and my hypocrisy embarrassed us both. Yes, I’ll book us a table at Scotts for tomorrow evening, where he will without a doubt order a Dover sole off the bone and it’ll be like old times. I felt sure I did love him, but scared of commitment had always tried to keep my options open. The thought of being boring and married terrified me even more than the collapse of the business. It disgusted me, the lives some people lived, every day the same as the last, no desire for adventure, content with lights out and missionary twice a yea-

It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the bright strip lighting that illuminated Board Room B. Hearing the click of the door close behind me, I immediately reached for the door handle to let myself out again, only to find there wasn’t one. It took but seconds to realise something wasn’t right.

Board Room B was a white room that appeared an almost perfect cube, the walls, ceiling and floor painted in high gloss white, other than one wall, which from what I could see was made from dark tinted plastic. Confused, I walk to the wall and tap it with my nails – it’s glass. There is an outline of the door I entered through – the door with no inside handle, and another door to the left of the dark glass wall, also with no inside handle. In each corner of the ceiling is a security camera, and other than a bench and two chairs in the middle of the room, it is completely empty.

“Mr Hardigain???”
My voice echos off the walls. “Hello?”

From behind the glass wall I hear a scraping of chairs and I run to the wall, hammering the glass with my fists. It does not break.
“Hello? Is anyone there? I think I’ve gotten the wrong room I’ve ended up locked in here somehow. Helllooooo?”

No response but my own echo and the scraping of yet more chairs behind the glass.

I sense that from behind that glass, I am without a doubt being watched.
I walk back to the door I came in through, and hammer it loudly with my fists.
“HELLO? HE-LLO!? I’m locked in this room is anyone there?”

It’s no use, now I think about it I don’t think I’ve ever even been on floor 13 before. I thought it was all maintenance rooms or something. I reach into my handbag for my phone. No signal. Great! I guess I’ll be waiting until 6:45 when the cleaners finally arrive to let me out. Mr Hardigain’s going to think I’ve let him down (again) but I’m sure he’ll forgive me if I explain. I take a seat on one of the chairs and wait for a cleaner to find me.

Then without warning I’m blinded by light – as if someone had turned the strip lighting up from 0-100. Disoriented, I instinctively crouch down on the floor, trying to feel my way around.
“Hello? Is anyone there? Hello??”
Still no response. The light is so blinding my eyes are pressed firmly shut as I desperately reach for a way out – crawling along the cold concrete floor. But I am not alone. Suddenly I feel at least three pairs of hands grab and lift me upwards. Terrified, I scream, arms and legs lashing out in all directions trying to throw them off. My resistance makes no impact and within the space of minutes, I find myself lying on my front on the bench, hands tied behind my back, completely naked. A blindfold is bound tightly around my head, shutting out all light and vision, other than a thin sliver of vision when I look directly down past my nose. Currently I see nothing but a tiny, bright slice glossy white floor.

I stay lying front down on the bench for what feels like forever, my ears listening intently for any signs of movement, but none come, other than the ever present scraping of chairs to the left side of me – from behind that mysterious glass wall. I know in my sinking heart that Mr Hardigain has set me up somehow, that this was retribution for having broken his trust. My palms sweat with anxiety, every hair on my body prickling with fear. I know that Mr Hardigain would never hurt me, or at least I think he wouldn’t, but I also know I have betrayed him so completely, and in such a humiliating way, that his love for me may not be strong enough to grant forgiveness.

I hear footsteps coming towards me, my breathing deepens in anticipation. Suddenly I feel a warm hand running down the cool flesh of my back. I try to kick out wildly but am bound so tightly to the table I can barely move an inch. My shouts are muffled by a gag made from my silk blouse, I see nothing but a slim sliver of light, where occasionally a fine slice of a shiny black Jefferey West shoe can be seen. The hands move slowly at first but then aggressively, one fist grabbing my hair and the other groping my backside. I hear the person move towards my head, and the unmistakable sound of a zip being hastily undone. I brace myself, then unexpectedly the gag is removed from my mouth and I have barely a moment to scream or catch my breath before a rock hard cock is stuffed unceremoniously into my mouth, probing the back of my throat. I choke, but my desperate gasps for air are ignored by the stranger, now pounding my throat with his cock, holding my head with both hands, harder and harder, until finally I feel the my mouth being filled with his hot sticky cum. The stranger leaves for around twenty minutes, but soon returns for more, the unmistakable slice of his shoe just visible from beneath by blindfold. At first I try to deny my more carnal urges, but before long am sucking greedily on his cock, licking his balls, swallowing every drop of his cum. This process is repeated over what feels like hours, no fewer than six times until he is fully drained, my my lipstick smeared across my sticky face.

The silk-blouse gag is replaced and I feel the strangers hands once again exploring my body, running down my back and between my legs, feeling my wetness. He begins gently stroking my clit with two fingers. My pent up frustration gets the better of me and I bite down on the gag trying not to scream. I want more cock, I long to feel the stranger inside me, to have him use my body. I feel a warm finger enter me from behind. The finger, now wet, then moves upwards, first nudging then gently probing me from behind. Then, something much larger than a finger pressing into me. I gasp, biting down into the gag with my eyes pressed shut, as the stranger straddles the bench and slowly fucks me in the ass, his hands pressing the small of my back firmly downwards. My face is hot with pleasure and embarrassment, (I was saving anal for marriage, obviously,). The stranger is gentle this time, moving slowly and tenderly, until finally he erupts with passion: He leans forward, using his weight to pin me to the bench and I hear his breathing quicken as he cums deep inside me, staying there for a few minutes, the sweat from his chest, soaking into my back. He says nothing, but I hear a deep heavy breathing as he gets to his feet.

I see the sliver of shiny black shoe and the sound of the zip being pulled back up. The struggle has caused the blindfold to slip just a few millimetres, my tiny sliver of vision widening ever so slightly. Looking directly downwards, I see –

I gasp.

I see the clear initials WBH embroidered on the crisp, white shirt tail of the stranger.

Mr… Hardigain??

The sound of at least twenty scraping chairs echoes in the room, but after that – total silence. Once again the room fills with the consuming light and I feel the three pairs of hands this time untying me. I lash out, trying to grab one of them, but weak from nearly four hours in Board Room B, my attempts are futile. I hear the heavy door slam shut, and finally a cool darkness behind my eyelids.

I open my eyes, and take in the room. It is exactly as I remember it, my clothes have gone, a heap of new folded clothes sit neatly on the end of bench. I search for my phone but it has been taken. Slowly I change into the clothes (red shiny high heels, black pencil dress with high neck, black stocking and suspender set) and head for the door. This time it swings freely open into the silent corridors of floor 13. I take the lift back down to the office, it’s now 7:30pm and the floor is quite empty, with the exception of Mr Hardigains office, where I can see through the door panel he is sat at his desk, downing the end of a bottle of whisky.

Taking a deep breath I head to his office and knock the door.

“You know you don’t have to knock Billie, come in”
My Hardigains voice responds from behind the door.

I step into the office, unsure of what to say. Does he know that I know it was him? I thought he liked missionary these days? Why would he have other people man handling me like that? Or maybe it wasn’t him? Does he really know what happened with Mersault or perhaps he was just guessing?

Consumed by my thoughts it takes me a few seconds to realise Mr Hardigain and I are not alone in the room. I look to his right and survey an impossibly tall blonde, dressed in a smart blue office skirt, white sheer blouse, a fuck off Hermès handbag and smart black Jimmy Choos, a pendant just like the one Mr Hardigain gave me hangs lazily from around her neck.

“This is Cindy.”
Mr Hardigain says brightly. “Cindy will be taking your job from tomorrow morning.”

I can’t look at her.
I can’t look at him.
My heart and my eyes conspire against me. Big fat tears bounce onto my blouse.
“Mr Hardi-” I beg

“You’re fired.”
He says without so much as a glance at me. Instead he looks to Cindy, who positions herself on his lap, smiling at me with a smug maliciousness.

To be continued….