Fraying Control
The fluorescent lights hum like a swarm of distant bees, their sterile glow washing over the polished surfaces of my office—his office, I should say. Edward sits rigid behind that sleek mahogany desk, his fingers twitching just above the keyboard, his posture so stiff it’s as if his spine has been replaced with a steel rod. I can see the tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his Adam’s apple bobs every time he swallows. Poor thing. He thinks he’s hiding it, but I know exactly what’s beneath that crisp gray suit. The bloomers I gifted him—soft pink, frilly, a whisper of lace against skin that’s never known anything so delicate—are clinging to him right now, a secret pressed between his thighs, dampening with every nervous shift in his seat.
I lean against the edge of his desk, my hips cradled by the cool wood, my dress riding up just enough to tease. The fabric of my stockings whispers as I cross my legs, the seam running up the back of my thigh like a promise. Edward’s gaze flicks to the movement, then snaps back to his screen, his cheeks flushing that delicious shade of shame-pink. Oh, he’s trying so hard to pretend this is just another Tuesday, another spreadsheet, another meaningless hour in the grind. But the way his breath hitched when I walked in? The way his fingers curled into the arms of his chair like he was afraid he’d float away if he let go? He’s drowning, and he doesn’t even know how to ask for air.
“You’re awfully quiet today, Edward,” I murmur, my voice a slow pour of honeyed venom. I reach out, letting my fingertips graze the edge of his desk, close enough to his thigh that he flinches. His muscles lock up, his entire body going still like a rabbit sensing a fox in the brush. “Problem with the quarterly reports?” I tilt my head, “Or is it something… else?”
He swallows. “N-no, Ms. Divine. Just—focused.”
Liar.
I smirk, dragging my nail in a slow, deliberate line across the desk’s surface, stopping just shy of his knee. His breath stutters. “Focused,” I echo, savoring the word like a fine wine. “That’s good. Focus is important. Especially when you’re learning to… adjust.” My gaze drops to his lap, then lingers. He squirms, his thighs pressing together, and I know—oh, I know—he can feel the lace digging into him, the fabric growing warmer, stickier, with every second. “Tell me, Edward,” I purr, leaning in just enough that he gets a whiff of my perfume—something dark, musky, the kind of scent that clings to the back of your throat. “How do they feel?”
His fingers twitch toward his keyboard, then freeze. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
I laugh, low and throaty, the sound wrapping around him like a noose. “Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.” My hand finally—finally—brushed against his knee, just the barest graze of my knuckles over the fabric of his slacks. He jerks like I’ve shocked him, his chair creaking. “The bloomers,” I whisper, my lips shaping each syllable with deliberate cruelty. “The ones you’re wearing right now. The ones I told you to wear. How do they feel against your… sensitive skin?”
His face burns. “Ms. Divine, I—”
“Shh.” I press a finger to my lips, then drag it down my sternum, over the swell of my breasts, watching his eyes follow the movement like a starving man tracking a steak. “You don’t get to lie to me, Edward. Not here. Not ever.” My hand slides higher, my thumb hooking under the hem of his slacks, not quite touching skin but threatening to. His breath comes faster, shallow little pants that make his chest rise and fall like he’s running a marathon. “Are they wet?”
He chokes on air. “W-what?”
“You heard me.” My voice drops to a growl, the kind that makes his cock twitch behind its cage—oh yes, I know it’s still locked away, aching and useless. “Are. They. Wet?”
His lips part, but no sound comes out. His eyes are wide, glassy, the pupils blown so dark they swallow the blue. I can see the war behind them—shame, desire, the terrifying thrill of being seen, of being known. And then, like a dam breaking, he whispers, “Yes.”
The word hangs between us, heavy and trembling. I reward him with a slow, approving smile, my thumb finally—finally—brushing the inside of his thigh. He gasps, his hips jerking upward before he slams them back down, his face a mask of mortification. “Good gurl,” I murmur, and his entire body shudders. “Such a good, honest gurl.” My fingers trace higher, following the inseam of his slacks, mapping the heat radiating off him. “Do you like that? Being my good gurl?”
He whimpers. Actual, pathetic little whimper, high and needy. “I—I don’t—”
“You do.” My nails scrape lightly over the fabric, right where the lace of the bloomers must be digging into his skin. “You love it. The way it chafes when you walk. The way it clings when you’re hard. The way you have to sit just so to keep from rubbing against the seams.” I lean in closer, my breath hot against his ear. “The way it makes you mine.”
His hands fly to the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. “P-please—”
“Please what?” I pull back just enough to see his face, to watch the way his lips tremble, the way his lashes flutter like he’s fighting tears. “Use your words, Edward. Beg.”
He swallows, his throat clicking. “P-please don’t—”
“Don’t what?” My fingers press harder, my palm cupping the heat between his legs, feeling the dampness seeping through the fabric. He moans, a broken, desperate sound, and his hips buck helplessly into my touch. “Don’t touch you?” I tsk, shaking my head. “Too late.” My grip tightens, my fingers curling into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, my thumb pressing right against the ache of his caged cock. “Or don’t stop?”
He whines, his head falling back against his chair, his body trembling like a plucked string. “I c-can’t—”
“You can.” My other hand snakes up to his tie, yanking just hard enough to make his breath hitch. “You can take it. You can beg. You can be the pretty little sissy I know you’re dying to be.” I squeeze his thigh, my nails digging in through the fabric, and he sobbs, a wet, broken sound that goes straight to my clit. “Say it.”
His lips move, silent at first, then—“P-please, Ms. Divine—”
“Louder.” I twist my hand in his tie, pulling his face close to mine. His breath is hot, ragged, his eyes wild. “I want the whole office to hear how much you need this.”
“Please,” he chokes out, his voice cracking. “Please don’t stop—”
I reward him with a slow, deliberate stroke of my thumb over his trapped cock, feeling the metal of the cage beneath the fabric, the way his entire body jerks like he’s been electrocuted. “Good,” I breathe against his lips. “Such a good gurl.” My free hand slides up to his chest, my fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt. “Now. Let’s see just how wet you’ve made my pretty little panties, hmm?”