Chapter 6: Digital Ownership
The sleek glass conference table reflected the harsh glare of overhead lights. Rachel’s knuckles whitened around her Montblanc pen as the CFO droned on about Q3 projections, his voice a monotonous buzz against the frantic static in her own skull. Her green eyes scanned the spreadsheet displayed on the wall screen, but the numbers blurred. All she could feel was the phantom sting across her ass, a delicious echo from last night’s ‘lesson’, and the deeper, persistent ache of emptiness between her thighs. The boardroom felt suffocating, a sterile cage. The place where everyone looked to her for everything all the time.
A soft vibration pulsed against her thigh, hidden beneath the table. Her breath hitched. Only one person had that number set to override ‘Do Not Disturb’. Carefully, she angled her phone beneath the polished wood.
Ed: Status report, kitten. Now.
A jolt of pure electricity shot through her, cutting through the corporate fog. Her fingers flew over the screen, typing one-handed.
Rachel: In Q3 review. CFO talking margins. Breathing. Hydrated. Ate lunch (salad).
Ed: Protein? Details.
She stifled a groan. He remembered the skipped protein bowl yesterday.
Rachel: Grilled tofu. Ate it all, Sir.
Ed: Good girl. Stand up. Walk to the window. Look at the sky for 60 seconds. Breathe deep. Report back.
The CFO paused, glancing at her. "Rachel? Thoughts on the Spanish language expansion overhead?"
"Just… considering the scale, Martin," she managed, her voice miraculously steady. She pushed her chair back, the scrape loud in the sudden silence. "Excuse me a moment. Need to stretch my legs, clear my head." She walked, heels clicking decisively on marble, towards the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Faces turned, curious, but her CEO mask was firmly in place. Outside, grey clouds bruised the horizon. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, feeling the tightness in her shoulders ease fractionally. Sixty seconds. The city sprawled below, a kingdom she ruled, yet here she stood, obeying a text command, a flush warming her neck. She returned to her seat.
"I think we can cut the overhead by reducing the translation team to two people instead of one. Might be a slower rollout of the Spanish system, but that will give us time to get the sales partnerships in place that we need."
Everyone nodded, making notes.
Rachel: Done, Sir. Sky is grey. Breathed.
Ed: Better. Focus sharpens when you take breaks. Tonight. 8 PM. My place. Bring the plug. The small one. And lube. Be ready.
Heat flooded her core, sudden and intense. The plug. Their agreement included training – slow, deliberate preparation for him to claim her ass. The small silicone plug felt innocuous, a mere promise, but the command ignited a tremor deep within her. Be ready. It wasn't a request. It was a demand that resonated in her bones.
Rachel: Yes, Sir. Ready.
The rest of the meeting passed in a haze. She spoke, commanded, made decisions, her mind a split screen: spreadsheets and the phantom weight of the plug she knew she’d soon wear under her skirt on the drive to his place. The duality was dizzying, addictive. He carved space for her submission within the fortress of her control.
The playroom was a world away from her glass office. Velvet drapes swallowed sound and light, leaving pools of warm amber from strategically placed lamps. The air hung thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and old leather. Ed stood by an antique armoire, his back to her as she entered. He wore dark trousers and nothing else, the muscles of his back and shoulders sculpted in the low light. He didn't turn immediately.
"Kneel," he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. "By the bed."
She obeyed instantly, the plush rug soft beneath her knees. The king-sized bed dominated the space, its dark wood frame heavy, imposing. She kept her gaze lowered, hands resting lightly on her thighs. The anticipation was a physical thing, coiling tight in her belly. She heard him move, the soft click of the armoire door.
He approached, stopping before her. She saw his bare feet first, then the dark fabric of his trousers. His fingers brushed under her chin, tilting her head up. His brown eyes held hers, intense, assessing. "Report. Fully. The weight."
She swallowed. This was the hard part. The emotional excavation he demanded nightly. "The Spanish version overhead… it’s manageable, but the timeline feels aggressive. Martin pushes, but…" She faltered, the CEO reflex kicking in – deflect, project confidence. His thumb stroked her jawline, a silent command to continue, to be vulnerable.
"...but I’m worried," she admitted, the words scraping out. "Worried we’re stretching the team too thin. Worried I missed something in the risk assessment. It feels… heavy. Like I’m carrying it alone, even though I know I’m not. If I screw this up, it could tank our budget this year. Investors will freak." The admission left her feeling exposed, raw. Tears pricked her eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer relief of releasing the pressure.
He crouched before her, his gaze level with hers. His hand moved to cup the back of her neck, a familiar, grounding weight. "Good," he murmured. "That weight isn't yours alone to bear. You delegate. You trust your team. You trust me to hold this space for you." He leaned forward, his lips brushing hers, a fleeting, possessive touch. "The worry is acknowledged. Now, box it. It doesn't belong in this room. This room is mine. You are mine."
The command was absolute. The corporate anxieties, the maternal guilts (the kids were fine, with their father tonight), the relentless pressure – they shriveled under the heat of his ownership. Here, she was only his. The relief was profound, a physical unknotting.
"Stand," he ordered, rising smoothly. He held out his hand. In his palm lay the small, teardrop-shaped silicone plug and a bottle of lube. "You brought them?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good." He placed the items on the bedside table. "Strip. Slowly. Present yourself."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she unbuttoned her silk blouse, letting it slide from her shoulders. The cool air kissed her skin. She stepped out of her pencil skirt, unhooked her bra, slid her panties down her legs. Naked now, she stood before him, the soft light caressing the curves honed by relentless discipline. She felt his gaze like a physical touch, roaming her body, lingering on the faint, fading marks on her ass from previous lessons. He circled her, a predator assessing his prey.
"Turn around," he commanded softly. "Bend over the foot of the bed. Ass high."
She obeyed, leaning forward, resting her forearms on the cool velvet coverlet, presenting herself. The position was deeply submissive, vulnerable. She heard the click of the lube cap, the slick sound as he coated his fingers generously.
"Relax," he murmured, his free hand spreading her ass cheeks. The cool touch of lubricant against her tightest opening made her gasp. "Breathe out." His fingertip pressed, circling the resistant muscle with firm, insistent pressure. "That's it… let go for me." He worked slowly, patiently, massaging the tight ring, coaxing it to relax. The intrusion was strange, intense, a stretching burn that wasn't entirely unpleasant. He added a second finger, stretching her carefully, the lube easing the way. "You take this so well, kitten," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Such a good hole, learning to open for me."
He withdrew his fingers, leaving her feeling strangely empty and stretched. She heard the slick sounds again, louder this time. He was coating the plug. The cool silicone pressed against her prepared opening. "Push out," he instructed. "Like you're trying to pass something. Yes… just like that." She obeyed, bearing down instinctively. The bulbous tip popped past the tight ring, a sudden, shocking fullness. She cried out, a sharp sound muffled by the velvet.
"Breathe," Ed commanded, his hand firm on her hip. "Just breathe through it. Feel it." The plug settled deep, a persistent, undeniable presence. The stretch was intense, a constant reminder of his claim. He smoothed lube-slick fingers over her swollen outer lips, finding her clit already hard and eager. "Look how wet you are," he growled, rubbing slow circles that sent sparks shooting up her spine. "Your greedy cunt dripping just from me filling this tight little asshole. You love being stretched open, don't you? Owned in every hole."
"Yes, Sir!" she gasped, pushing back against his hand, desperate for more friction on her clit, the plug inside her amplifying every sensation. "Please…"
"Please what?" He pinched her clit lightly, making her jerk. "Use your filthy words."
"I need you to fuck me, Sir! Please fuck my wet cunt while you own my ass!"
A low, satisfied rumble came from his chest. "Since you asked so nicely." She heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then, the thick, hot head of his cock pressed against her dripping entrance. He gripped her hips hard. "Take it."
He slammed into her pussy in one powerful thrust. She screamed, the sudden, brutal fullness overwhelming her senses. The plug shifted deep inside her ass with the force, a double penetration that stole her breath. He didn't pause, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm, driving into her soaked channel while the plug stretched her ass with every powerful surge forward. His balls slapped against her clit with each deep plunge.
"Fuck! Yes! Sir!" she babbled, lost in the maelstrom of sensation. The stretch, the burn, the deep, brutal pleasure of his cock pistoning into her, the plug filling her ass – it was too much, too perfect. Her cunt clenched violently around him, trying to milk him, the muscles spasming against the invading plug. "Oh God! It's… it's too much! So full!"
"Not enough," he growled, his voice strained with effort. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, one hand snaking around to grasp her throat, not choking, but holding, claiming. His other hand slid down, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing hard and fast in time with his thrusts. "You can take more. You will take more. This ass is mine, Rachel. Say it!"
"It's yours!" she shrieked, her body bowing under the onslaught. "My ass is yours, Sir! Fuck! Please! I'm gonna come!"
"Come!" he commanded, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, grinding deep. "Come all over my cock, you filthy, owned slut! Milk me!"
The command shattered her. An orgasm ripped through her, violent and all-consuming. Her vision whited out as her body convulsed, her cunt spasming wildly around his driving cock, her ass clenching rhythmically on the plug. She felt him roar, his hips slamming against her ass as he buried himself to the hilt, pulsing hot jets of cum deep inside her pussy. He held her there, impaled on both his cock and the plug, both of them shuddering through the aftershocks, his weight heavy and possessive on her back.
Slowly, the tremors subsided. He carefully withdrew his softening cock, then gently eased the plug from her ass. The sudden emptiness was profound. She collapsed forward onto the bed, utterly spent, trembling. She felt him move away, then return moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned her with surprising tenderness, wiping the sweat and spend from her thighs, her ass, her swollen cunt. The care after the brutality always undid her.
He lifted her, arranging her limp body on the bed, pulling the soft velvet cover over her. He lay beside her, pulling her close, her back against his chest, his arm draped heavily over her waist. His lips brushed her shoulder.
"You did so well, kitten," he murmured, his voice rough but warm. "Took everything I gave you. Owned it." His hand smoothed down her arm. "The plug stays in tomorrow. For two hours. While you work."
Her eyes flew open in the dimness. "Sir? At the office?" The thought was scandalous, thrilling.
"A reminder," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Of who owns you. Of where you belong when the weight presses down. A secret anchor." He kissed her temple. "Sleep now. You're safe."
She nestled back against him, the lingering ache in her ass a constant, comforting pulse. The plug tomorrow… a secret claim beneath her power suit. The craving wasn't just for the sessions anymore; it was for this pervasive sense of being owned, guided, protected, woven into the very fabric of her chaotic life. She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent – sandalwood, sex, and safety. The emails would start again at dawn. She craved them already.
--
The glow of Rachel’s laptop screen was the only light in her cavernous home office, the city a distant constellation below. Spreadsheets blurred; the numbers for the Madrid launch team’s budget refused to cohere. Her silk pajama pants felt impossibly soft against her skin, a stark contrast to the persistent, low throb echoing from deep inside her. The plug. A constant, intimate pressure, a secret Ed had insisted she carry through her workday and into the evening. A reminder. An anchor. She shifted slightly in the leather chair, the subtle movement sending a fresh wave of awareness through her core. It had been maddening, exhilarating – sitting through back-to-back Zooms, leading a board strategy call, all while acutely conscious of the smooth silicone intruder, a physical echo of his ownership buried within her. Every email notification had sparked a jolt of adrenaline. Was it him? Usually, it was just Martin fretting over margins. But the anticipation – that was the drug. Ed’s control wasn’t confined to the playroom; it was woven into the fabric of her demanding life, a counterpoint to the heavy crown she wore. Craving the next command was an addiction sharper than caffeine.
Her phone buzzed, a distinct double pulse against the mahogany desk. Not Martin. Him. She snatched it up.
Ed: Report. Weight. Plug status.
A shiver traced her spine. She typed quickly, the corporate facade dissolving in the privacy of her thoughts.
Rachel: Weight… heavy. Madrid feels like quicksand. Plug… present, Sir. Constant. Aching. Three hours in. Mind keeps drifting… to you.
She hit send, her cheeks flushing. The honesty still cost her, scraping raw places her CEO skin protected. The reply was instantaneous.
Ed: Aching where, kitten? Be precise.
She swallowed. Her fingers hovered.
Rachel: Deep inside, Sir. Where you filled me. Reminding me I’m owned. Throbbing.
Ed: Good girl. Authenticity. The ache is my claim. Feel it. Now. Stand. Walk to your bedroom. Strip. Wait. Kneeling beside the bed. Now.
Command flowed into obedience. She closed the laptop, the Madrid quicksand momentarily forgotten. The walk down the dim hallway felt like shedding layers of armor. In her sleek, modern bedroom, she obeyed: silk pajamas pooled on the floor, the cool air raising goosebumps on her bared skin. She knelt beside the imposing bed, the plush rug soft under her knees. The plug’s presence intensified in the quiet, a deep, possessive pulse. She kept her gaze lowered, hands resting on her thighs, waiting. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Her nipples tightened, pebbled peaks on the swell of her breasts. How long? Seconds? Minutes? Time dissolved under the weight of expectation. Hearing the front door open – his key in the lock – sent a fresh wave of slick heat between her legs.
His footsteps were unhurried, deliberate taps on the hardwood, growing louder down the hall. He paused in the doorway, a silhouette against the ambient city light filtering in. She didn’t look up, but felt his gaze like a physical touch, sweeping over her nakedness, lingering on the curve of her spine, the vulnerable arch of her presented ass. He didn’t speak, just moved into the room with a quiet authority that tightened her stomach. She heard the soft clink of metal, the whisper of heavy chain links. Cuffs. Her breath hitched. He approached, stopping directly before her. The polished leather of his shoes entered her downcast view.
"Look at me, Rachel."
She lifted her chin. He was dressed immaculately – dark tailored trousers, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up his powerful forearms. The contrast between his controlled elegance and her utter nakedness was devastating. His dark eyes, intense and unreadable, held hers. "You wore my claim all day. Like a good girl." His voice was low, a velvet rasp. "That deserves a reward. Doesn’t it?"
"Yes, Sir," she breathed, the response automatic, necessary.
He held up the leather cuffs, thick and supple, gleaming dully in the low light. "Wrists. Present them."
She lifted her hands, offering her wrists, pulse fluttering visibly at the delicate skin. He took her right wrist first, his touch firm, businesslike. The cold leather encircled her, the buckle snugging securely, not painfully tight, but inescapable. He fastened it with a decisive click. Then the left. The weight was immediate, anchoring. He attached a short chain between them, further limiting her movement. "Stand." He guided her up, his hand warm on her elbow. "Turn. Face the bed." She did, her cuffed hands hanging before her. She heard the heavy rattle of a longer chain. He guided her back a step, then pulled her cuffed wrists up and forward. A metallic snick as the chain connected to a sturdy ring bolted to the headboard frame, high above the mattress. The chain pulled her arms up, forcing her to stand on her toes, her body stretched, arched back, breasts thrust forward, utterly displayed and exposed. Vulnerable. Her breath came faster.
He stepped close behind her, his chest not quite touching her back. His fingers traced the line of her spine, down to the swell of her ass. He slid a hand between her legs from behind, fingers gliding easily through her slick folds. "Dripping," he murmured, his breath hot on her shoulder. He pressed two fingers deep inside her cunt, curling them. "And greedy. Soaked just from being chained up like the needy slut you are." He withdrew his fingers with a slick sound, then pressed the cool pad of one finger against the base of the plug still seated in her ass. A whimper escaped her. He chuckled, a dark, warm sound. "Patience, kitten." Then, darkness. Soft, padded leather covered her eyes, the blindfold straps snug behind her head. The world vanished, reduced to scent (his sandalwood cologne, her own arousal), sound (his breathing, the faint city hum), and overwhelming sensation.
His hands roamed. Possessive. Exploring. They palmed her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples with agonizing slowness, then pinching sharply, making her gasp and arch into the bindings. His mouth followed, lips and teeth grazing the side of her throat, her shoulder, biting down just hard enough on the muscle near her neck to make her cry out. One hand slid down her belly, fingers tangling in the damp curls, then spreading her lower lips wide. His thumb found her clit, pressing, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. "This little bud," he murmured, his voice vibrating against her skin. "Already so hard. Begging." He slid one finger, then two, back into her dripping cunt, pumping slowly, deeply. Her hips jerked, seeking more, but the chains held her upper body firmly. She was at his mercy. Entirely. He added a third finger, stretching her, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit with each thrust. Pleasure, sharp and relentless, coiled tight in her belly. "You gonna come like this?" he taunted, his fingers working her ruthlessly. "Come just from my fingers fucking this desperate hole while you’re chained up blind?"
"Ed! Sir! Please…" she panted, straining against the cuffs, her body bowing. "Need… need…"
"Need what?" He twisted his fingers inside her, curling hard. "Need my cock buried in this wet cunt? Need to feel me split you open?"
"Yes! Fuck! Please, yes! Need your cock! Need you inside me!" The words tumbled out, raw and desperate.
He withdrew his fingers suddenly, leaving her clenching on emptiness. She heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of his belt, the slide of his zipper. The anticipation was torture. The mattress dipped behind her. Strong hands gripped her hips, pulling her back. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against her soaked entrance. He nudged, teasing, rubbing the thick crown through her slick folds, bumping against her clit. She whimpered, pushing back helplessly. "Please…"
He pulled her hips back firmly, impaling her slowly. Inch by excruciating inch, his thick cock stretched her, filled her, a burning, glorious invasion. She cried out, the stretch intense after his fingers, the plug still a presence beneath. He seated himself fully, hilting inside her with a deep groan, his pelvis pressed flush against her ass. He held there, buried to the root, letting her feel the impossible fullness, the heat, the claiming pressure. His hands slid up her sides, strong fingers splaying across her ribcage, just below her straining breasts. He shifted slightly, his grip tightening, anchoring her.
Then, with a deliberate slowness that was its own kind of agony, he pulled almost all the way out. She felt every ridge, every vein. The drag was exquisite torture. Then, with the same maddening control, he pushed back in, sinking deep. Again. Slow. Deep. Measured. Each withdrawal a loss, each penetration a profound reclaiming. Her breath hitched with every stroke, little gasps forced from her lungs. She felt one of his hands move. Fingers brushed her cheek, then grasped the side of the blindfold. He didn’t remove it. He shifted it. Just enough. A narrow gap opened at the bottom edge, near her temple.
"Open your eyes, Rachel."
She did. Blinking against the sudden, dim light. He was angled behind her, turned slightly. His face was inches from hers, his head tilted to catch her gaze through the gap in the blindfold. His dark brown eyes locked onto hers, intense, unblinking, holding her captive more completely than the cuffs. She could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the focused intensity, the raw possession in his gaze. He thrust deep, grinding his hips against her ass, the plug shifting, his cock stretching her inner walls. She moaned, her eyes fluttering, but his grip on her face tightened fractionally.
"Eyes," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "Stay with me. Look at me."
She forced her eyes open, meeting his unflinching stare. The intimacy was staggering, terrifying. More invasive than the cock buried inside her, the plug in her ass, the chains holding her arms aloft. He owned her gaze. He owned her sight. He owned her surrender. He held her look as he fucked her with those same deep, slow, deliberate strokes, each one a profound claiming. She could see the sweat beading on his forehead, the tightening of his jaw, the absolute focus directed solely at her. He owned her pleasure, her pain, her very focus. She was utterly exposed, utterly seen in her most vulnerable state. A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her temple.
"Whose?" he demanded, his thrust never breaking rhythm, his eyes boring into hers.
"Yours!" she gasped, the words ripped from her soul. "All yours, Sir! Your slut! Your cunt! Your everything!"
He groaned, a sound ripped from deep within his chest. His control fractured, just slightly. The deep strokes became harder, more urgent, though his gaze never wavered. "Come," he ordered, his voice thick. "Come for me. Now. Look at me while you come."
The command, the unbroken eye contact, the deep, relentless fullness – it detonated her. Her orgasm wasn't a wave; it was an implosion, a silent scream tearing through her as her body convulsed, her cunt rippling and clamping violently around his driving cock. Her eyes stayed locked on his, wide, drowning in his dark gaze as the pleasure annihilated her. She saw the exact moment her climax triggered his – his eyes flared, his jaw clenched, a feral groan tearing loose as he slammed into her one final time, holding deep, pulsing jet after hot jet of cum inside her. He held her gaze through it, through the violent tremors wracking her body, through the aftershocks, his own release shuddering through him, his eyes never leaving hers, binding her to him in that raw, shared obliteration. The chain links rattled softly with her tremors. His breath, harsh and hot, fanned her face. The world was reduced to the feel of him deep inside her, flooding her, and the unbreakable tether of his gaze, holding her shattered pieces together in the aftermath.