Caught: Punished by Her Boss (2 page)

“Bingo,” he said aloud.

A cat o’ nine tails in hand, there stood his office manager, transformed once again into a Dominatrix, decked out in full makeup and black leather. “Holy shit,” Eric breathed, drawing out the words. “Who the hell
are
you, Jessie Ramos?”

Thinking back over the past two years, he realized she’d never talked about her personal life at the office, nor had she ever gone out with him and the guys for a beer after work, always hurrying away at the stroke of five. He knew she was from El Paso but not much more than that. She was in her mid-thirties and had been married briefly at one point, but had been divorced for a long time. That, he realized, was the sum total of his knowledge of her personal life.

He thought about that old Billy Joel song about discovering the stranger in your lover—about the secrets we all keep hidden from the world. He had quite a few dark and secret fantasies of his own, come to that, but he’d never dared act upon them, certainly not to the degree she evidently had.

He had always enjoyed spanking and tying up his lovers, when they’d allowed it, but he’d never really gone much past that. It wasn’t that he hadn't wanted to, but that he’d wanted it
too
much. On some level he knew if he ever really gave free rein to his sadistic impulses, he’d end up going way past acceptable behavior. There was a darkness inside him, a desire to completely subjugate and control another being, that he’d never dared to explore, except in his fantasies.

When he scrolled through porn on the Internet, he always sought out the BDSM sites, the rougher and more intense the better, though sites like this one that featured dominant women held zero appeal. He liked his fantasy women naked and in chains, utterly at the mercy of the man who had taken over full control. One of his favorite fantasies involved a slave girl he would keep in a box beneath his bed. He would let her out when he wanted to fuck and whip her, and then he would force her back into her coffin-like cage. It was a fantasy he would never have admitted to anyone, and barely acknowledged himself, except when he had his cock in his hand and his inhibitions lowered.

Though it was hard to wrap his head around the idea of Jessie Ramos as a Dominatrix, he had to admit he was wildly curious to view her site. When he clicked the button certifying he was over eighteen, he was greeted with a twenty second video of Jessie, or rather Princess Lola, walking slowly across a room toward a man with a black hood over his face, his hands bound behind his back. As she approached the man, her high heels clicking across the floor, he knelt and lowered his hooded head to the ground.

She stood imperiously over him and raised her whip arm, turning dark, burning eyes heavily outlined in black liner toward the camera. Her large breasts were pushed high, nearly spilling out of the black leather bustier. He could actually see the crescent moon tops of her brown areoles against her tan skin, and realized he wanted to see more.

On the home page there were a couple hundred stills of the sexy Princess Lola, as well as a dozen videos of the Dominatrix and naked or nearly naked men in various stages of bondage. When Eric clicked on one of the video links, instead of opening, the image was replaced by flashing words urging the viewer to:
Join now for the low cost of $29.99 per month
, with a hot new video provided weekly, featuring the sexy and delicious Princess Lola as she gave her slave boys the treatment they deserved.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Where does she find the time to do this?” He watched the sample video again. Something about the setting looked familiar, but there wasn’t enough there to properly jog his brain.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his wallet and extracted his credit card. $29.99 wasn’t all that much to see Princess Lola in action. Once he entered his information, he was redirected to the home page. This time when he clicked on a video, it opened. The video was static, probably shot from a camcorder set on a tripod. It was clearly an amateur setup, though the lighting was good and the picture was clear.

Along one concrete wall hung all kinds of BDSM gear—floggers, paddles, rope, cuffs, chain, canes and whips. A naked man with too much body hair stood in the center of the room, his purple, erect cock and balls tied with thin rope in a way that looked quite painful. Clover clamps hung from his nipples. His arms were extended overhead, hanging by cuffs at his wrists that were attached to chains secured in the ceiling.

Princess Lola stood behind the man, hitting his ass with a wooden paddle, the thudding sound of wood against flesh echoing against the walls of the room. “You are a bad little boy,” she said in a haughty tone. Her voice was deep and strong, nothing like the timid, halting tone Jessie used at the office. It was like she was a whole different person. Eric watched, fascinated at the transformation. “You need to be punished. After I’m done paddling you, I’m going to make you jerk off and then lick it up. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, pussy boy?”

The man groaned as she brought the paddle down hard. “Yes, Princess Lola,” he gasped. “Yes, please, mistress.”

Eric was about to close the video and try another one when he noticed the high horizontal windows above the BDSM gear. They were unusual windows, long and narrow, like the kind he’d seen in warehouses. In fact, like the kind in the warehouse out back.

No. No way. No way in the world. She wouldn’t dare.

Chapman Advertising rented a suite in a small office building located near one of Houston’s ubiquitous strip malls. Not prime real estate by any estimation, but the rent was cheap and, as the main tenant, he’d been given access to the large storage unit located on the back of the property, though to date they’d had no use for it. There was plenty of room in the suite of offices for their photography gear and other equipment. In fact, until this moment, he’d almost forgotten about the vacant warehouse, since they parked in front of the building and had no particular reason to go out back.

Eric closed the browser and left his office, heading toward the storage closet where spare keys to the office were kept on hooks near the door. He found the one labeled
warehouse
in Jessie’s neat hand. Grabbing it, he headed outside and walked around the building toward the back lot.

The key fit into the front door and Eric entered the dim space. There were two separate units in the warehouse. One belonged to the owner of the office building and held old furniture and piles of dusty old boxes that looked like they hadn't been touched in decades. The other unit, by far the larger one, was just an empty room with concrete walls and floors.

As he approached his unit, he saw a hasp had been screwed into the frame of the door, a sturdy padlock locked in place. What the hell? He pulled at the padlock, examining it more closely. Why would someone padlock an empty unit?

Because it wasn’t empty.

Returning to the office, Eric went through Jessie’s desk, though he didn’t really expect to find the padlock key. As he rummaged, he found himself half expecting to find a pair of handcuffs or some other incriminating evidence of her secret career. He found nothing of the sort, but nor did he find the padlock key.

He thought about calling Jessie to ask where the key was kept, but decided he wasn’t ready to confront her. Instead he got in his car and drove the few blocks toward a hardware store, where he purchased a pair of bolt cutters and a new padlock. Returning to the office, he parked around back and pulled up to the empty warehouse.

Cutting through the padlock, he pulled open the door to the unit, still not sure whether he’d find an empty concrete room or the fully equipped BDSM dungeon from the videos. He stepped into the room, flipping on the light switch by the door.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he whispered in awe. “She’s running it from here.”

There it all was, just like in the videos—the gear, the bondage equipment, the chains—and in a corner, several thousand dollars worth of photography equipment and professional lighting.

Eric moved toward the equipment and unscrewed the top-of-the-line video camera from the tripod. Turning it over, he found what he was looking for—the small tag with the words
Chapman Advertising
, along with the camera’s date of purchase and serial number.

“That little bitch,” he whispered, again taking in the setup. “What else of mine has she stolen?” There was a wardrobe in the corner of the room, beside a twin mattress covered in red satin sheets. He moved toward the wardrobe and pulled open the doors. Inside were several outfits on hangers, including bustiers, corsets and shiny black latex pants. Pairs of stiletto heels and thigh-high boots were lined neatly beneath the clothing.

He pulled open the row of drawers on the left side of the wardrobe. Inside were all kinds of sex toys, including dildos, vibrators, lubricant, latex gloves, nipple clamps, ball gags, collars and other paraphernalia he couldn’t even identify. One drawer contained a leather belt contraption with a large purple rubber penis attached at the center. With thumb and forefinger, Eric pulled it from the drawer, realizing as he did what it was.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, the image of his assistant wearing a strap-on and fucking some poor loser up the ass leaping full blown into his mind.

Eric left the makeshift dungeon, relocking the door with the new padlock and pocketing the key. Returning to the office, he opened Jessie’s laptop again and began to search the files more carefully. He didn’t find anything else suspicious. If she used the laptop to upload her videos, she’d been careful enough to delete the evidence once she was done.

Delete
…

Using a flash drive, Eric copied his undelete software from his laptop and then downloaded it onto hers, aware that deleted files can still exist since the operating system just removed pointers to these files but didn’t immediately overwrite the space of deleted files. He ran the program, recovering all that he could.

Scrolling through the data, he saw several video file extensions and clicked on the first one. It appeared to be an outtake from one of her porn videos, with Jessie stumbling in her stiletto heels as she walked toward some poor slob tied over a sawhorse. He opened several more, skimming quickly through them.

The fifth one he opened made him stop breathing as he stared, disbelieving, at the screen. A skinny guy with an obscenely big cock was strung up against a wall with plenty of rope. His face was red, the rope around his neck tied like a noose. Princess Lola was in the shot, smacking the guy’s erection with a riding crop.

Suddenly the guy started writhing, his eyes bugging out, his tongue protruding as he jerked and spasmed, his face turning nearly purple. “Jesus,” Eric breathed. “He’s having a fucking seizure!”

Princess Lola didn’t seem to be paying much attention at first, focused on the dude’s cock and balls. Finally she figured out something wasn’t quite right, as he began to seize in earnest. Clearly this wasn’t supposed to be part of the scene.

In the video Jessie screamed and dropped the crop, struggling to get the guy out of the ropes and onto the ground. Eric couldn’t tell if he had just passed out or was dead. Jessie bent over him, slapping his face and calling his name, the panic ripe in her voice.

Finally the guy groaned and turned his head. At least he was alive.

“
Gracias a dios
,” Eric heard Jessie mutter.

All at once Jessie looked toward the camera, then lurched toward it, shutting it off.

Eric remained still, staring at the blank screen. “Holy fucking Christ,” he swore softly. “What in the hell happened there?”

~*~

The sun felt so good, warm and soothing as she drifted on the raft. The ocean was a clear, deep blue and the tall, cold drink felt good in her hands, and even better going down.

Jessie became aware of the persistent sound of the seagull’s cry somewhere near her head. It was annoying. “Slave,” she called to her favorite sub boy. “Get that fucking bird away from me.” The sound persisted. Where the hell was her boy? He was going to get a serious beating for this.

Abruptly the bird’s piercing cry stopped, replaced by a long beep and then a deep, masculine voice. “Jessie, answer the phone. This is Eric. You’ll pick up if you know what’s good for you.”

Jessie sprang awake, nearly tumbling from the couch as she reached for the phone. Instead of grabbing the receiver, she managed to knock the half-empty bottle of bourbon onto the rug, where the spilling liquid bloomed in a dark stain.

“Fuck,” she cursed, struggling to sit up and focus.

Ever since she’d moved her small but increasingly successful porn business from the bedroom of her apartment to the unused warehouse behind Chapman Advertising, she knew she’d been taking a calculated risk. At first she’d only used the space occasionally, having her clients meet her there for a shoot, hauling all the gear herself and spending hours with the setup and takedown.

After a while she began to take a few liberties, leaving the photography gear and lighting in the warehouse, hidden beneath a tarp. She figured if anyone from the office ever went in there, she could easily explain she was just using it for storage, and had forgotten to let them know.

When month after month passed, however, and no one but she ever accessed the space, she began to leave more and more of the BDSM gear there as well. It saved a ton of time and freed her up to make more videos, which translated directly into profit.

By the end of her first year with the company, the income from the site started to exceed her day job salary. It gave her free access to the studio space, as she now thought of the warehouse unit. Not to mention, she could borrow some of the company’s fancier camera equipment. She always made sure it was back where it belonged whenever a campaign shoot was scheduled.

Damn it! Everything had been going so smoothly. Well, not counting that unfortunate incident with Frankie several months back. Why the fuck hadn't he told her about his epilepsy before the shoot? She never would have tied him up like that if she’d known. The
idiota
had nearly died on her, giving her the scare of a lifetime. Thank god he hadn't decided to press any charges—he could have ruined her. As it was, she was still paying off the ten thousand dollars she’d borrowed on her credit card that he’d demanded as compensation for pain and suffering.