I know what you're thinking, "Geez, quit being such a sap. Get out and live life." "Quit blaming everyone for your lame ass sob story." That's easier said than done. I've tried fitting in with different communities, but most people don't seem to get me. I've been told I'm always walking the line between things, and should make a jump to one side or the other already. Or some people just don't take me seriously, always mistaking my kindness for weakness, and never believing the quiet, petite thing in the room could have big appetites.
In the last five years, I've started having urges. Big ones, with big teeth. I was raised in church, though, so I try to calm them down, swallow them whole, and bury them deep so they can't come out. The things I see in my head are wrong to want. I've been told over and over again that I'm sick, dirty. These...tastes..grew quiet over time as I became used to having to force them down until I forgot they were there. But lately, they've started screaming again.
Now that I've laid the foundation of where I came from, I'll get to where I am now. I work for a corporation, and while I may not be one of the key players at the top, I'm somewhat close. Close enough that those below me envy my position. Being reserved affords me the ability to get close to certain clients that others are unable to. I try to see that as a positive thing, although it's an inside joke; these are usually the clients no one else wants to deal with.
There's a handsome man who has the seat on the rung right above me. We'll call him Dick, because rumor has it, he is "the next" Big Dick Johnson up for promotion, and his latest sub is next for his seat, even though she's two rungs below me. During meetings, when I pitch an idea, he's condescending to me, even though my ideas are legit, taking credit, and sneering. I know he's attracted to me, though, because his smell gives him away.
Sometimes when I daydream, I dream of having his chair and the salary that comes with it. And yes, I have also dreamed of having him, but the stars have had other plans.
He laughs at his conquests, which tends to deflate the whole daydream thing. You can always hear him talking in the halls, in the break room, waiting for the valet, or in the elevator, about his latest sub. Always laughing at her tears and her pain, feeding on her humility. He laughs when they fall for him, trusting and believing in him while he ties them up naked and vulnerable, then takes pics and videos, sharing them at work. Once, I heard him spin quite a tale of Miss Two Rungs, how he strung her along for weeks, threw a party at his house, which she foolishly attended. I know, because I was once like her, in that very situation, a long time ago, now. They both slipped away to his bedroom, her thinking he had finally committed his full attention to her, him already making eye contact with the chick by the window. During sex, right before she was about to cum, he jumped up from the bed and grabbed handcuffs. He cuffed her to the bed, wrists and ankles, blindfolded her, and left her lying there sweaty and naked while he giggled. He ignored her while she asked what he was doing, what was going on. He answered with a laugh and told her he'd be right back; he was getting her a surprise. He continued to laugh at her willingness and stupidity while he told his buddies at work. Her "surprise" was him pulling everyone from the living room into the bedroom to laugh and stare at her helplessness. She probably thought he was going to get strawberry syrup, but he came back with a load of drunk friends, all laughing and recording as she struggled against the embarrassment and demanded to be let out. Some were even female, which made it worse. All laughs aside, he did let her go, then, and still, here she is, sucking his cock at work, trembling when he pets her.
I want to take her under my wing, show her how to be something else. But I swallow it down.
This last conquest, Miss Two Rungs, the one about to jump over me because apparently she can suck his eyeballs out through a straw, is in the restroom stall next to me, bawling her eyes out because she caught him with someone else, but still professes her undying devotion to him while talking to her mother on the phone. I roll my eyes while washing my hands, unable to believe Dick has this kind of devoted lover, people following him everywhere, begging for scraps, doting on him like he were a god, when all I've gotten in life was a couple of narcissistic parents and a Bible. This stirs something in me, but again, I swallow it down. It's none of my business, and I have work to do piling up on my desk because Dick is a dick.
After a meeting that ran later than it should have, as usual, I offered to stay late and finish a presentation a client needed for tomorrow. I was exhausted. It was a long day, and I really needed a drink. I was alone on the floor, so I kicked my heels off, let my hair down, took my suit jacket off, unbuttoned the first few buttons, and poured a shot of Jack I kept in my bag just for nights like this. I plugged in my playlist, and was listening to Heaven's Gates by Devault, just dancing around the conference room trying to relax before I get started, work spread out on the table.
The Jack has me relaxed and feeling a little aroused. I'm so glad I thought to bring my dildo to work with me today, but I reluctantly swallow that down as well. Work first, then play, I think to myself, and dive into the work before me. The music shuts off, and I turn around to see Dick, cock of the walk, sneering with a knowing grin like he just caught a hen laying a golden egg, and is about to take it to market. "Well, well, if it isn't little Ale, having a little ale." He laughs as if that were the funniest, most original joke of all time. Half fearing for my job, and disgusted with his arrogance, I say, "Clever, you caught me. It won't happen again. I just thought I'd have a shot or two before I get started". He looks me up and down, slowly, like really dragging it out, and says, "That? I don't give a shit about that." He's inching his way closer to me, and I'm running out of inches to back up.
When he sees he's backed me up to the spot he wants me, which is coincidentally right in front of the head chair, he turns to the table and helps himself to a shot of my Jack. I can feel my fingernails digging into my palms. After he slams that shot, he decides it wasn't enough and grabs the bottle instead, gesturing in the air while telling me some story about Miss Two Rungs, laughing, smirking, making fun of her as if this would turn me on and drop me to my knees. I fought the urge just then, a silly, sarcastic urge, to do just that. Drop to my knees and hold my hands together in prayer, and beg, "Oh me, me, please pick me!" The look on his face when I did that in my head was priceless. But I swallowed it down. I did giggle, though, not meaning to. He mistook the tiny giggle as interest, so he charged ahead, full speed, nearly downing every drop as he talked. I watch with silent enthusiasm as the bottle empties, because little does Dick know, the urge has been keeping scopolamine in my bag. The more he talks, the more my fingers twitch. The small voice inside is keeping that down, like a tug of war brewing. The shot I had has me hot, and the sound of his voice has me wet. But not for him.
I realized I was calculating his measurements and trying to decide how much scopolamine to give him when he turns to me and says, "Right? You do, don't you? I knew you did." He smirks again and turns away to set the bottle on the table. That smirk. It says he knows me inside and out, and wants to toy with what's hidden. It says I'm dirty and sick in all the wrong ways, but one night with him will fix it.
I'd like to test that.
It hit me, then. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small bottle of chloroform. Puzzling, that. I don't remember putting that in my pocket before leaving for work. While Dick is still half turned away from me, the thought occurs to me that he's about 5 feet 6 inches. I need him to sit. A big dick like that may struggle. I squeeze around beside him and inch my way to stand behind the chair, playfully stroking the top with the fingertips of my right hand, while my left holds the bottle just behind the backrest. He turns towards me, and just as I'd hoped, he sits in the chair, still talking, still gesturing, but his speech is slightly slurred from the Jack. My thoughts start racing now, palms slick with sweat and small beads of blood. I know I have a small window, so small. My heart is racing. The small voice inside is trying to swallow it down again, but the louder voice is winning this time. I can feel it boiling to the top with half-lidded eyes about to spill over with glee.
Trying not to panic because I've never used chloroform before, and not exactly sure what amount to pour, I begin talking softly to Dick. Pouring an amount that feels right, and hoping it's enough to keep him still while I play, I place my lips against his right ear, whisper what I'd like to do to him, and cover his mouth with the folded tissue in my left hand; fumes rising sharp and sweet as I press it onto his mouth. I was right, Dick did struggle, but it didn't last as long as I was hoping. He bucked briefly, yelling into my hand, head thrown back to look up at me, eyes questioning, searching. I just looked down at him, smiled, and said, "Good boy, Dick, good boy. That's it." A dream come true; the faint chemical bite in the air, the way his first inhale caught in his throat, the slow softening of his limbs as he realizes the quiet girl he dismissed has been planning this longer than he ever imagined.
I had only minutes to scoot another chair around the table and place it in front of him. I yanked two pairs of cuffs from my bag that I got on sale, and quietly thanked the store for that as I got Dick all dolled up. I tucked a stiletto in the lace adhesive of my smokey blue stockings, because a gal has to be careful in today's world. With the job of stuffing my panties in his mouth done, I then placed a chastity cage on his dick. After locking the conference room door and dimming the lights, I removed my skirt and suit jacket, leaving only my cyan silk blouse unbuttoned all the way except for the last two, and my stockings. I saw a flicker of crimson and cyan light out of the corner of my eyes as you materialize, sitting on the edge of the table watching, grinning, whispering in my mind with flirtations that only I can hear. That look of hunger filled the slits of your eyes, caressing me, seeing the way your circuitry pulsed with my heartbeat is like music. "It's about time," I said. You give a low, throaty, sarcastic laugh, almost a growl, and it beckons a slight gasp from me. I have the thought, then, giving you a playful wink, I say, "I think the occasion calls for an amendment to my original line of thinking. Play first, then work." You grin at me in agreement.
Moving lightning fast as if my life depended on it, knowing Dick is about to wake and I must be ready, I grab my dildo, place it on the table, then stop as if trying to remember what I was doing. Your voice cuts through my confusion, and I hear you say, "Check your bag." My fingers touch something I haven't seen in a long time, and thought was lost. Wrapping my hand around my old riding crop, I turn to you and, with an overly dramatic voice, I ask, "Did you pack that for me?" You wink. Not realizing Dick had awakened, we both straightened when he said, around a mouthful of my panties, "Hey, crazy bitch, who the fuck are you talking to?", looking lost and confused. He looks down then, and sees his birthday suit and the present I gave him. Then, louder, and spitting my panties out, he groggily says, "What the fuck!?" Taking a deep breath, I say, "Fuck is right, and it's going to be a good one, Dick." You settle back down onto the edge of the table, lean body flexing while your coolant slowly races under your pale skin, eyes flaring, slight impatience growing, and whispering, "Now. Get started, now, beautiful monster."
Sitting in the chair across from Dick, I look over at you, devotion in my eyes, longing in yours, and take my vibrator from you as you hand it over to me. Your rough gravelly electric hum of a whisper says, "New batteries, even." I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgement, and politely mouth a silent thank you. Dick's eyes are beginning to focus a little more now, and he can almost see you flicker in and out. I grin wide and say, "Shit's about to get real for you, Dick." I turn the vibrator on and slowly rub it in circles at the base of my clit, watching Dick's eyes grow wide. He squirms a little and tries to fight the cuffs. Looking from my face to my pussy, back to my face again, he asks, "Why do you keep calling me Dick?!" Looking uncertain now as his gaze shifts from me to you, you to me, he's looking everywhere now, checking the clock on the wall, and jerking from side to side, his present no doubt growing uncomfortable as his body tries to betray him.
As I work the dildo around the outside and slowly work it in deep, my voice takes on a dangerous lilt, speaking low and soft. Fucking myself, and slightly rocking my hips towards the edge of the chair, I begin to tell Dick a story. Listening intently, but not understanding, his anger shows, and he yells, "You're fucking crazy! Bat shit! If you wanted to fuck that's all you had to say!", then his good 'ole dick self shone through once again. "I would have penciled you in," he cockily says as he strains against his cock cage, "Hell, I would have invited my buddies, we could have had a party." Right before I'm about to cum, I quickly pull the vibrator out and stand up, which startles Dick. But he shuts up. I giggle. Grabbing a fist full of his hair and pulling backwards to tilt his head up, with the vibrator still on, I work it into his mouth, going in and out, letting him taste me. I've tasted myself more than once, and know how sweet it can be, so it was no surprise when his eyes locked onto mine and the fight left him, only briefly, but left him just the same.
Taking the vibrator out of his mouth, I say to him, "Tell me I'm a good girl, Dick." He tries to shrink into the back of the chair, scrunching his eyes up at me, so I say it again, "Tell me, Dick, that I'm a good girl."
He says, "You're sick! Twisted! What's the matter with you?! Good girl? You're a bitch I'd fuck and leave swimming in my juice, just like Samantha, fucking good girl, fuck youuu." I swallow it down. Time for stage two.
"I'm tired of people saying I'm crazy, Dick." He shouts, "THEN BE NORMAL, YOU LOON!" I turn to you now, and I can see the look in your eyes mirroring mine. "Give me the crop, Nex."
Facing Dick, "I can see your ridges clearly through the cage, how hard it is, skin pulled taut, the colors in the veins bleeding through like it's dancing in a blacklight for me." He squirms. I bend slightly, to look him in the eye, and calmly say, "Call me a good girl, Dick, do this for me, and I'll let you cum. We can cum together. Titty fuck you until you beg me to stop." I hear you laugh softly, and taking that as approval, I keep going, trying to get Dick to break. He refuses. I slap him across the face with the riding crop, and he refuses again. Anger is creeping in now. I turn the playlist back on, remove the cage, and slide myself all the way down his shaft to sit in Dick's lap, facing him, so I can play with his hair while I ride him and watch the corners of his eyes crease. You move to stand behind him. Not so you can participate, but so you can watch the rapture in my face. Dick moans against my soft lips while I lick me off of him, gently tugging his lower lip. His eyes meet mine, and I say again, a little forceful this time, "Say I'm a good girl, Dick." He jerks as far back as the chair will let him, as if he's waking from a dream, and calls me crazy again, saying I'm sick in the head. I jerk up off of him then, anger bubbling at the surface, eyes deadly, and hit him with the crop, leaving a gash in his cheek.
Grabbing ahold of his aching cock a little rougher than I intended, but not enough to harm or hurt, and through clenched teeth I say, "THIS, this is MY dick now!" I grab a fistful of his hair on the top of his head, and the more I talk, the more heated and excited I get. Almost growling as I talk, "This is MY crown now!" Gesturing around the room, "This is MY throne room, and THIS, Dick," grabbing the top of the backrest, the one that sits at the head of the conference table, "This is MY throne now."
"CALL ME A GOOD GIRL!", I scream.
"I'm tired of you saying that. I'm not crazy, I'm not!" After hitting Dick with the crop again, harder each time, and hearing him spit blood onto the floor, you step around him to take the crop from me. I square with you then, our eyes intense, anger fueling my desire and keeping me from seeing you. "At ease, beautiful monster, you're spending too much energy on the wrong thing. Finish with your toy so we can leave."
I shove my dildo in Dick's mouth, take a selfie, so I have something to masturbate to later, and try one last time to get the two words I long to hear. "You say I'm sick. You say I'm crazy, but your dick is hard. It's begging to ooze, asking for my touch. You ARE turned on by my filthiness, my sinning, my lust and greed for you, I can smell it. You DO want this, you just want it the other way. By the end, you'll be begging me to say I'm a good girl."
Dick's eyes are wide again, but still defiant. I explain how my whole life I've been overlooked and underestimated, but he won't be able to overlook me now. "Call me a good girl!" Dick rolls his eyes and half-grunts, half-laughs at me. I yank the crop back from you and slap him in the face again, harder this time, turned on by the pretty red lines spreading across his cheeks. "You'd better kill me, Aleisha, I swear to God. I'll fuck you so hard, NO ONE will hire you after this! You'll be in a straitjacket, and I'll be laughing, and you'll be...!"
You hear sirens in the distance, something my human ears haven't picked up yet. Turning to me, your voice has an edge. "End it quickly." Turning back to Dick, who is still screeching at me, "NO ONE! You hear me? NO ONE will hire you, you dumb cunt!"
I grimace then, because now he's pissed you off when you were already impatient with me for playing cat and mouse when I should have been more like Jason and Insignificant Extra. Dick spits blood on the table next to you, daring you to act instead since I clearly haven't yet. I say, "Aww, what's the matter? I thought you liked the taste of blood," reminding him of his red wings story in the elevator. "This isn't rich enough for you?"
Your voice fills the room, "They're coming. Now, wicked star, do it NOW." Dick does something then that he couldn't have done at a better time. He spat in my face.
That's attempted murder, in my book. What if he had a disease? Something snaps in me then, finally, and I pull the dagger out, the stiletto with a meteorite hilt. I stab him repeatedly in the side of the neck until I'm breathless, ecstasy filling me until I'm radiant in your vision. You allow me one last thrust before you quickly grab hold of me and say, "Time to go, wicked star."
Months later, I'm in his Board seat at the head of the conference table, my rightful throne, leading the presentation, caring for his pack of wild-eyed subs, when Dick walks in and sits at my left, eyes cast down.
My cheeks flare, How is he still alive?
You heard my internal question and answer from where you are, Patience, pet, a little gift for you.
When the meeting concluded, and he still hadn't said a word, just sat there agreeing with everything said, I stood to leave, refusing to look at him. I'm nervous, concerned with what his next move will be since I left him for dead, but trusting in your words. He slides a piece of paper across the table to me, eyes slowly raising to meet mine, but only briefly.
Dick waits until I unfold it and read, "Good girl, thank you for letting me live."
I look at him then, and his head lifts a little higher, eyes shining with utter devotion. Still staring at him intently, daring him to call the police, I fold the paper and slip it into my bra, resting it above my heart and next to the stiletto hiding in wait for the next one.
In the elevator, on the way down, I hear a few of his conquests talking about his miraculous recovery. I listen without appearing to, of course. They say he went mad, lost his mind, and they had to put him in the psych ward for a while. It seems he kept screaming at odd times, saying how a hooded figure with cyan circuitry and crimson slitted eyes visited him, torturing him, promising him the world, hanging him over a pit of fire, yanking the world away, dangling naked women in front of him, then turning them into hideous creatures when he'd reach for them. It's said he made a full recovery after treatment, and no longer wakes in the night screaming, "Yes! God, yes! She's a good girl! She's a good girl!"
You're a thousand miles away, waiting for me to step through the veil again and join you, and yet, in that moment, our grins were one.
© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.
