HAPPY BIRTHDAY

I don't know why I did it. A crazy impulse. Maybe just that I was a bit randy. I'm not really in a relationship these days, haven't been for a while. And I guess I'm beginning to wonder if I will ever be again. It isn't my biological clock I'm worried about, the hell with that, I never wanted children anyway. But I did want a man. And men who could fulfill my particular needs while still treating me with love and respect--outside of the sexual realm--were, I had long realized, few and far between. I had known such men, but not many. I had also had a fair number of brief flings and one-night stands, but those also were becoming less frequent as the years went on. Not that I look that old; I may have passed the first flush of nubile youth, but I am still attractive enough do draw male attention much of the time. But my needs, my strongest and deepest cravings, were going unsatisifed, with no prospects in sight. So maybe that was why I felt a wicked little thrill as I read Brewt's latest e-mail.

"Who can I commission to spank you?" his message read in part. He had called me a bad girl just before that, because I had neglected to send him some information he had asked for. The note then went on: "I know a guy that works at The Lincoln Center. . . Maybe he could proxy for that. 'Report to so-and-so for a punishment that even you must admit that you so surely deserve, bitch, as I can't be there to see it myself.'"

Of course I knew he wasn't serious. We often joked around in this vein; it was a kind of antiseptic flirtation. He knew my proclivities, they and my stories were what had caused him to contact me originally, but we had never met and never would, he with his wife and children and precarious medical condition up in Maine, me in my zealously guarded anonymity in New York. But we occasionally teased each other in an easy manner as we carried on a correspondence that was admittedly  more assiduous on his side than on mine. I tend to be a lazy and irresponsible bitch, which gave him a lot of opportunity for this kind of pseudo-chastisement.

But now as I read his message, the idea of what he was saying began to worm its way into my mind. Go to a stranger, seek him out, say to him, Here I am, your friend Brewt sent me to be spanked, maybe he wrote you about it. Maybe he didn't. But here I am. Your move.

Something like that.

So I was intrigued. Not really enough to actually expect to do that, or anything like it, but still intrigued. And maybe aroused a bit at the fantasy. So I wrote back in the same light manner, telling him it was an interesting idea, and asking him to tell me more. Did he really know someone at Lincoln Center? If so, was he into this kind of thing? How old was he, what did he look like, maybe I would pay him a visit. Etc. 

Of course he knew I wasn't serious either. In his reply he just said that Logan (his Lincoln Center friend) was nearly 47, and in fact he was having a birthday in a month, and maybe instead of receiving a birthday spanking, he could give me one instead. "And," he added, "as this is for your punishment for being such an insufferable bitch, what he looks like doesn't get to matter."

Oh yes. He hit that nail right on the head.

He went on to outline a few details about how he saw the imaginary confrontation, fleshing out the fantasy according to him, but by that time I had taken it over for myself, and the more I thought about it the more it tended to turn me on. Not that I would actually go through with it. That was ridiculous. Maybe when I was younger I might have done something like that, but now I knew better. It would be a reckless, unwise, silly and possibly dangerous thing to do. It was just a fantasy, that's all.

I wrote to Brewt and asked him when exactly Logan's birthday was. So I could surprise him on the day. Or maybe, I said, he might want to contact Logan and let him know I was coming. So he could make plans if he wanted to. I said I would leave that up to him.

Brewt's next message sounded as though he still thought I was joking, but he wasn't so sure. Well obviously I wasn't so sure either. He didn't tell me whether he would write to Logan or not. He did say he hoped I would send him pictures of the spanking, but he knew that wasn't in the cards. I have never sent him a picture, nor have I ever seen his. In my reply I almost said that maybe I would send him a picture of Logan's cock, but I refrained.

By then Logan's birthday was a couple of weeks away. I still had not really admitted to myself that I was planning to carry out this action, but I found myself thinking about what I might wear in the unlikely event that I did. It was April, spring was coming on rapidly, but the weather was still not really warm. Though it would probably be getting milder soon. I would have to wait and see. Meanwhile I told Brewt I was thinking about it, leaving him to try to figure just how serious I was as we continued to banter about the possibilities. I did get him to tell me Logan's last name, and where at Lincoln Center he was likely to be found. (Since he evidently had a family, I gathered it would not be wise to confront him at his home.) I got the impression that he was indeed planning to inform his friend about our fantasy, telling him either to expect me or not, but I still wasn't really sure.

By the time the day came around, I was still telling myself there was no way I could do this, but deep down inside I knew that I was going to. I was fearful, but I was excited, and the fear only added to the arousal. It had been too long since I had felt this way. Since I had submitted blindly to a man, if only for a brief time. He would know nothing about me beyond what Brewt knew, which wasn't much, not even my last name. I would take no identification with me. I would show up, I would be his birthday gift, I would let him spank me (if that was what he wanted), I would do what he wanted me to do, and I would leave. And that would be it. Of course I knew that all kinds of unforeseen circumstances might arise, I knew nothing about what kind of man he was or what he might do, but that too was part of the wickedly delicious thrill that possessed me as I thought about it. And after all he was Brewt's friend, I was pretty sure he wouldn't kill me or anything. Yes, it was crazy. But I had to do it.

The day was a Tuesday and the sun was shining, though there was a fair breeze. I decided I could get away with a rather light jacket. Under that I wore a stretchy blue pullover top that outlined my breasts nicely, and a rather short beige skirt. I wear short skirts a lot. I happen to think that my legs are my best feature, and as Logan's birthday present I wanted to show myself off to best advantage. Even so, I made an effort to look fairly respectable. I wanted to appear titillating, but not slutty.

There was one other consideration. Brewt in one of our exchanges had said something about the difficulty of putting myself in bondage under my clothes before I got there. "Like one of the girls in your stories," he had said. As soon as I read that I knew I wanted to do it. Present myself to this man all tied up, a birthday package wrapped up with string. Or whatever. But, unlike the fictional women Brewt referred to, who usually had a man to prepare and deliver them, willingly or otherwise, to their assignations, I had no such recourse at that point. And it would of course be impossible for me to tie myself up, at least in any effective manner, and impractical for me to get where I was going if I did.

So that was out. But then I thought of the young teacher in my story "The Last Class," who at the end of the tale had driven herself to what she knew would be a classroom gang bang--a gang rape, actually--wearing a pair of handcuffs, but with only one of the cuffs fastened around her wrist, the other left dangling until she got to her destination. Only when she was just outside the door did she fasten the other one, securing her hands behind her back before going in. It wasn't ideal for my purposes, but it had a certain symbolic value, and I did happen to have two or three pairs of handcuffs lying around, left behind or donated by various male acquaintances over the years. Choosing one, I fitted one of the steel bracelets over my left wrist, and was able to tuck the other one up under the sleeve of my jacket in a fairly unobtrusive manner. I thought about leaving the key behind, but although the notion gave me a shivery little thrill, I fought it down, and ended up dropping the key in my jacket pocket.

It was late afternoon when I set out. I wanted to get there before the offices closed, obviously, but late enough so that most of the people who worked there would soon be leaving, giving us more of an opportunity for privacy. Of course for all I knew Logan might have left early, or taken his birthday off or whatever, but that was all part of the game. I wasn't sure what I would do in that case. Find another strange man to give myself to? There was a time. . . Well, we'd have to wait and see.

I took the subway to Lincoln Center. Logan's office was in a small, rather insignificant-looking building not far from Philharmonic Hall. Brewt had given me his office number, and although there was a reception desk in the lobby, the girl behind it was talking on the phone and didn't pay any attention to me as I went in and got on the elevator.

The printing on the office door said something about "film liaison." I didn't know what that was, and didn't care. My heart was pounding, and I was already a little moist. I thought about cuffing my other wrist before going in, as my teacher had done, but for some reason I held off. I knocked on the door and opened it.

It was a small one-man office, with a large desk and a couple of chairs, a file cabinet and not much else. The man behind he desk I assumed to be Logan. He was a middle-sized man, rather thin, with a kind of droopy brown mustache and sharp squinty eyes. According to Brewt he was 47 today, and that seemed about right, but he was not repulsive or anything. (A fact which was in some measure reassuring, but at the same time strangely disappointing. Don't ask me to explain that.) He looked up at me with no change of expression as I closed the door behind me.

"Hello," I said, in as normal a tone as I could manage. "I'm pamela." 

He nodded slowly. "I figured," he said. His eyes lingered on my face, then took in my body, without being too obtrusive about it. "Have a seat," he said then.

I sat in a small wooden chair across from his desk. "Then I take it that Brewt wrote to you about me," I said. My voice sounded a little strange, to my ears anyway.

"Oh, yeah," Logan said. "He did that all right. He sent me your stories too."

That surprised me. "He did?"

"Yep."

"Well," I said. "That's interesting. Did you read any of them?"

"Hell," he said, and he gave a quick little smile, just a flash, and then it was gone. "Hell, I've hardly been doing anything else for days. Quite an imagination you've got there."

I felt myself flushing. "Well, thank you," I said. He didn't say anything then, just kept looking at me. Finally I took a deep breath, aware of what it did to my breasts under the open jacket. "So you know why I'm here," I said.

He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Or at least I know what Brewt told me. He says I'm supposed to spank you, is that right?"

"Yes," I said. "That's the idea."

He nodded again. Then he said, "How come?"

"Well," I said, "I guess he thought you might enjoy it."

"Uh-huh. And you?"

"Yes, and me," I said. "I'm a masochist, I'm sure Brewt mentioned that."

"Yeah. Figured that out from your stories too."

"No doubt," I said. "So do you want to spank me?"

"What is it?" he said. "You doing research or something? Or is this some kind of birthday prank?"

I was getting a little teed off at his seeming indifference, or whatever it was. But a bit of antagonism just made things more interesting. I took another breath. Then I stood up, took off my jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. His eyes widened a little as the handcuffs came into view, dangling from my left wrist. I then put both hands behind me and fastened the free cuff around my right wrist. "There," I said, standing straight and facing him head-on. "Does that make it more convincing?" 

"Nice," Logan said. His eyes went over me again, more leisurely this time. "Yeah, that's nice all right.. You want to sit down now?"

"If  you want me to sit down, I'll sit down," I said. "You're kind of in charge here , you know?"

"Okay." He didn't ask me to sit down again. "But there's something I'm wondering about."

"What's that?"

"Read your stories," he said. "Most of them, anyway. Funny thing. Lots of things happen to those girls in there. Girls and women. Lots of pretty wild stuff. Torture, rape, all kinds of torment and all. But you know what? I don't remember any of them getting spanked. Not actually spanked. Not a one."

I was nonplussed. "Well. . ." I said, "I--I' m sure that--I mean--"

"Nope," he said. "Not what you'd call a proper spanking, like on the ass with a bare hand. Oh, with a whip, sure. Or a belt. Or a strap, or a crop or what have you. That goes on all the time. But no actual spanking. I noticed."

I tried to think of a spanking scene I had written, and I couldn't. "Well, I guess you're right," I said. "I guess it's just that--well, I guess that doesn't inspire me, doesn't turn me on as much as--you know, other things. What can I tell you?"

He nodded. "What I figured," he said. "So why are you here again?"

I felt another flush starting, and I fought it down. "Okay," I said. "Okay, the fact is, it's not so much the spanking part. I mean that's fine, if you want to do that, I have no objection, okay? But I guess what really got me to do this was--well, the submission thing. The idea of just giving myself to a strange man. Okay? Surrendering to his. . . desires. And. . . well. . .that's it."

Again Logan just looked at me for what seemed like a long time. I was acutely aware of how I looked standing there, with my arms behind me causing my breasts to push out against my top, and my short skirt revealing most of my legs. I thought about sitting down again, but I didn't. Finally he spoke.

"So," he said, "you're telling me I can do anything I want with you, right?"

"I'm hardly in a position to stop you," I said.

"Bullshit," Logan said. "You can scream the place down, you can kick, you can struggle, obviously I'm not gonna take you by force, for Christ sake. I can do what I want because you want me to do it. Right?"

"Okay, yes."

"Anything I want. Do some of that whipping stuff you do write about. Use my belt, whip your ass, maybe other things too, right?"

I felt my knees shaking. "Yes," I got out. "If you want to. Yes."

"Sex stuff too, right? Use your mouth? Have you fuck me? All that?"

I had to swallow. "Yes," I managed.

"And the rougher the better, right?"

I closed my eyes. "Whatever you want."

After another pause I opened my eyes. I had to blink a few times to get him into focus. "Something else you write about a lot," Logan said.

I immediately knew what he meant. I might have made a little sound.

"It's almost an obsession, you might say," he went on.

I forced myself to sound normal. "Jesus," I said. "Everybody's a literary critic."

"Funny,." Logan said. "You know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Tell me."

"Okay, you're always having guys putting out cigarettes on girls' bodies. Usually on their tits, but not always. Usually it's cigarettes, but sometimes it's cigars. Oh, you like branding irons and stuff too, but whatever, it's the burning, right? Even cigarettes in the pussy sometimes. So I'm wondering. You ever actually do that? In real life, I mean. Had it done to you?"

I didn't answer right away. Then I said, "Not for a long time."

"Christ," he said. "That must hurt like hell."

"Yes," I said. "That's sort of the idea."

"You do it a lot?"

"Why?" I said. "Is that what you want to do?"

"Dunno," he said. "You up for that?"

I said nothing.

"I'm not a smoker anyway," Logan said. "Got no cigarettes here. You?"

I shook my head.

"You must have scars from that," Logan said then. "Marks, whatever. Right?"

"Like I said, it's been a long time," I told him. "They've mostly faded. A couple of places, if you look closely, you can see the remains of a mark, but it's not disfiguring or anything. Not even obvious."

"I'd like to see," Logan said.

"Well, here I am," I said.

"Okay," Logan said. "Strip."

"Like this?" I turned slightly, to indicate my shackled wrists.

"Women do it in your stories," he said. "At least a couple of them, as I remember. In fact, their hands were tied with rope, right? So you have more freedom to operate here."

I didn't remember that. I thought of Susan in "Susan's Secret," struggling to pull up her long evening gown for a wealthy stranger, with her wrists tightly bound at her back by the chauffeur who had delivered her. Was there another such scene? Oh god, probably, but it's always much easier for women to do those things in fiction than in reality. As it was, I could only manage to slide my skirt around so my fingers could find the fastening at the side and open it. The skirt fell around my feet. I hooked my thumbs into the back of my bikini panties and pused them down as far as I could. I worked them over my ass, but they clung stubbornly around my thighs, and though I tried to lower them further by rubbing my legs together and even hopping up and down a few times, they refused to budge. I knew I looked ridiculous, but Logan seemed to be enjoying it.

"Okay," he said finally. "That's enough. No way you can do anything with that top anyway. You got a key for those things?"

"In my jacket pocket, " I said.

"Get it and bring it to me."

I moved to the chair, turned and dipped so I could get my hand into the pocket, then pulled out the key and brought it over to him. He took it from me and bent forward in his chair to fit it into the little keyhole as I stood with my back to him. "Don't worry," he told me as the cuffs came off. "I can always put them back again."

"Yes, you can," I said.

"Okay," he said then. "You can finish stripping now."

So I did. I didn't bother going back to where I had been; I stood right there in front of him and pulled my top off over my head, then unhooked my flimsy bra and let it drop. Then I slid my panties the rest of the way down my legs, my body making a little bow as I did so. Stepping out of them, I straightened up, my breasts bobbling slightly. Then I stood there and let him look at me.

"Damn," he said after a minute. "You are one gorgeous woman."

"Thank you, sir."

"My cock is hard right now, you know that? Hard as a bastard."

"Okay," I said. "What do you want to do about it?"

"Christ," Logan said. "What do you think I want to do? I want to fuck the shit out of you, that's what I want."

"Okay," I said.

"Just like that, huh?" Logan said. "I say spread, you spread. I say get down on your knees and blow me, that's what you do. Anything I say, right?"

"Yes," I said. "I think we've established that."

He gave me that quick smile. "You're pretty uppity for a submissive lady," he said.

"Then maybe you should punish me," I said.

"Yeah, maybe." He gazed at me for another moment, then looked at his watch. "Getting kind of late," he said. "People starting to go home. Probably better to wait till the bulding's cleared out a bit. Less chance of somebody hearing you if you scream or whatever, coming in to see what's going on."

I felt breathless for a moment.  "You're going to make me scream?" I said then.

He shrugged. "Give it a try, I guess. Don't suppose you've got any objection."

I told him I didn't.

"Meanwhile," he said then, "that blow job sounds pretty good."

I looked over at his office door. I didn't see any lock. "You're not worried about anybody maybe coming in to say good night or anything?" I asked.

"Not likely," he said. "And anyway, I don't give a shit. Just getting a blow job, probably make me a hero around here. You worried?"

I could have told him that in truth the risk of discovery only enhanced the excitement of the situation, but I didn't bother. I just moved closer to his chair and got down on my knees in front of it. I had his pants open and his zipper down in no time, and his cock was indeed hard and straining. It was longer than I had expected from his general size, though not particularly thick. I started by kissing it just beneath the head, and then began to lick it all over, my tongue working up and down and around while my lips brushed teasingly over his rigid flesh. I felt his hands in my hair, but he didn't try to guide my head or force me to do anything. His breath became audible, and he hissed sharply when I took the head of his cock into my mouth. I teased him by taking my time as I slid my lips down over his erection, inch by inch, my tongue sliding back and forth across the underside.

I was able to take most of him in without any problem, and I paused for a moment before pulling back. He groaned softly, his pelivs arching slightly from his chair, and I thought he might be precariously close to coming already, but he got himself under control as I slid my mouth back up. I brought out his balls and caressed them with my hands as I began to bob my head, sucking him with a variable rhythm, slowly, then more rapidly, then slowing down again. He was making sounds of pleasure almost continually now, and then he suddenly told me to stop.

As I raised my head to look at him, he picked up the handcuffs, which he had placed on his desk, then bent over, reaching down to grab my arms and pull them behind me, and quckly closed the cuffs around my wrists, first the right, then the left. He secured them more tightly than I'd had them before, and I gasped at the unexpected pain. Then he straightened up and leaned back again in his chair. "Okay,": he said. "Continue."

The tightness, the unyielding feel of the cold metal digging into my wrists, galvanized my blood and took me to a whole new level of arousal. I heard myself whimpering around his cock as I sucked on it with renewed eagerness. Though unable now to use my hands, my mouth more than made up for it as I pleasured him in every way I knew with my lips and tongue, taking his cockhead into my throat with each downward movement. Finally his fingers tightened in my hair, his hips arched upward again, and with a cry of joy he began to spurt his come into my mouth, shooting again and again, with me swallowing each burst as it came.

When he was finished I slid my mouth slowly off his diminishing dick and sat back on my heels, though remaining on my knees on the floor. It took him a minute to recover himself.

"Damn!" he said then. He shook his head. "Jesus, girl, that was. . . Jesus."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said. "Happy birthday."

"Yeah. Thanks. You want me to take those cuffs off you again?"

I looked him in the eye. "No," I said.

"Okay," he said. "This isn't over, is it?"

"Not unless you want it to be," I said.

"I don't." He looked down at himself, started to zip his pants up, then stopped. "Hell with it," he said. "Might as well take them off, right?" He stood up then, but realizing that he would have to take his shoes off in order to remove his pants, he sat down again and did so. His socks too. Then he stood and slipped his trousers off, draping them over the back of his chair. He hesitated, then shrugged and took off the rest of his clothes, shirt, tie, undershirt and shorts, piling most of it on another chair. Then he resumed his seat.

"Damn," he said again. "I think I'm getting hard again already, just looking at you like that." He wasn't, though, and as he saw me checking out his groin he flashed that quick grin again, there and gone. "Well, don't worry," he said. "I will be pretty soon. Especially if we try out that punishment thing. With my belt? You ready for that?"

If he was looking he could see the answer in the sudden stiffening of my nipples. I did my best to keep my voice steady as I said, "Do you think it's safe now?"

He looked at his watch. "Yeah, most of 'em will be gone by now," he said. "Anyway, I don't want to wait any longer." He stood up, then reached down to help me to my feet. I watched him as he picked up his pants and slid his belt out of the loops. It was an ordinary medium-width black belt, silver buckle, nothing special. He took hold of the buckle and then wound the strap around his hand a couple of times, leaving about a foot and a half of leather dangling from it. I couldn't take my eyes off it. My breath was coming more quickly now. I knew he saw that.

"Yeah, this should work," Logan said. "Lean over the desk, okay?"

I turned to face his desk, then bent at the waist and lowered my torso onto the surface. My breasts were mashed against the hard wood, my cuffed hands clenched at my back, my ass sticking up and out, in perfect position for the belt. A tiny sound came from my throat as Logan got into position behind me. Anticipation? Yes. Fear? Yes. Happiness?

Guess.

I expected his first blow to be at least somewhat tentative, but I was wrong. It was hard, it was solid, and it landed right across the middle of my ass. It stung like hell, and I gave a loud hoarse gasp as the pain rocketed through me. But that wasn't all I felt. There was an unholy joy, a dark, twisted, possibly inhuman response that was beyond all control. I hadn't felt it in a long time. It was like coming home. To hell, but home.

"You okay?" I heard Logan say.

Damn him for asking me that. I wasn't okay, I didn't want to be okay. I wanted more. "Do it again," I gasped out. "Harder."

"Okay." And he did. This time I cried out sharply, my upper body twisting against the desk, my hands pulling unconsciously against the unyielding cuffs. Logan said nothing. He just waited.

"Harder!" I rasped.

The third blow made me scream. Not a shrill all-out scream, but a scream nonetheless. My legs kicked up and down, and my torso pulled itself up off the desk before settling down again. I was breathing very hard now, almost sobbing. But I stayed where I was.

Instead of hitting me again, Logan now moved around the desk to where I could see him. There was something different in his face now. And I saw that his cock was hard.

"You want to turn over?" Logan said.

I stared at him for a long minute. My heart was going crazy. And then, slowly, I straightened up off the desk and turned around to face him.

"Lie down there," he said, and he put the belt down long enough to help me onto his desk, shoving a few things off it and positioning my body so that I was lying on it full-length on my back. With my arms now pinioned beneath me, my straining torso arched upward as though offering my breasts to him. Like a sacrifice, I thought, as he picked up the belt again.

The first slash across my boobs had me screaming like a siren out of control, and Logan hardly paused at all before he raised the belt again. I could see him now, his twisted face and his rampant cock, and I could see the strap as it came whistling down to sear my breasts again. I loved him and I hated him and somewhere in my gut I was begging him to stop, and at the same time praying that he wouldn't. Then I was screaming again, and again, and I lost track of the blows, and then they stopped and he had dropped the belt and was climbing up on the desk, panting like a bellows and sticking his cock inside me. I cried out and wrapped my legs around him, and then we were fucking like animals, pounding frenzidly at each other. My very sore ass was bouncing against the hard wooden desk and my throbbing breasts flamed at each touch of his body, but I fucked him as hard as I could, crying out in pain and rapture, which were the same thing, and then I was coming, climaxing in a series of unbelievably explosive convulsions, and Logan shot into me just before I finished.

We lay together, with him still on top of me, as our breathing gradually returned to normal. I was aching and throbbing all over, and had never felt happier. Well, okay, I had felt happier, but I felt pretty good. Finally Logan pulled himself out of me and got off the desk. As he helped me to sit up, I became aware of a faint kind of high-pitched machanical whine from somewhere outside the office.

Logan heard it too. "Cleaning crew," he told me, his breathing still ragged. "They're a little early today." Quick smile. "Or maybe it's just that time flies when you're having fun."

I instinctively curled myself up a little as though to hide myself. "Will they be coming in here?" I asked him.

"No, they won't get around to individual offices for a while," he replied. "That's the guy does the vacuuming, he usually shows up first, does the carpets and stuff. Then the rest of them come around an hour or so afterwards, and it's hell to pay if you get in their way."

Now I realized that the noise I was hearing did sound like a large vacuum cleaner. It gradually got louder as I listened. "Well, maybe we'd better get dressed," I said.

"Yeah," Logan said. But he didn't move. "Yeah, I guess we better," he said. But still he just stood there, looking at me. "Unless. . . " he said.

"Unless what?"

A pause.

It was then that I had an inkling of what was coming. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach before it actually reached my brain. A crawling, wormy feeling, with something about it I could never define.

I felt myself swallow. "What?" I said again.

"This guy," Logan said then. "This vacuum guy?"

"What about him?" I said.

"His name's Miguel," Logan said.

"You know him?"

"Just to say 'hi' to," Logan said.

"So?"

"He's big," Logan said. "Well, he's fat, actually. He's not--Well, he's maybe not the most elegant-looking guy in the world. He's kind of--well. . ."

"Jesus," I said.

"I was just thinking that maybe--"

"Say it," I said.

"Maybe you'd like to meet him," Logan said.

I couldn't speak for a minute. Then I said, "Is that what you want?"

He just looked at me. I looked back at him. I saw his face change. His eyes. Sort of like when he was whipping my breasts. What he saw in mine I can only imagine.

"Yes," he said finally. "That is what I want."

My blood was pounding. "All right," I said. "Bring him in."

I expected him to at least slip his pants on before going to the door, but he didn't. He moved to it naked and opened it about halfway. "Hey, Miguel?" he called loudly "Miguel!" I heard the sound of the vaccuum stop, and he lowered his voice slightly. "Hey, Miguel, can you come in here for a minute? Yeah, come on, I want to show you something, okay?"

Again my instinct was to hide myself, but instead I forced myself to uncurl my body and slide off the desk, so I was standing by it when Miguel came in. Standing naked with my hands pulled behind me, my hair all in a tangle and vivid belt marks on my breasts and ass.

He was fat, all right. And elegant was the last word you would use in describing him. He was big all over, swarthy and oily-looking, and not particularly clean. His fingernails were filthy, his dark hair an uncombed mass falling over his ears. It was hard to guess his age. His skin was pitted and blemished, and he was missing at least two teeth that I could see. He was wearing a pair of grease- and dirt-stained overalls over a wrinkled T-shirt that stuck to his skin where he had sweated it through.

When he came through the door and saw me, he stopped dead, his mouth actually dropping open. Logan had to nudge him forward a bit so he could close the door again. He tried to say something, but at first only a croaking sound came from his throat. He turned to stare at Logan, and then back at me. "Holy fuck!" he got out. Then: "Holy Jesus! What the fuck--Hey, shit, man! What--"

Logan moved behind his desk. He was smiling now. "Miguel," he said, "this is pamela. You like her?"

"Do I-- Holy shit!" Miguel panted. "She's--Christ, she's naked! And you got her-- Jesus, man! You kidnap her or what?"

"No," Logan said. "She's here of her own free will. And she'll do whatever you want. Won't you, pamela?"

I firced myself to look straight into Miguel's eyes. "Yes," I said, as clearly as I could. "Yes, I will."

"Fuck!" Miguel didn't have to hear anything nmre. He pulled his overall straps down, opened a few snaps and pushed the garment down over his legs. His undershorts went with them. He didn't bother with anything else. His cock was already hard. It was fat too, and didn't look much cleaner than the rest of him. He just stood there then, evidently not sure what to do next, maybe waiting for me to make the first move.

"Okay, pam," Logan said then. "Why don't you start by giving Miguel a nice blow job, just like you did for me. You okay with that, Miguel?"

Miguel made a kind of grunting sound which was unmistakably affirmative, and I went down on my knees.

Okay, this is the thing that I can never explain, even to myself. Yes, I know I am a masochist, and that I respond in an erotic manner to pain, to force, to bondage, to humiliation, to all those things that most women find ugly and horrible. That may be strange, but that's the way some people are. I have come to terms with that, and can understand it, at least on some level. But there are depths beneath that which are unfathomable to me. I was truly repulsed by this man. Truly disgusted. The kind of degradation and loathing I felt as I fell to pleasuring him with my mouth and tongue is almost indescribable. But in spite of that--or maybe because of that--I was filled with the most profound, all-consuming, soul-searing, mind-transporting kind of dark ecstasy and passion, and I knew without a doubt that this was what I had been born for. I hated what I was doing to the depths of my consciousness, but I was compelled to do it in spite of that--not just by Logan, who was after all only the instrument of my self-abnegation, but by my own helplesly, uncontrollably submissive being. By what I was.

What I am.

I heard myself moaning loudly around Miguel's cock as I sucked him without inhibition, and it wasn't long at all before he cried out and exploded into my throat. I swallowed all his jism, of course, and he was already starting to harden again as I slipped my mouth off his slimy dick.

"Okay, pam," I heard Logan say. "You can fuck him now."

So I did. We got Miguel to lie down on the floor--he was too big for the desk, and there was no couch in the office--and I straddled his hips and lowered my crotch to his now fully erect cock. My hands were still cuffed behind me, but he guided himself into me and I sank down all the way until I was sitting on him, with that thick pole stretching my pussy. And I fucked him with all my being. Fervently. Passionately. Bouncing up and down, varying my rhythm, twisting my body with each stroke to make it better for him. His hands came up to clamp my breasts, and he squeezed them hard, and I reveled in the pain. He pulled me down by them so that my upper body rested on his chest, and then his hand was in my hair and pulling my face down to his. At first I resisted, and then I didn't, and I kissed his foul mouth and moaned into it and stuck my tongue between his lips. And then I heard something behind me, and I felt the sharp sting of Logan's belt across my ass. Twice more he whipped me, and I was screaming, and then I came again, bucking and spasming and squirming on top of Miguel until he shot inside me with a roar.

It took me a few minutes to recover, and the next thing I was really aware of was Logan unlocking my handcuffs. I was lying on the floor. Logan was already partially dressed, and Miguel was standing over me, pulling up his overalls. Evidently the fun and games were over. I sat up, and Logan helped me to my feet as I rubbed at my abraded wrists.

"Jesus," Miguel said. "That sure was fun. Jesus. Gotta get back to work now, though. Thanks, guys."

Logan started to say somehing, then stopped. I saw that he was staring at Miguel--or more accurately, at Miguel's chest. I didn't understand why, until I looked too, and noticed something sticking out of the breast pocket of his overalls. My heart turned over.

"Hey, pam?" Logan said then.

"Yes?"

"Do you see what I see? In Miguel's pocket there?"

"Yes," I said. It sounded like a whisper.

"What is that, pam?" Logan said.

I kept myself from swallowing with an effort. "Looks like a pack of cigarettes," I said.

"Yeah, it does. Hey, Miguel?"

"What?"

"Is that a cigarette package in  your pocket?"

"Yeah," Miguel said. "Can't smoke in the building, though. Against the law. Gotta go outside to smoke 'em."

"That's all right," Logan said. "I don't want to smoke them."

"No? What you want then?"

Logan looked at me. "Pam?"

I said nothing.

He turned back to Miguel. "Can I bum one off you, man?"

Miguel shrugged and pulled out the pack. "Yeah, but I don't know what you're gonna do with it," he said. He held the pack as Logan took a cigarette from it, then put it back and brought out a crumpled book of matches. Logan took them and lit the cigarette, accidentally taking in a bit of smoke in the process, which made him cough. Then he turned back to me.

My eyes were drawn to the glowing tip of the cigarette. My breath was coming harder, my breasts going up and down. Still I said nothing.

"Pamela?" Logan said.

I took a long, unsteady breath. "Don't ask me, Logan," I said. I could feel myself shaking. "Just don't ask me. Please. Don't ask me."

"Okay," Logan said. He moved toward me then, the cigarette in his hand. I instinctively took a step back. "Miguel," Logan said.

"Yeah?"

"Hold her still."

Miguel's eyes went wide as he realized what Logan had in mind. "Jesus!" he gasped. "You're gonna--Holy shit! That's crazy, man! What if she--"

"Get behind her," Logan said. "Grab her arms, hold her steady, okay?"

Miguel hesitated.

"Come on, man," Logan urged him. "Your whole damn crew will be up here any minute."

Miguel finally shrugged, then slowly came toward me. This time I didn't move away. But then I heard some low sounds from somewhere outside the office. Voices, but very faint, as though coming from the other side of the building. 

"Shit!" Logan said. "Let's do this quick. Put your hand over her mouth, because she's gonna scream for sure."

"I got a better idea," Miguel said. He reached into a side pocket and pulled out a very large and dirty rag, as stained and crusty as his overalls. With his other hand he took hold of my hair and pulled my head back so he could stuff the thing in my mouth. He crammed all of it in; it filled my mouth to bursting and stretched my jaws wide. It tasted impossibly foul, and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick.

Miguel now quickly moved behind me and took hold of my upper arms, pulling them behind my back and causing my breasts to push out conveniently as Logan stepped up in front of me. He tapped a bit of ash off the end of the cigarette, then blew on the tip to make it glow brightly again. I heard myself making a little whining sound behind the wadded rag in my mouth.

Logan gave me his quick little smile. "This is better than some old birthday spanking, isn't it, pam?" he asked me. "In fact, in a way it's like blowing out a candle on a birthday cake. Or something like that. You know?"

I couldn't tear my eyes from the glowing redness. I was shaking harder now.

Logan raised the cigarette to my right breast. "Look at me, pam," he said then. "I want to see your eyes as I do this."

I raised my head and looked directly into his eyes.

"Good girl," he said. His hand moved, and I felt the emanations from the burning cigarette on my nipple. It hadn't touched me yet, but it was close enough for me to feel the heat. Logan was looking at my eyes, but his hand was guiding him where he wanted to go. The nipple was hard and stiff , and it felt like he was aiming at a spot just below the straining nubbin, right at the point where it stuck out from the surrounding flesh.

Then his hand moved again, and I felt the burning.

He didn't just jam it against me, or grind it out all at once. He touched me with it lightly, almost kissing the skin, turning it a little and letting it stay alight while he moved it slowly on my nipple. Either he'd had more experience with this than he had let on, or he had really been paying attention to my stories. It seemed to go on for a long time, but of course it was only a few seconds before the thing finally extiguished itself in my flesh under his gentle pressure.

There was no way I could keep eye contact with him at that point. I was howling madly into my foul gag, my body thrashing and twisting crazily in Miguel's strong grip, my hair whipping wildly around my face as my head tossed around like a rag doll. I screamed again and again, and even with the gag muffling my cries, they were shrill enough to alarm Miguel, who let me go after a minute and, muttering something about having to get back to work before he got fired, quickly left the office. 

When he let go of me I fell to the floor, then curled into a ball and rolled around for a minute or so, moaning and cradling my breast, my legs kicking spasmodically until the worst of the pain had faded a bit. I couldn't get enough air, until I managed to get a hand to my mouth and, with some effort, pull out the filthy rag that was choking it. Then the next thing I knew Logan was on top of me, pushing me down and prying my legs apart. His pants, which he had put back on earlier, were now halfway down his thighs, and his rigid cock was inside me before I could think. Then he was pounding at me hard and fast, and it couldn't have gone on very long, but he came again with a shout, and so did I.

Almost immediately he was on his feet again. "Better get dressed," he said breathlessly as he zipped himself up. Above my own stertorous breathing I could hear the voices outside, sounding closer now. With my head still swimming and the searing pain caused by the cigarette still pulsing through my body, I crawled around, gathering up my clothes as quickly as I could. With Logan helping me, I slid back into my top and skirt, stuffing my underthings into the pocket of my jacket, along with the handcuffs.

"Okay," I said then. "I guess that's it. Happy birthday." And I headed for the door.

"Hey," Logan said.

I stopped. "What?"

"You gonna come back?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. "This was a one-time-only thing. Probably my last."

"How come?" he asked.

I shrugged. It hurt. "I'm getting too old for this kind of thing," I said. "And this isn't going anywhere. You have a family. And besides, you know Brewt. Which means whatever you learn about me, he'll probably learn too. And he already knows too much. I like to keep my Internet relationships private and anonymous."

"That's bullshit," Logan said. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. Just show up."

I hesitated. "I won't say it's not tempting," I said. "But I don't think so."

He flashed his quick little grin. "Even for my birthday?" he said.

I found myself smiling back at him, reluctantly. "Okay," I said. "Fine. Next year on your birthday."

"A year from today," Logan said. "Mark it down on your calendar."

"I will do that," I told him. "I surely will."

"Maybe then I can blow out two candles," he said.

I had to swallow. "Could be," I said in a croaking voice. And then I left.

Outside the office the cleaning crew was at work all right, dusting, sweeping, emptying wastebaskets. A few of them looked at me curiously as I went out, but nobody said anything. Down in the lobby the reception desk was now occupied by a middle-aged man who was talking to a night guard in uniform. Both of them checked me out rather obviously as I went by. I was sorely tempted to give them a flash of my ass as I went through the door, but I didn't.

I did mean to mark Logan's next birthday on my calendar, as promised, but when I got home I realized that I do not yet have a calendar for next year. It is still only April, and I don't even know if next year's calendars are issued yet. So I have nothing to mark it down on. But that's all right.

I'll remember.