His perfectly tailored grey pin stripe hung from a well defined frame and his wire rimmed glasses masked the intensity of his colbalt eyes.
Over one arm, he held his coat, the weather unseasonably warm for February. In the other hand, he carried a briefcase. Beautifully finished in tooled black leather with understated gold clasps and his monogram stamped in one corner, it swung by his side as he strode down the cobbled street.
Jeremy was late. She would be waiting for him. His cock stiffened at the thought. She was always there first. Even when he managed to escape the confines of his glass office early, she’d be at the flat before him. She’d be on the bed, or sitting by the window. Sometimes naked. But more often leaving her undressing to him. Leaving everything to him. Always under the well cut, demure suits, she’d be wearing something a little saucy. Scarlet suspenders. Crotchless panties. A tight corset.
His pace quickened.
Jeremy turned down into Wicker Street, the tall buildings on either side of the lane blocking out the weak February sun. Halfway down, he reached into his pocket for a key and unlocked a nondescript green door. He climbed the narrow staircase, quietly let himself into number 12 and hung his coat on the rack in the entrance to the flat. It was quiet. Only the muffled sound of traffic rumbled up through the building. He smiled and walked down the corridor to the bedroom.
She was there. Sitting in the tatty brocade covered chair by the window, looking out over a courtyard. Her blonde hair swept up into a neat chignon, her grey skirt and jacket almost a match to his. The only evidence that she’d been waiting for him was the jump of her pulse beneath pearls at her throat.
She looked up at him.
He took off his glasses and put them on the dark wood side table.
“Hello Emma,” he said, his voice low, “Please. Take off your jacket.”
As she stood and did as she was told, Jeremy lifted the briefcase onto the table and flicked open the clasps.
“And now your blouse and skirt, darling. Thank you.”
Emma undid the buttons of her cream silk shirt and let it slide off her shoulders and drop to the floor. She drew down the zip on the side of her skirt, pushed it over her hips and stepped out of it. She stood, still in her heels and pearls, wearing nothing but a white basque which barely contained her breasts.
Jeremy loosened his tie and walked over to Emma. “You’re so lovely, darling,” he whispered gently, as he reached out to stroke the top of one rounded breast.
Jeremy pulled one strap of the basque down over her shoulder, ran his finger along the top of the delicate fabric, slowly moving deeper to graze one of her nipples.
“You’ve been naughty again, haven’t you?” he said. “You’ve been a very bad girl.”
Emma nodded. Her breath caught as he circled behind her and traced a line down the lacing of the corset, gasping each time his finger touched her flesh between the satin stays. He followed the curve of her spine and tracked a line over the swell of her bottom, the top of her thighs, his breath on her neck. He kissed the soft spot just below her ear.
Emma closed her eyes.
“Bend over, darling,” he said. “That’s right.”
Jeremy took off his tie and his jacket and put them on the table next to his glasses. He rolled up the sleeves of his Thomas Pink shirt and reached to open the briefcase. From its custom-made crimson leather interior he lifted the riding crop and ran its length over his palm.
“I missed you darling,” he growled as he looked over to Emma, bent over the chair, her hair beginning to escape from its clips.
And Emma just shivered. And smiled.