The boss

At mid-morning she found herself cornered by Jill and a couple of the other women by the coffee machine. They were chattering as usual, voices carrying across the room.

“Did you ever notice,” Jill said loudly, “John doesn’t flinch at anything? Like, nothing fazes him.”

The others laughed, but Tammy tilted her head, curiosity tugging at her. “Why’s that?” she asked.

Jill smirked, leaning in. “Ex-military. The stiff bastard was some kind of officer back in the day. Discharged though.”

“Why?”

Shrugs went around the circle. “No one knows. Rumour is it wasn’t about the job, though. Something else. Something dirty.” Jill’s grin widened. “I reckon he’s got a past, that one. The kind you wouldn’t tell your mum about.”

The girls cackled, but Tammy’s chest tightened. Her mind flashed to his fists slamming into those men in the alley, the way he’d moved like **** was a second language. She felt her thighs squeeze together, unbidden.

She excused herself, muttering something about deadlines, and scurried back to her desk.

That was when she saw it.

On her chair, waiting neatly like office supplies, were three small metal clamps. Not paper clips. Not stationary. Small little clamps, like ones she has seen years earlier when her and Graham were experimenting.

Her phone chimed. Not an email. A text. Withheld number.

“Put them on. Nipples and clit.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. She scanned the office. No one was looking. Jill was bent over her screen, another girl was giggling at her phone. No eyes were on Tammy.

Her pulse thundered. She should throw them away. Delete the message. Pretend none of this was happening. But her fingers were already curling around the cold metal. Already tugging her blouse open just enough to slip a clamp inside.

The first bite on her nipple made her hiss, loud enough she had to cover it with a cough. The second made her toes curl in her heels, nipples rock-hard, straining against the thin fabric of her blouse. She slid the third down into her trousers, her fingers shaking, finding her slit slicker than she wanted to admit. The clamp locked onto her clit, sharp and unforgiving, a mix of pain and raw heat that shot straight through her gut.

She nearly doubled over.

Buzz. Another text.

“Keep them on. All day.”

Tammy sat down, every movement pulling at her nipples, her clit throbbing under the pinch. She could barely think, let alone work. Every tap of the keyboard sent a fresh ache through her chest. Every shift in her chair dragged fire through her pussy. She clenched her thighs together, sweat prickling her back, praying no one would notice the flush in her face or the way she chewed her lip raw.

By the time five o’clock rolled around, she was shaking. She walked out of the office with her bag pressed tight against her chest, heart pounding in her ears. The clamps were still on, hidden, torturing her with every step down the grimy Glasgow street.

She made it home in one piece, dumped her bag on the floor, and collapsed against the door. She wanted to rip them off, to sob, to scream, but the phone chimed again.

Her stomach dropped.

“Open your curtains. Light on. Stand at your window naked. Keep the clamps on. Count to 100 slow.”

Her hands trembled as she read it again. And again. Naked. Window. Neighbours. Anyone could see.

She paced, tugging at her hair, her body buzzing with the aftershocks of arousal and terror. She thought of Graham, of his warm smile, his steady voice. What would he say if he saw her now? What would he think of his wife stripping in front of strangers because some faceless bastard told her to?

Her hand was already on the curtains.

She yanked them open, flicked on the lamp. The yellow glow lit up the whole living room, her reflection staring back at her in the glass.

Her blouse hit the floor. Her trousers followed.

The clamps gleamed in the lamplight, cruel little teeth digging into her nipples, her swollen clit. She stepped forward, skin goosebumping in the chill, every nerve exposed.

“Fuck,” she whispered, and pressed her forehead to the glass.

Her tits pressed against the cold pane, nipples aching under the clamps. Her pussy clenched, dripping down her thighs, the metal biting her every time she shifted. She started to count.

“One…”

Her voice trembled. She spread her arms, bare, lit up like an exhibit.

“Two…”

Her thighs rubbed together, slick, trembling. She swore she could hear her wetness.

“Three…”

The shame ate through her chest, her face flaming, but underneath it a raw pulse throbbed harder and harder.

By fifty, sweat ran down her spine, her breath ragged against the glass. By eighty, she was biting her lip to stop the moans clawing up her throat. At ninety-nine, her pussy spasmed so hard she nearly collapsed.

She **** out “One hundred,” and stumbled back, shaking, clamps biting cruelly into her.

That was when she saw it.

A flash.

Faint, in the darkness beyond the street. A shape. A figure. Watching.

Her knees buckled. She clutched the curtain, slamming it shut, her chest heaving.

Someone had seen. Not just seen—recorded.

She closed the curtains and removed the clamps, she felt raw and sensitive.

Another message

"Good you can take pleasure, pain and willing to be naked in front of others, this will go well for you, be at me office at 9 am - John"

Tammy's heart thumped in her chest as she mouthed "That bastard"