Meeting Emma
Friday
Morning light slanted through the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets where Claire still slept, one arm slung possessively over my pillow. The scent of sex and expensive perfume clung to the air—thick enough to taste, thick enough to choke him with memory. I stepped over his naked body where he knelt beside the bed, his forehead pressed to the floorboards, the harness straps digging angry red lines into his shoulders. Good.
The espresso machine hissed as I fed it a pod, watching his reflection in the chrome. His throat worked—swallowing nothing, swallowing everything. I stirred honey into my cup, slow, deliberate, letting the spoon clink just loudly enough to make him flinch.
"Did you enjoy your pegging last night?"
His knees squeaked against the hardwood. A drop of sweat slid down his temple, tracing the same path Claire’s nails had carved hours earlier. The answering silence stretched—broken only by Claire’s sleepy murmur as she rolled onto her stomach, the duvet slipping to reveal the bite marks I’d left between her shoulder blades.
I sipped my coffee. "Words, darling."
"Y-yes." His whisper cracked like kindling.
"Yes?" The cup clicked onto the marble countertop. Behind me, Claire sighed into the pillow, stretching like a satisfied cat.
His fingers curled against his thighs. "Yes, ma’am."
Ma’am. The word hung between us, sweet as the Sauternes he’d spilled trying to serve it. I stepped closer, my stockinged foot nudging his ribs. "Louder."
"YES, MA’AM." The shout startled a pigeon on the windowsill. Claire chuckled into the sheets.
I crouched, tilting his chin up with my index finger. The dark circles under his eyes told me everything—how long he’d knelt after we’d gone upstairs, how many times he’d cleaned up Liam’s nervous puddle of wine, how desperately he’d scrubbed Mira’s bra when it wouldn’t stop dripping. His pupils dilated as I traced his lower lip with my thumb.
"Good boy." I stood, brushing imaginary lint from my skirt. "Now make Claire’s tea. Earl Grey. Two sugars." He scrambled toward the kettle as I added, "And wear the plug today. The diamond one."
Claire’s sleepy moan of approval followed me into the shower.
The water scalded. Perfect.
Claire’s laughter curled through the steam as I toweled off, her voice muffled by the silk slip she was wriggling into. “Should we send him to work plugged?” she mused, examining her reflection in the fogged mirror. “Or let him squirm all day wondering if we did?”
I smirked, snapping my garter belt against my thigh. “Both.”
Downstairs, he’d laid out breakfast with military precision—granola clumped in Claire’s favorite bowl (the one with the hairline crack she pretended not to notice), my espresso steaming beside a single marigold plucked from the window box. Predictable. His briefcase sat by the door, polished to a shine. The plug’s weight tugged at his slacks when he bent to tie his shoes.
Claire descended like a queen, trailing Chanel and sleepiness. She paused beside his chair, plucking a grape from his untouched plate. “Awful posture,” she murmured, popping it between his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
The door clicked shut behind him at 8:17—three minutes early. Running. Claire licked jam from her thumb, watching his shadow retreat through the stained-glass panel. “Think he’ll make it to the tram before—”
The distant clatter of a dropped umbrella answered her.
We left at 8:38, our heels clicking in unison down the brick-lined bike path. Claire’s Raleigh gleamed next to my black Gazelle, chains oiled, saddles adjusted to the exact height we preferred. She swung her leg over with a wink, the hem of her skirt riding up just enough to reveal yesterday’s strap marks. “Race you to the Dom Tower?”
I let her pull ahead, savoring the way her calves tightened with each pedal stroke. The morning air smelled of wet pavement and freshly baked bread—of routine, of control.
Her brake lights flashed red as she veered into the bike rack outside her firm’s glass monolith, tossing a wave over her shoulder. “Don’t forget—”
“—the client call at eleven,” I finished, locking my bike with a decisive click. “I wrote the agenda.”
Her laughter followed me inside.
Mira’s revised projections waited on my desk, crisp as a banknote, the pages aligned to the millimeter. I skimmed the figures without sitting, my thumb finding the coffee stain on page seventeen—deliberate, defiant. Outside, a crow landed on the windowsill, cocking its head.
How long until she cracks?
The intercom buzzed. Liam’s voice, strained: “The—the Q2 numbers—”
I pressed the button, watching the crow take flight. “Send Mira in.”
Silence. Then a swallowed gulp.
Perfect.
The door creaked open precisely two minutes later—delayed just enough to feign composure, yet too rushed for true defiance. Mira’s heels clicked unevenly on the linoleum, her blouse buttoned to the throat despite Utrecht’s unseasonable warmth. No pearls today. I let my gaze linger on the raw patch beneath her cuff where she’d picked at her skin.
"You wanted—" Her voice fractured as I turned, revealing the item on my desk: Claire’s diamond plug, gleaming atop Mira’s rejected expense report.
"Page seventeen," I said, flipping the document with a fingertip. "Recalculated."
Mira’s breath hitched. The crow returned, pecking at the window like a metronome.
Tick. Her fingers twitched toward the pen.
Tock. A droplet of sweat slid behind her ear.
I leaned back, crossing my legs slowly enough for her to notice the fresh welt above my stocking—Claire’s parting gift. "Problem?"
The lie died on her lips as the intercom crackled. Liam’s whisper: "They moved up the audit—"
I pressed "hold," watching Mira’s pupils dilate. "Choose," I murmured. "The numbers or the plug."
Her trembling hand hovered midair. Outside, the crow took flight in a burst of black feathers.
The office hummed with suppressed energy—keyboards clicking, phones muffled, all of them waiting. Mira’s resolve would crumble beautifully under that weight.
I smiled.
Let her sweat.
The plug’s facets caught the overhead light as I slid it across the desk—a glittering promise, a punishment, a dare. Mira’s fingers hovered, trembling, over the expense report. For a heartbeat, I thought she might grab the pen instead. Then her hand darted to the plug like a sinner snatching salvation.
"Now," I murmured, nodding toward the private restroom.
She moved stiffly, legs scissoring in that deliciously awkward way of someone already feeling the intrusion. The faucet ran—too long, too loud—before a stifled gasp leaked through the door. No lube. I revised the numbers with quick strokes, smiling at the way her calculations had conveniently "overlooked" Claire’s last-minute consultancy fees. The printer hummed as Mira emerged, her steps halting, her throat working around unspoken pleas.
The auditors’ office loomed three doors down—an eternity in her new state. I adjusted my blazer, letting her feel the weight of my gaze as she struggled to match my pace. Her breath hitched with every right turn of the hallway; her knuckles whitened around the folder.
"Breathe," I commanded as we reached the frosted glass door.
She inhaled sharply—then choked back a whimper when the motion shifted the plug deeper.
The head auditor, a woman with a silver bob and the eyes of a taxidermist, glanced up as we entered. "Ah. The Van Dyke revisions."
Mira’s thighs pressed together as she sat, her skirt hiking just enough to reveal the tremors in her knees. I crossed my legs, watching the auditor’s pen pause over the corrected figures.
"These percentages—"
"—are compliant," I finished, tapping the relevant footnote. Mira flinched when my elbow "accidentally" brushed her arm.
The silver bob nodded. "Much clearer."
Across the table, Mira’s pulse fluttered beneath her choker. A single bead of sweat traced the shell of her ear. Almost there.
The auditor stamped the approval with a decisive thud—the sound coinciding perfectly with Mira’s involuntary jerk as the plug shifted against her chair.
"Problem, Ms. Veldman?"
Her lips parted. For a terrifying second, I thought she might confess everything—the numbers, the plug, the way her nails were now digging into her own thighs.
Then my heel found her instep.
"N-no," Mira gasped. "Just... grateful for the... clarity."
I smiled, gathering the documents. Oh, little kitten. We’re just getting started.
Mariaplaats buzzed beneath the midday sun—tourists snapping photos of the Dom tower, bikes weaving between café tables. Claire already sat beneath a striped awning, swirling her rosé with one hand while the other scrolled through messages.
Probably his.
Mira’s heels clipped unevenly on the cobblestones beside me. Every step made her breath hitch—a symphony only I could hear. Claire glanced up as we approached, her smirk deepening at Mira’s stiff-legged gait. “Darling,” she purred, “you look—”
“—thirsty,” I finished, pulling out Mira’s chair with deliberate force. The girl gasped as wood met hidden gemstone. A waiter materialized; Claire ordered bitterballen without consulting the menu. Predictable.
Claire’s toe hooked around Mira’s ankle beneath the table. “Well?” Her eyebrow arched. “Did she?”
The bitterballen arrived—golden and glistening on a bed of arugula. I speared one with my fork, letting the steam curl toward Mira’s flushed face. “Show her.”
Mira’s knife clattered against her plate. Around us, conversations continued—a Dutch couple debating museum tickets, the clink of wineglasses, the distant ringing of the bells of the Dom.
No one’s watching. That’s the point.
Her fingers trembled at her waistband. Claire leaned forward, lips parted. The skirt pooled around Mira’s ankles with a whisper of wool—revealing the diamond’s base glinting between her cheeks, the way it caught sunlight like a perverse jewel.
Claire’s fork paused midair. “Christ,” she breathed.
Mira’s thighs quivered. A bead of sweat slid down her spine.
I nudged the bitterballen toward her. “Eat.”
She shook her head—too fast, too fearful.
Claire tsked. “Naughty girls don’t get lunch.” Her fingernail traced the plug’s edge, making Mira jerk. “Do they?”
The Dutch couple laughed at something. Silverware chimed.
I wiped my mouth. “Turn around.”
Mira obeyed—slowly, painfully—presenting herself to the square, to the oblivious world. Claire’s hand clamped over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“Good choice,” I murmured, signaling for the check.
Exactly as planned.
The silk of Mira’s skirt whispered against my fingertips as I folded it into my briefcase—right beside Claire’s discarded cuffs from last night. Mira stood frozen, her blouse hem barely grazing the tops of her thighs, the diamond’s base catching sunlight with every shallow breath. Like a fucking exhibit. Claire’s teeth grazed my earlobe as she kissed me goodbye, her murmur dripping with amusement: “Do try not to get arrested, darling.”
“No promises,” I purred, stepping back to admire my handiwork. Mira’s thighs clenched around nothing, her arms hovering awkwardly—half-tempted to cover herself, half-terrified to disobey. The Dom Tower bells chimed three o’clock. Perfect timing.
“Walk,” I commanded, turning toward the Central station without checking if she followed. Her footsteps faltered behind me—too slow, then too fast as she struggled to match my pace without drawing attention. A cyclist whistled past; Mira flinched, her blouse riding up another treacherous inch. Let them look.
The Singel canal blurred as we crossed the bridge, Mira’s breath coming in ragged little gasps every time the plug shifted. A tour group paused to photograph the water; I slowed just enough to watch her squirm. One of the tourists—middle-aged, bespectacled, utterly oblivious—stepped back right as Mira passed. Their shoulders brushed.
Her whimper was delicious.
The office lobby’s air conditioning hit like a slap. Mira’s nipples peaked instantly beneath the thin blouse, the fabric clinging where sweat had darkened it during our walk. I adjusted my grip on her folded skirt—still warm from her skin—letting the hem brush her thigh as we passed the security desk. The guard’s pen froze mid-logbook. Look all you want. You’ll never touch.
Claire’s parting kiss still burned on my lips as the elevator doors slid shut. Mira pressed against the mirrored wall, her reflection fracturing into a dozen trembling fragments. The plug’s base glinted with each shallow breath. I punched the button for the 14th floor with my free hand, the other sliding the skirt fabric slowly between my fingers. "Tell me," I murmured, watching her pupils dilate in the glass, "what the auditors would think if they saw you now."
The elevator chimed at Finance. Through the closing doors, Liam’s coffee cup hit the carpet with a wet splatter. Mira made a sound like a steam valve bursting. Perfect.
I guided her down the hallway with pressure between her shoulder blades—light enough to seem casual, firm enough to make her stagger. Her blouse tails fluttered with each step, revealing the twin dimples above her ass where Claire’s nails had dug in last night. At the glass-walled conference room, I paused. Inside, the new intern was arranging water bottles. His neck snapped up so fast I heard vertebrae crack.
"Back to work," I said loudly, palming the conference room door open with my hip. Mira’s gasp as the plug shifted against the chair was drowned out by the intern’s frantic scrambling. I draped her skirt over the chair beside me—close enough to smell her arousal, far enough to make her lean. "Now," I said, sliding the Q3 projections across the table, "let’s discuss your... expenses."
Her whimper harmonized with the buzz of the fluorescent lights. Outside, pigeons scattered from the windowsill in a burst of wings. I smiled, uncapping my pen with my teeth. This audit just got interesting.
The diamond plug caught the light as I pushed the fabric toward Mira—slowly, deliberately, letting the silk whisper against the glass tabletop. Her fingers twitched toward it like a junkie reaching for a fix.
"What do I get," I murmured, leaning close enough to smell the Earl Grey on her breath, "for keeping this slip of fabric safe?" My thumb grazed the inside of her wrist where the skin was still pink from Claire’s nails.
Mira’s throat worked—swallowing spit, swallowing pride. The silence stretched until the second hand on the wall clock clicked twice. Then her free hand crept toward her blouse buttons.
Too easy.
I caught her wrist mid-motion, pressing her palm flat against the chilled conference table. "Try again."
Her eyelashes fluttered. Somewhere below, a tram screeched to a halt.
"T-thank you," she stammered at last.
I traced the rim of my coffee cup with my pinky. "For?"
The plug shifted audibly when she squirmed. "F-for—"
"Precision, darling."
Her breath hitched. "For keeping my skirt safe."
Claire’s text buzzed in my pocket—Ask her where she thinks safe really is—just as Mira’s fingers finally closed around the fabric. I let her tug it free, watching the way her knuckles whitened when the diamond base twisted inside her.
"Good girl." I sipped my coffee, bitter and scalding. "Now put it on."
The conference room door swung open as Mira struggled to step into the skirt without standing—her bare thighs squeaking against leather, her blouse riding up to reveal the angry red marks where the plug’s base had rubbed. The intern froze, his stack of files sliding to the floor in a cascade of paper.
Mira moaned—half-pain, half-relief—as the silk finally slid over her hips. I kicked the chair out from under her.
"Stay."
The intern bolted. Mira trembled.
Claire’s next message lit up my screen: Dinner at eight. Bring the plug.
I licked coffee from my teeth.
And so the menu expands.