She seemed to be unaware of the ripple of craning necks and bashful smiles that followed her every movement throughout our office. More than that, she was bright and charming and without even trying, she had us all eating out of her hand.
At the end of the day, she would sometimes be picked up by her boyfriend. We could all only speculate as to what kind of prince managed to convince this woman to be with him. Surely, he would be the best of the best: the kindest, the smartest, the most deserving.
I learned later that that wasn’t the case.
I didn’t know her well at first, but when we needed an extra pair of hands, she was sent on recommendation to my department to help out. We started off as tea break friends, and then then graduated to lunch friends and then to sit-giggling-with-one-another-when-we-should-be-working friends. I learned then that she was darkly funny, incredibly shy, and very unhappy at home.
He was casually mean, wilfully ignorant and emotionally neglectful. She revealed the truth around the edges at first, and as she became more confident and comfortable in my company, she would reveal more. How he would criticise her clothes, accuse her of being a flirt with his friends, and ignore her for days at a time.
And he would shame her. When she would suggest things like spanking and restraints, he would crinkle his nose and call her a pervert.
That’s when I learned she was kinky, and that’s when I told her that I was too. A line had been crossed, and I felt an immediate crackle of electricity in the air when we spoke. She asked questions, and those questions generated more questions. She was visibly flustered but in no way enough to stop asking more and more and more. We had revealed ourselves to one another. It felt dangerous, yet safe.
So, eventually, I told her about the Red Room.
The Red Room was my kink space. The place I brought only a select few people with whom I could trust and with whom I could play. It was a place that would seal the world away the moment the door closed. A forgetting chamber. In the Red Room, she has no boyfriend. No job. No earthy concerns. I told her that in the Red Room, she existed only as my submissive. The object of my obsession. And would be spoiled and used in equal measure.
Her cheeks burned, and the way she held my gaze let me know my invitation had been...
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Read all about the wonderful author: JM Seaborn
