Elizabeth: A Lady In Control

I work hard, one of those rare corporate types who made it to the top. Damn near the top, anyway. The only thing keeping me from the pinnacle of the company is the usual: old white men who won't die -- yet. I got here with hard work, determination, business savvy, and long hours, yes; but control has been my best asset.

Control has held my composure when others got promotions I earned, and it served me well again when I had to answer to men far less qualified than myself. I've never hid my gender behind male or boorish attire, but neither did I flaunt it with skimpy garments more suited to night clubs than board rooms. I've always dressed, done my hair and makeup, in a tasteful way, flattering my features in an understated,controlled, way. More 1940's than the powersuits of today. And should anyone make advances, I exercise great control in a polite yet firm manner which bade them never ask again.

It was upon witnessing one of these scenes that the secretary to the CEO first became my champion. After the man left, a bit red-faced and quickly, Mary cleared her throat to let me know she had seen it all. Certain she had my attention, she walked two pace towards me then stopped and nodded that she approved of my actions. She turned to continue her way to the executive hallway, but then she stopped again and turned to look me over from head to foot. Satisfied with what she saw in my appearance she raised her eyebrow and gave another small nod before she continued on her way to disappear down that hallway -- the corridor to coveted offices and job titles.

Mary was a fixture in the company, having been there since it began. She knew and guarded all the corporate secrets. From that first meeting in what we later would call Rejection Hallway, Mary made a point of watching me. Over time my quiet reserve, determination and the control I exercised at all times convinced Mary that I was worthy of her favor. She did more than mentor me with company history and information on how our corporate old boys club worked, but put my name in all the old boy ears. I'm certain Mary saw herself reflected a bit in me and felt I was deserving of more leadership opportunities. It wasn't just our connection over modest throw-back to the 40's fashion that we shared. It was appreciation of control.

Since the foundation of my success is control, it's not coincidental that I adore foundation garments. I own many shaping undergarments. Girdles, long line bras, corsets... Foundation garments of nylon, rubber, zippers, hooks and eyes, and elastic which reach and stretch to properly maintain posture as well as restrain and contain the swells of my sex. With proper foundation garments, my bottom is rounded; my hips, waist, and bustline moulded into the classic hourglass shape beneath even the most bleak power suit. Even if my shape is hidden, I am aware of my body. Every movement I make is accompanied by a lovely stretch, a firm hand keeping me in -- and reminding me of -- my place.

My favorite pieces are the all-in-one, open bottom, corselettes. The corselette combines the support of a long line bra with the contouring of a girdle in one garment, and the open bottom assures it need not be removed until you're ready for bed. There's the wiggling it into place, the settling and smoothing of lace, and knowing it need not be mussed with until I go to bed. But there is something more -- something which lasts all day and into the night if I'm lucky. I look forward to it so much that I only allow myself to wear corselettes on Fridays.

On Fridays I meet Mark, a gentleman who appreciates an impeccably dressed lady with manners to match. We meet in the foyer of my building to dine late in the restaurant. He always arrives first and I walk toward him, every inch the lady, gently swaying on my high heeled pumps. He always kisses my hand, places it upon his arm, and then squires me to our usual table in the back. Once seated he will comment upon my lovely posture, nod his approval at my ankles neatly tucked one behind the other, and we will enjoy a quiet meal.

We look the picture of polished politeness, but beneath it all my sex is free and aching. And he knows it.

The stockings stop at a flash of warm milky thigh before the skirting of girdle begins. Between stocking top and girdle hem, between my thighs, lies a warm open free space. A place Mark will exploit as if I were naked; a place he'll take and use as if I were the most sloppily dressed, common whore rather than the demur lady I appear to be.

He is always the last to finish eating, whereupon he offers to escort me to my apartment. I, in turn, always invite him in for a nightcap which he accepts with a nod of his head. As I hang his coat in the front hall closet he busies himself at the bar making us each a drink. When we each take to our proper seats, he in the side chair and myself on the sofa, the evening really begins.

As he sets his drink down on the coffee table his knuckles brush the edge of the magazines stacked there... The top one slides just a little. I reflexively leap to slide it back in place, squaring the corners of all the issues, and I mutter something about tidying up a bit.

"You know, Elizabeth, a lady ought to be seen but not heard." At the sound of his voice I jump and quickly reseat myself on the sofa. Blushing, I lower my lashes to look at my lap.

"Come here, Elizabeth."

Sometimes my legs tremble so, I imagine that I cannot stand; but I always do. Tonight I stand before him as if I had too much to drink, but it's not alcohol. I am emotionally tipsy with anticipation.

"What are you wearing?"

"Surely even a naughty, talkative girl knows she must remove her clothing," he says in a low quiet voice.

Under his appraising stare I slowly remove my jacket, folding it precisely in half and then carefully laying it gently on the arm of the sofa. I smooth it once, twice, before I begin to remove my skirt. Once removed it too is folded neatly in half, set and soothed on top of the jacket. Mark continues to watch as next I slowly remove my blouse, fold it in two and set it on top of the skirt, which is on top of the jacket, all atop the arm of the sofa. I smooth the blouse, and satisfied I turn to stand before him in just my white corselette, stockings and shoes.

As he continues to look at me, any playful confidence I may have had fades.

"What are you waiting for, Elizabeth," he commands rather than asks. "You know what you've done, and what you must now do."

This may happen every Friday, but this moment is always fresh. Raw. The fear in my throat as I surrender to his lap is real. It isn't exciting or thrilling now. This is real submission as I, without any force or further encouragement from him, must prostrate myself on his lap before anything will occur. I must hand over my power, my body, myself to him -- folding myself as neatly over his lap as I had folded my clothing over the arm of the couch. Once, after a particularly stressful day at work, it took 15 minutes for me to do so. Never once did Mark repeat his request, make any sound or movement. He never does. He just waits for me to submit.

I stand before him, face flushed, eye lashes drawn to my cheeks, willing myself to move. Slowly I take a step, then another, and I lower myself to his lap, my head hanging over his left leg. It is done.

Sometimes he rubs my round nylon covered bottom first. Sometimes, his hand suddenly comes down in one mighty crack -- or three, or ten. Sometimes, he starts by trailing his fingers over the bare flesh of my thigh. But spank me he will. No matter when or how I brace myself, no matter what I brace myself for, I am never prepared.

While I nervously await what happens next I feel his erection forming against me.

Tonight he begins with rubbing my bottom, slowly with just his dominant right hand.

"Tell me why you are being punished."

"B-because I wasn't being a proper lady" I whisper.

"And what was your mistake, Elizabeth?"

"Aren't you sure, Elizabeth?"

I swallow hard, "Yes, Mark. I'm sure. I spoke out of turn."

"Yes Elizabeth, you spoke out of turn and too often," and on the last word the rain of spankings hit my bottom.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

I jumped, I squirmed, but most of all, I felt the heat between my legs. Hot and insistent, as if someone held my gentials tight in his fist. But then, someone did.

Another crack and I heard myself yelp "Mark!"

He stopped spanking and said "You still don't understand, do you, Elizabeth?"

His voice was gentle, yet he was menacingly tracing the hem of my open-bottomed girdle so that his fingertip wouldn't touch my bare flesh, as if toying with me. "Are you going to be quiet?"

I nodded furiously hoping he'd resume the spankings and not notice how wet I was getting already; it would only add to my shame.

"I don't think you will, Elizabeth..." he said as he took both his hands and griped my bottom, one half per hand, his thumbs sliding across the nylon over the edge to rest on the insides of my bare cheeks, effectively spreading me despite the girdle's restraints. "I looks to me as if someone is very naughty and enjoying her punishment... Is that true Elizabeth?"

"No," I breathed, more in denial of my body's betrayal and his discovery of it than an accurate reply.

"Really? Then what's this, Elizabeth?" he said as he took his right hand and slid his fingers along my swollen, wet pussy lips.

I managed to choke back my groan, but I couldn't help but slide my legs together.

Another slap on my bottom as he said "Oh, now, you know better than that."

Another volley of sharp slaps and then he paused to blow air across my warm backside.

"Now listen, Elizabeth," he said as he randomly pinched along the inside of my thighs, "these are my rules. Rules you must follow, so listen."

He began to speak as he spanked me rhythmically and with control, "You will not speak unless spoken to. When spoken to, you will reply promptly. If you don't abide by my rules, you will have to sit in the chair on a time out, understand?"

"Yes," I both said and nodded.

"Now stand, Elizabeth," he said.

I struggled from his lap and wobbled to standing. He joined me, taking my hand and led me slowly to the couch. With one firm hand on the small of my back he silently pushed me into bending over the cushions of the couch. His right fingers softly stroking the outside of my lips, slick with juices. I sigh; I moan; but I do not speak, for when I do he'll stop. And I can't bear the thought of him stopping.

One finger slides up to my clit, flicking across it, and I gasp.

"What was that, Elizabeth?"

"Oh, poor Elizabeth, her legs tremble... does her cunt tremble also?" he sticks a finger inside and I push my ass up and out eager to take his finger in as far as I can. "Such a naughty girl, Elizabeth; how unseemingly to pop your rear out like that, like a cat in heat. Tsk tsk."

I tense a bit, fearing some reaction on his part, but Mark moves his finger in and out slowly. I try to concentrate on not moving my hips to match his movements -- and to remain silent. My fingers grab tightly on the fabric of the couch cushions.

"Such a wet, slutty girl you are, Elizabeth," he says and removes his finger past my sucking cunt walls. "I wonder, what I must do to make my point with you?"

I turn my head around and look at him imploringly, but do not utter a sound. My gaze isn't met with pity; I receive a slap on my bottom. I turn away from him again.

"Spread your legs wider, Elizabeth... yes, that's a good girl."

He traces his fingers gently all around my opening, I can't help myself now, I want to be filled so badly that I twist myself to try to catch his fingers. I am met with another slap on my bottom and a pinch on my clit. I buck and nearly stand, but Mark has timed things perfectly so that he can use my leap to easily slid me onto his hard cock.

He bends me forward again and whispers menacingly in my ear, "Is this what you wanted, Elizabeth? If you want it, tell me so."

"Tell me what you want."

He thrusts deeper and then quickly withdraws so that just the tip of him is inside me. "What do you want, Elizabeth?" "I want you... I want your, your cock."

"And what do you want with my cock, you naughty girl?" he says as he gently see-saws the tip of his cock back and forth at the entrance to my cunt.

My juices are running down my leg and my pussy is so hungry for him that I hurt. "I-I want you to fuck me," I moan in misery.

"Where are your manners, Elizabeth? Say 'Please'..."

I sigh in frustration and Mark takes my clit between his thumb and finger and squeezes -- he doesn't let go.

I writhe and say "Please, Mark, fuck me!"

"Oh no, now it's too late. Didn't you know it's poor manners to make people wait outside rather than properly invite them inside?" He is laughing now, and fully enjoying this. He disengages himself as he continues to hold my clit between his fingers, ensuring that I do not try to remain attached. I remain panting but still. Mark relaxes his grip on my swollen clit, and asks "Elizabeth, what do you want, m'dear lady?"

As I try to reply politely, he repeatedly pinches my clit -- "Please, Mark, fuck me," I manage to say in between sucking air through my teeth.

With that he forces my head closer to the couch cushions and enters me roughly. He fucks me hard, and I quickly shudder my release. But he doesn't stop.

I begin to peak again, and then again, riding the waves of orgasm as he continues to pound me from behind. Gone is the shame of the loss of control, gone is the work week, gone is all but the beautiful rhythm of his pounding me into the sunset.

My legs move past trembling and I shake so hard I begin to think I can't take any more -- at the very least I will fall off my heels. But he doesn't stop. I pant, "Stop, please," but I am only met with harder thrusts and a slap on my ass. I shudder and shake, but he won't be loosened. He pumps on and on. He knows I can -- I will -- take more.

When I think I must surely scream, he reaches his right hand around and frees my right breast from its corselette confines and roughly pinches and twists the nipple. Finally, I do scream. I am in bliss. Then he too comes -- with one last thrust that would have knocked me from my shoes had it not been the grip he had on my hips and the stability of his hard-on stuck deep inside me.

With that, he gives me one final slap on my ass, before heading for the washroom. Knock-kneed, I sit myself on the edge of the couch. I am still holding my head in my hands when he returns.

His coat is folded neatly over his left arm, his right hand fingering the bills I left in his pocket. He winks and says, "Dinner again on Friday, Elizabeth?"

I nod, and he says "Do try to remember your manners this time, Elizabeth. I do so enjoy the company of a real lady."