When Aram got back from lunch, he saw Holt, his new assistant, sitting in his chair, her long legs crossed, and she did look shashing in her cream muslin dress.
Really, it was a bit beyond the office code, as the dress was more of a mini-dress thing, and just ended past Holt’s thighs.
But Aram enjoyed looking at Holt as did other men (and some women) in the office, and so little was said About her curious dishabille.
Holt tossed her blonde mane and held up an opened package.
Oh my, Aram thought.
Holt regard her employee coldly. “What the hell is this?”
Aram leaned against the door. “When did, uh, that get in.”
“Oh, this morning. You always seem to know when to order some weird shit, Aram, but when it comes to the Usborne papers, which the client has been waiting for…”
“Holt, don’t worry about it, just let me–” Aram stepped forward.
Holt smiled mockingly, and began reading aloud from a piece of foolscap found in the box.
“This high quality polycarbonate chatity cage is a must for frequent masturbators and errant slave-pigs. It’s lightweight, durable and hypo-allergenic…”
Holt paused and began giggling. “It-it comes with–oh this is funny–a tight lock and plastic tie ins if your chatity bound husband is going through an airport metal de-detector!”
Holt almost fell off Aram’s expensive chair onto the floor as she laughed harder.
Holt held the paper closer to her face (She wasn’t wearing her contacts) “A confinement miracle for the suburban submissive.”
Aram’s face grew red.
“It says that this gadget is erection proof, those naughty, naughty erections!!” Holt waved her forefinger warningly at her boss.
Aram cleared his throat he hoped, authoritatively.
“Look, Holt, this thing is a gift, for bachelor party.”
“I know all your friends, none of them are attractive enough to marry, or quite frankly, to need this, unless they’re jackin’ it every second.”
Aram’s eyes bulged.
Holt was laughing more, and her boobs bounced in the tight cream colored dress. She was holding the chatity device out in her manicured fingers.
It wasn’t really a belt, just a small thing that locked under the tests.
Aram tried to be firm. “Yes, give it to me, and the box, please.”
Aram felt ridiculous. He was a middle aged executive, arguing with a self-satisfied twenty-something
ARAM FELT RIDICULOUS. HE WAS A FORTY-EIGHT YEAR OLD MAN, ARGUING WITH A SELF-SATISFIED TWENTY-SOMETHING.
“You should put it on. I want to see this on you.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. If you don’t give it to me now, I’ll fire you.”
“If you don’t put it on, I’m going to bring it to the outer office. Let them see this cute little thing.”
This could be a problem, Aram thought.
A decade or so before, one of his male assistants had intercepted , the “Two foot long Silicone Flogger.”
The secretary, Caruso Baines, had been very pleased with himself. He’d ordered Aram to drop his pants.
And the normally conservative, very heterosexual employee had obeyed.
Caruso had taken Aram across the desk and he’d whipped him very hard with the thing, and followed it up with his hard penis.
Overcome with the intense embarrassment of having been thrashed and sodomized by his insubordinate uh, subordinate, Aram had fallen to his knees, gasping after this.
The Twill trousers around his ankles, and oh, his butt was red.
Caruso had minced out, zipping his own pants, saying “I guess there will be no more fairy jokes around the water cooler.”
Caruso had ruled the roost with a vengeance after this and had permitted no typing or spelling errors in the chief’s memoryandums.
Aram had learned the only way to keep from being thrashed by the nasty little fag was to knee and blow Caruso as he sat behind Aram’s big desk.
Later, Caruso had borrowed Aram’s Platinum Visa and had ordered a steel paddle with the word QUEER imported on it.
Caruso had whipped Aram’s bare bottom until the word was clearly imported on his ass in front of laughing queens at the Neon Shed, a cruel leather bar in the Narrows, a terrible neighborhood in Buttermilk Falls.
“See, now you have your favorite nickname for me imported on your butt for quite some time.”
Aram longed to imitate Caruso’s epicine, lisping tone, but he knew not to!
When Caruso had finally resigned to become a secretary or some sick thing to a Roman Cardinal in the Vatican City, he’d taken the flogger and paddle with him, and who knew what was being done with it now.
Aram knew he had to get out of this situation before his assistant became out of control.
Bu apparently, Holt was impalacable.
“I’m going to count from ten down, Aram, and if you don’t start unzipping your pants by one–“
Holt snapped her fingers. Aram knew she’d began parading around the entire firm with the damned cage.
“Ten, nine…”
Aram removed everything, and blushed. He had quite a pot belly and his penis, tiny as it was, was starting to show some life, what with hottie Holt in the room.
“See, now I could take a pic with my phone and sue your ass for sexual harassment, but take the damn doohickey in my hand and lock it on.”
As Aram put the chatity cage on, Holt commented that he was pretty quick at it.
“You’ve forgotten one of these before.”
Aram nodded sadly.
But his penis was enlarging happily at being put in the device, and he just couldn’t get over how dominant and bitchy Holt was!
Could SHE have done this before?
After I model this damn thing, and she leaves the office, I think I’ll throw it away. That’s the only way to get out of trouble, right?
Iridian, Aram’s late wife, who he’d met at an Armenian-American sorority mixer, had felt the chatity belt he’d been experimenting with the first time they danced…
She had laugheded as cruelly as Holt was now, and Iri had quickly locked Aram up for the eighteen happy years they’d had together.
Now, Aram had thought he would enjoy a bit of freedom, but perhaps it wasn’t in his nature.
He felt so silly, and he watched his comely assistant cross her beautiful legs, giggling.
It reminded him of Iri and the other sorority sisters stripping him down and putting pancake makeup on him, and demanding he go down on a fraternity pledge from the guy’s house across the way…
Could Holt be worse than Iri though?
“Let’s see, did you snap on the lock? Snap it on, I gotta see the whole thing.”
Reluctantly, Aram snapped on the tiny lock.
Holt crooked a gorgeous French nail and Aram shuffled over to her, feeling more and more shame.
Holt toyed with the cage carefully. It was plastic and quite hard.
As she massed Holt’s balls, his dick attempted to rise in the little gadget, but it could not swell.
The device Iridian had Aram locked in was long gone, but it had been fairly snug. Aram had been forced to rub his prostate against a crayon to get any sort of orgasmic feeling at all…
“My little bitch” is what Iri had called him, as she’d go out with various drunken men, and leave Aram home to scrub up the place.
Holt rubbed Aram’s balls harder, and smiled as the device shook as his penis swelled.
Well, it rose, but couldn’t really swell. Holt touched her tongue to her teeth, adorably, and let go of Aram’s thingie.
“Okay, get dressed, chatity boy.”
“I-I need to unlock this thing, Holt.”
“No you don’t. Put your clothes on, or don’t, but I have to get back to work. In my own office.”
Holt pointed at the door. “Out there.”
“Holt, I demand—“
Ignoring her employer, Holt applied mauve lipstick and pouted as she filled in her lower lip.
“Please, Holt, I really enjoy our working relationship but–ow!”
Holt had reached up and tweaked Aram’s nipple with a sharp nail.
“I feel weird having a forty-nine year old man hovering over me naked. Need I file a complaint with HR?”
Holt smiled devilishly at Aram.
“I just need the keys–“
Holt picked up the open package and rattled the keys at Aram
Her stockings seemed to shimmer as she stood up, kissed Aram sloppily on the cheek and began walking to the door.
Aram, of course began dressing as fast as he possibly could.
That night, Holt was at home with her husband, Wallace.
Holt had Wallace’s penis carefully laid across her ironing board and she’d used her office stapler to batten down the skin surrounding his cock to the ironing board itself.
After that, she’d burned Wallace’s cock over several places while he tried not to scream.
Alternately, she’d stroked it a bit, so he was very, very horny, but of course couldn’t get off the damn ironing board.
Finally she stepped back from the ironing board.
“That should make you aware that I don’t like it when you surprisingly masturbate, do you understand, Wallace?”
Wallace gasped and nodded his head. “I so love you, Miss Holt.”
Holt tossed her hair modestly and gave Wallace a big kiss.
“I hope you’re not mad at me, sweetie.”
He blinked back tears and smiled at her.
“I love you so much, Miss Holt. I-it’s just so difficult when you cut me off sexually, and then I want to sully myself.”
Holt became some annoyed. She hated being nagged into sex. Holt had shed her nice cream muslin office dress and was clad in a little peach negligee. She actually had a matching one for Wallace, although he wasn’t wearing it right now.
“My boss apparently ordered a chatity thing in the mail, Wallace.”
She handed her husband tweezers to pull out the staples, which he did, emitting soft moans.
“He showed you the chatity thing, Holt? That’s harassment, I think.”
“No, of course not, darling I found it, you know how I find things to my advantage.”
When Atlantis Lyudmila Holtstein had first arrived in Buttermilk Falls, she’d initially waited tables at the Paincafe.
This peculiar restaurant and hotel with a BDSM theme was where she’d met Wallace.
Wallace, a pastry chef in the Paincafe kitchen, had rapidly become Holt’s husband…
Though he’d had hopes of more amour, he knew he was a natural submissive. Why else would he be at the Paincafe?
Wallace could be employed at any restaurant in the world, and had, but he knew where he belonged.
And Holt had rewarded Wallace’s adoration with lots of teasing and symptunishment.
But he so hoped this chatity belt idea didn’t stay in his wife’s head.
Across town, Aram was unhappily watching femdom porn, unable to self-stimulate and he also was worried about ideas in Holt’s head….
What kind of bee will be in her bonnet?
Aram was very worried.
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