THE OUTLET

“John, I want that report finished by close of play.  I want quality and attention to detail.”
“Absolutely, with bells on.  Your partner’s on the phone.”
“I’ll take it here ... Sweetheart?  ... No.  Tell them if they don’t have someone out immediately, we will change service provider ... I don’t care about the hassle ... all right, I’ll sort it out, I’ll call them later ... The children’s lunches?  Avril has wholemeal pitta, she’s on one of her faddy diets and Peter has the white bread sandwich.  I wish you’d remember these things  ... The washing machine’s still not working?  Right, buy a new one ... any make you like ... All right then, I’ll come with you ... love you too ...  Bye.  
“John, I’m presenting on Monday, please could you ensure the presentation is on my laptop.”
“Absolutely, with bells on.  They want a decision on Syria.”
“Delay them.  I’m going out in three hours.  I’ll have a decision when I get back.”
“Absolutely.”

At lunch break I find myself in that familiar bare tidy room of that anonymous suburban house, lying on my stomach being fucked.  Will is very good at his job, an absolute professional.  He knows I don’t want to talk when I come in; I just want to be thrown on the bed, stripped and seen to, precisely what he’s doing.  Halfway through he’ll mutter ‘OK?’ just to check I’m all right and I’ll say rather impatiently ‘Yes!  Yes!’

If John says ‘Absolutely, with bells on’ one more time I swear I’ll fire him.

Will is rather good with his hands ... I can feel the tension being squeezed right out of me.  I’m going to cum and it won’t be the first time this afternoon either.  Will usually gets me off twice.

“OK?”
“Yes!  Yes!  Shut up!  I’m going to cum!”
Ahh, so much better!  Now I’m being beaten with some kind of paddle.  It really hurts, really fucking hurts.  Oh yeah!

Maybe I won’t fire John ...

It’s over, it’s done, Will is untying my hands, gently now, stroking my sore skin, soothing me.  I take a deep breath.  Then he kisses the back of my neck, he’s never done that before ...

“Are you coming next week?” he asks as I dress.
“’Fraid not.  Out of the country.  Tell you what, I’ll pay you for then anyway, I know times are tough.”
“It’s not that, I’ll miss you,” he stares at me with wide, sincere eyes.

Another avenue of pleasure closed.  There can be no more Will.  From now on, it’s only going to be Whitehall and its corridors of decision, power and stress.  Then home, the chaos of the children and choosing new washing machine, because my partner is incapable of making the simplest decisions ...

So fucking irritating!  Will, getting unprofessional  like that ... If John doesn’t have that report ready, I am fucking firing him.