The collar

Dusk came up the glass and I closed the folders. Not a client left on the floor. I took the collar out of the drawer and set it on the desk where Ian would see it when he walked in, thin leather, nothing else beside it but the shut files. Black silk shirt, heels still on, bob smoothed. I texted him that the door was locked from the inside and that I was asking.

He read my face, touched the collar with one finger, and asked me to say it. I said I wanted it on, loose enough to breathe and talk, and I wanted to serve him until I was done being the person who runs the room. He repeated the loose part. I told him our word still ends it. Then I lifted my hair and he buckled the collar. I swallowed to show us both it did not catch. I could speak. I said his name on purpose.

He told me to kneel on the rug, not the cold stone. I did. He sat in my chair and asked for my mouth on his cock, and I gave it, slow, hands on his thighs, looking up when he told me to. The collar shifted when I moved and stayed a necklace, not a hand. He praised the pace and then told me to stop, which was its own kind of order. I stopped. He bent me over the desk, silk shirt rucked up, folders an inch from my fingers and unopened. He checked once more, a hand spread between my shoulder blades, voice even: still yes? I said yes. He fucked his cock into my cunt and set a pace I did not get to edit.

I came with my cheek on the blotter and his hand covering mine, my cunt locked around his cock, the city violet in the glass. He came when I told him he could, because even in service I had asked to keep that lever. After, he did not leave me folded there. He stood me up, kissed my mouth, and asked if the collar stayed for a while. I said yes. It sat easy at the base of my neck. I could feel my pulse and nothing else. The folders stayed closed. The fuck was over, my cunt still warm, and the folders had nothing to do with it.