Lost Property (2 page)

Chapter One

Kath looked up as her office door opened. He never knocked; just walked in as if he owned the place. And seeing as this was government property, then most certainly he didn’t. It never stopped him however.

She stopped filling in the spreadsheet on screen and sat back, waiting until he decided to tell her what had brought him here. Her boss was a large man, well built, with a thick head of greying hair, he was dressed in a light grey suit that was expensively well tailored. Her eyes were drawn to his broad, muscular shoulders as he walked over to the window, hands in trouser pockets, his back to her and the room, almost silhouetted against the view over the Thames far below.

“It’s not good enough,” he said at length, turning and facing her, legs planted apart, full of confidence and self possession. Clive Mostyn was tipped for high political rank one day in the not too distant future and Kath had always been able to see why. He never entertained a single second’s doubt about himself. But for now he was a junior minister tasked with statistical analysis of inter-departmental data; with special responsibility for youth affairs. He would brief his seniors when they had to face select committees. She knew he was irked by the rank of ‘junior’, and she had to agree that the title didn’t sit easily with his six foot plus stature, and rugby forward physique.

“Sloppy spelling and syntax, careless research and on top of that your time keeping is appalling.”

Kath knew the trains had let her down a couple of times over the past couple of weeks but had hoped that she might have sneaked past the Wicked Witch of the West on Reception. Obviously not. As for the standard of her report writing, well, first class honours level English hadn’t been mentioned in the job specs or in the interview. But she sat nervously apprehensive and waited to see where this was leading. There was too much at stake to allow a rebellious outburst to jeopardise things. Mister Mostyn seemed to be considering her perceived shortcomings deeply.

He sighed, as though regretfully having to discipline a favoured child for its own good.

“Report to my office at five thirty.” He turned abruptly and left the room as suddenly as he had entered it.

She checked her watch. Damn him! He had left her two hours to stew in. How serious was this going to be? She sighed in her turn and tried her best to concentrate on her work for the rest of the afternoon, reluctant to incur any more black marks before her carpeting with Mostyn.

What made it worse was that making her stay behind for half an hour made it feel like he was a strict headteacher giving a naughty girl detention. But there was nothing for it but to humour him and she worked on until quarter past five and then adjourned to the Ladies to try and freshen up.

She took her pale green shirt off and splashed some cool water over her face and underarms then patted herself dry and repaired her make up – she used some lash thickener to emphasise her large dark eyes; one of her better features she felt, although she was also well aware that the breasts straining against her lacy white bra would have got quite a few votes from various males about the place. She shrugged her shirt back on and then brushed out her thick black hair until it shone as it hung straight down onto her shoulders. She surveyed herself critically and stepped back from the mirror a little to check her grey pencil skirt wasn’t too creased – although if it had been there wasn’t a lot she could do about it now. She leaned back in and decided some blusher wouldn’t go amiss. Tension had made her a bit pale.

At five thirty precisely she knocked on Clive Mostyn’s door, feeling confident in looking the best she could under the circumstances and deriving some comfort from that fact. She pulled her shoulders back and straightened up then marched in confidently when she heard him tell her to come in.

His office was much bigger than hers of course, dark blue carpet stretched like a sea away in front of her to where he was sitting on a grey settee behind a dark wood coffee table. His desk was over to her right and his computer station was built under the bookshelves beyond that. The wall on her left was occupied entirely by a plate glass window that overlooked the Thames, leaden and grey under a cloudy sky as it twisted its way out towards the Channel. The towers and the sprawl of London seemed to go on for ever on either bank. On this visit however, she had no time for the view. Mister Mostyn was sitting forward in his shirt sleeves, his arms resting on his thickly muscled thighs. He was glowering at her.

And under his gaze she seemed to shrink as she walked with rapidly waning self confidence towards him. The carpet went on and on and the table and her boss seemed to get bigger and bigger until finally she came to a halt in front of the low table, her feet together and her hands held, little-girl like, clasped together in front of her.

He stood up and she almost took a step back but was so rooted to the spot that all she could do was blink up at him, frightened and rabbit-like, caught in the headlights of his blue-eyed gaze.

“If there’s one thing that really irritates me Miss Knowles, it’s pretty girls thinking they can get away with murder just by batting the lashes of their big, sad, soulful eyes.”

“I…I’m sorry, Sir,” Kath stammered, not sure how to react to being told she was batting her eyelashes at him at the same time as he had told her she was pretty.

“But are you sorry enough?” he rumbled, his resonant voice stirring the same odd heat inside her that it always did, even when he was just talking to people in the office. She flinched nervously as he suddenly reached up and loosened his tie, pulling it free of his collar and holding it tight between his big fists across the fronts of his thighs. Kath’s throat went dry and her heart began to pound.

“You know I’m a stickler for discipline don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

The government was being tough on law and order just now and Clive Mostyn was prominent amongst those striving for a more disciplined and orderly society. Kath nodded.

Extending the forefinger of one hand her boss pointed to the table. A single key attached to a plain key ring lay there.

“Take it. Open the bottom right hand drawer of my desk and bring me what you find. Do it now!” His voice wasn’t raised, it didn’t need to be. Kath could feel the force of his personality and his will almost like a gale blowing into her face. She was helpless to stop herself from doing exactly what he told her to. Orders were something she had never been able to resist.

His desk was a classic boss’s one in richly polished mahogany with an inlaid green leather top. As she went behind it and bent to open the drawer the scent of leather hit her and lit the fires inside her all the more fiercely. She adored leather, its scent and feel and the way her favourite leather mini skirt caressed her thighs. Biting her lip against the excitement, she pulled the drawer open and saw what it contained. The scent of leather became stronger and her heart raced even faster. She swallowed nervously and glanced up to see that he hadn’t moved and was still standing with his tie held as before, almost as if it were some kind of strap he had some diabolical plans for. Not that he needed it, she thought, now that she had seen what was in his desk.

“Come on, quickly!” Mostyn told her.

With shaking hands, but with contradictory feelings of terror and fire in her stomach – and lower down now; much lower – she did as he told her, returned to the table and set down on it a tightly coiled leather belt about two inches wide and a curiously shaped broad strap with tongues cut in it.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked, seeing where she was looking. She shook her head. “It’s a tawse. Been used to discipline unruly girls and boys in Scotland for years. And unruly is what you are Miss Knowles. Unruly.” He rolled the ‘r’ with relish as she stood meekly, hands in front of her, eyes downcast, fixed on the instruments of chastisement. He surely wasn’t seriously intending to use them on her was he? Not in this day and age? Surely not!

“Take off your shirt and bra please.”

“But Mister Mostyn! I mean….Sir! That’s not……you can’t……!”

“I can! And what’s more I just have! I have ordered you to remove your shirt and bra as I intend to punish you. Now you may obey or you may leave, get fired, and then try reporting me to whichever lily livered, PC ridden quango exists to protect miscreants like you!”

He still wasn’t shouting but his voice and his anger seemed to cut right through her and heap coals on the fire within her. He was so attractive and anger suited him somehow. And….well she had been late a couple of times…..and perhaps she hadn’t been as conscientious as she might have been recently.

And she had to face it; she liked being given orders.

Her fingers went to her shirt buttons.

She lowered her eyes as she undid the shirt, she couldn’t bear to see whether or not he was smirking at his victory over her but he stood quite still and she couldn’t take her eyes off the stretched taut tie between his big fists which lay against his powerful thighs. She didn’t really know what to do with the shirt once it was off and Mostyn obviously wasn’t inclined to help her, in the end she just dropped it at her feet and reached behind her to unclasp her bra and then when that was dropped at her feet she crossed her arms over her breasts, standing huddled and humiliated before her boss.

She was confidently expecting to have to remove the skirt next when instead he marched straight past her towards the door. She half turned, wondering what on earth he had in mind.

He stopped by the door and turned to her.

“Come here!” he said curtly.

She went to him; there didn’t seem much alternative. As she neared him he reached up to the lintel and threaded the tie through a small eye bolt that she hadn’t seen, screwed into the top of it.

“Put your hands together and raise them please,” he ordered brusquely and once again she found herself obeying, although it meant finally baring her breasts.

He ignored them completely however and set about tying her wrists together so that her forearms were raised and flat against the wood of the door and her nipples were pressed against it too. Fear had hardened them and an odd little thrill ran through her as they were touched.

Once she was secured, Mostyn stepped back and Kath looked over her shoulder to see that he had returned to the table and picked up the belt. God! He was actually going to beat her! He had no right to! He was going to though. What was the belt going to feel like when a big man like Mostyn swung it against her naked flesh? Would it feel good?

She was aghast at the treacherous thought. But it was real nonetheless. The thought of leather smacking down onto her unprotected flesh was deeply and disturbingly exciting. When it came, the answer to her question was that it felt as though someone had punched her and then it felt as though that part of her back was on fire. The first blow had landed high up towards her left shoulder with a shockingly loud smacking noise. A soft cry had been wrung from her and she instinctively twisted away from the pain, the movement rasped her nipples against the grain of the wood and by the time the second lash hit, her head was already throwing back in shock at the intensity of the excitement. Again there was the heavy impact and the burning and again she twisted. This time she was pressed a little harder against the wood and the thrill from her nipples lanced through her so vividly that her eyes were wide and staring at her bound hands above her, they looked so small and vulnerable, as the third lash smacked across her middle back. She cried out again and flung her head back, thrusting her breasts hard against the door and growling as the shards of excitement in her nipples lanced through her again.

There was a pause and Kath craned her head round to see Mostyn rolling up the shirt sleeve of the arm he was using to beat her. She saw that he had doubled the belt over to make a flexible sort of club – and that must be why it was making that shocking impact on her skin – she also saw the thick ropes of muscle across his forearm and quickly turned her face away, burying her head against her own forearms. Deep inside her now and undeniable in its ferocity was a fire that burned in her sex. Under the tailored smartness of her skirt and the pretty, lace-edged panties, her cunt was hot and moist, and what had cranked up the level of excitement was the fact that Mr. Mostyn was frowning in concentration as he turned up his sleeve and prepared to resume the punishment, completely ignoring the half naked woman he was beating. To him she was merely the job in hand. For some reason that thought alone almost brought her to a minor orgasm.

Then another blow landed and she squirmed against the door and gasped as a tremor of climax finally did spiral through her. From then on the blows landed hard and regular until he finally stopped when her whole back felt raw and burning, her nipples were throbbing and her insides were in such a turmoil that she was panting and groaning and drowning in sensations so powerful she had no name for them. But they were strangely and darkly pleasurable.

For a second she continued to lean her head against her arms and listen to her ragged breathing as the thunder in her body subsided. But then she jumped as she felt his hard, heavy hands run up her back and reach over her to release her own hands. Slowly she pushed herself away from the door and turned around, carefully avoiding rubbing her sore back against the door.

Mostyn was now beside his desk and he had the tawse in his hand. Wordlessly he beckoned to her. Again for reasons she couldn’t explain she tottered forward and for a few steps forgot that her breasts were naked and in full view. Instinctively one hand came up to cover them but then she saw his eyes fix on them as they swayed with her movement and she could read the excitement in them. It was a small victory, but a victory of sorts, at least he had enjoyed punishing her and found her attractive – he had called her pretty after all – she dropped her hand and tried to straighten up as she approached him.

Once again she stood submissively in front of him, hands clasped in front of her, naked breasts still heaving as she regained her breath. He was holding the tawse as he had held the tie and she kept her eyes lowered to it, suddenly realising that what she would really like would be for him to reach out and touch her breasts.