Compliance Pt. 02

Author's Note: Thank you for reading all the way to the second chapter. I appreciate that. I'm just becoming acquainted with Literotica's tools, so I apologize if the first chapter was too short or lacked action-- I thought I could tack on the continuation of the story as a second chapter after publishing, but it looks like the way to go is to write and publish this next part separately.

A big inspiration for this story is Nancy's Descent by JustineBishop. I find my mind sometimes involuntarily wandering to it when I'm masturbating, having sex, or going about my daily life. It ended on a cliffhanger years ago but it still inspired a fixation that I can't escape from, so go read it, if you enjoy sitting with the feeling of powerlessness against whoever or whatever may ensnare you.

RR

Olive met her own gaze in the mirror of her Prius and quickly broke it to glance at the GPS directions to the law offices of Galois and Stevens. She was driving with one hand on the wheel while she bit down and tugged on the nail of her left ring finger. Biting her nails was a nasty, stress-borne habit that she had really tried to break, but driving always seemed to set it off, as she was still getting accustomed to navigating the hectic chaos of the city streets by car. Besides, it wasn't the only bad habit whose grip she had to worry about escaping, anymore.

At least his name isn't on the practice. He hasn't made partner yet. Thinking about Paul working underneath his professional superiors brought Olive some meager comfort. It's not like he runs the place. He can't have that much power there. And he can't have any more power over me than I allow him to.

No sooner than she had finished the thought, Olive admitted to herself that it wasn't true. If she could control how much sway Paul still had over her, she wouldn't be so tense right now. Her body told the real story. Her brow was furrowed, her jaw clenched, her thighs tightly squeezed together as if to confine her arousal. She couldn't lie to herself. It was all she could do to keep her hand on the wheel and her eyes on the road.

Olive ruminated on her time with Paul, to try to sort out the whirling storm in her head-- her resentment, her fear, her desire to succumb, and her need to hold herself together. He had been the Dom to end all Doms for her. The man that made her tuck her tail between her legs, turn on her heel, leave the city and its kink scene, and settle into a cozy monogamy with her ex. It wasn't exactly because Paul had treated her poorly (except when she'd begged him to, of course). He wasn't a scary guy. No, what scared her most was the weakness she seemed to have for him.

As Olive remembered, she had been unhealthily consumed by her submission to Paul. When the stress of family and school got to be overwhelming, she could just relax into her role as his pleasure pet, where the expectations were clear and she could never disappoint him. She developed a pseudo-addiction to that sense of peace and purpose, when the ever-turning gears in her brain could slow to a sensual rhythm, her jaw slack and her knees wobbly, and she could just drop to the floor and hand over the reins to her mind and body for a while. She never wanted to leave his apartment, but in the morning she always had to.

At the end of the day, Olive could not will Paul to be similarly consumed by her. She couldn't make him belong to her the way she hoped she might if she were good enough, sweet enough, interesting enough, and persistent enough. But she was, after all, just a college student, several years his junior, someone he could easily get what he wanted from with a little wining and dining. She was easy to impress, easy to conquer, eager to be conquered. She wasn't sure if she had ever impressed him.

Her sole consolation prize for losing herself wholly in her submission was the memory of when she had been his for a brief moment in time, memories she was ashamed to admit still thrilled her and turned her on. After a few years of recalibration in a more egalitarian partnership with someone her own age, who practically worshipped the ground she walked on... the effect these memories were having on her now made Olive feel rather pathetic in her adult life. She did not want to see a man who made her feel pathetic. Her shame at her past self and her deep desire to be full of his cock again were all mixed up. Introducing that chaos into her working life made for a heady cocktail of confusion. And here she was, driving to his office. Your destination is on the right.

What would be worse-- if he remembered her, or if he didn't? If the pervasive impact he'd left on her psyche was mutual, and he'd spent lonely nights stroking his cock to the memory of dominating her, or if she was merely an insignificant blip on his radar? As Olive gingerly eased into a parking space, she realized she truly didn't know what outcome she'd prefer. After all, now in her mid twenties, she couldn't wield the persona of precocious-ingenue-teen-sex-kitten anymore, and when you outgrow that label, there's a million other damaged girls desperate for the approval of an older man waiting to take your place. Paul probably had one under his desk servicing his cock at that very moment, and three on speed dial.

Olive stepped out into the street, rounded her car to grab the box of files from the passenger seat, and marched to the office door with the somber resignation of a doomed man approaching the gallows.

With both hands holding the box of files, Olive turned her body to push the glass door open with her hips. No turning back now. A harried receptionist in a rumpled blouse was typing feverishly behind the front desk. The furniture and lighting were swanky and upscale, but the overall effect was still cozy and inviting. The kind of place designed to make you feel at ease sharing all your secrets. The receptionist paused her assault on her keyboard to look at Olive.

"May I help you?"

"Um, yes, I'm from Bleecker and Nash, I have the requested documents for discovery in the Stadtler case." The words rushed out of Olive's mouth in a hurried spurt as she felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Can I just leave them here with you?"

The receptionist gave no indication she had picked up on the pleading tone in Olive's voice. "Actually, would you mind bringing them to Paul's office?" she said coolly. "He may want to review the disclosures with you so he can send you back with any further requests." She pointed a long, gold-tipped nail down a hallway behind her. "Second door on the right."

Fuuuuck. "Okay, no problem!" Olive squeaked as she wondered if there was something else she could have said to back out, if she'd lied about being in a rush, or deferred the document review to Kent, or faked a family emergency. She crooked one arm around the box of documents and practically tiptoed to the door, tapping on it lightly with her fingernail.

"Come in."

Olive swallowed hard, pushed down on the door handle, and stepped into the office of Paul Kleinfeld. She averted her gaze from the man at the desk, desperately trying to find something else in the room to notice first, and her eyes instead found a modest loveseat for clients, a shelf full of books, and a banker's lamp, the vintage green kind one might see at an old library. She wasn't exactly expecting a sex dungeon on the other side of the door, but it was still uncanny to see what it looked like for him to be in his element at work.

Finally, she turned to face him. His 30s had been kind to him so far, it seemed. He was wearing a well-fitting but unremarkable charcoal suit. Crisp white shirt, burgundy tie and pocket hanky. His dark hair was thinner than when she had seen him last, and his face a little rounder, with an equal amount of worry lines and smile lines. Olive could also see herself in a mirror mounted on the wall behind him. Age had softened her edges, too. Her thick, wavy brown hair was piled into a bun. She was grateful she had chosen a dark purple top to wear today, as the color hid what she suspected were massive sweat stains. Her grey pencil skirt hugged her hard-won curves, the result of many breathless evenings doing home workouts on her floor. She looked professional, but she also looked better than ever. What a relief.

"What do we have here?" Paul intoned. Their eyes met, and Olive just about melted into the green Persian rug.

"Hey, yeah, these are the documents you requested." When she received only an inquisitive glance in reply, she clarified weakly, "For the Stadtler case. From Bleecker Nash."

Paul grinned. "Speedy. I appreciate that. So, are you Bleecker or Nash?"

Olive laughed tersely at his joke. Does he really not recognize me?

"Neither. I am but a lowly intern."

"Good for you. This is an interesting case to be working on. I hope you learn a lot."

Olive giggled involuntarily. When was the last time she had fucking giggled? She couldn't tell if she detected recognition in his hazel eyes. She thought she might be in the clear.

"Thanks! I uh... I definitely have a lot to learn." Paul raised his eyebrows in response.

"Is that so?" The familiar lilt in his voice shook Olive to her core. "I think you know a lot of things. I think there's something we both know. Shall I tell it to you, or will you tell it to me?"

Olive swayed and shifted her weight, instantly regretting the way the fidget made her thighs glide against each other in her stockings. It seemed to amplify the pulsing swell between her legs. She swallowed.

"I'm not sure I understand, Sir." Sir? Really?

Olive had meant to sound formal, but the Freudian slip elicited a chuckle from Paul. "Been a while since you've called me that, Olivia. Though I seem to remember you preferred Master. Or sometimes even Daddy."

The jig was up. She stared at him, her dry mouth agape, for what felt like hours. Finally, she managed to choke out, "It's Olive."

"That's right! I remember now. The first time you introduced yourself in person, you said 'It's Olive. Like a little salty thing one might put in their mouth.' " He grinned again, and his eyes slowly wandered down Olive's body, taking her all in. "Then you ordered a martini, extra dirty. From that speakeasy. Remember?"

Olive cringed at her old catchphrase and backed away, shaking her head no, but unable to utter a word.

"No? You don't remember?"

"No, I... I don't want to do this." She sighed, and looked up at him, trying to implore him with her eyes not to resurrect the Olive that would obey him. His leer didn't yield.

"Oh no?" His voice dropped to a murmur that seemed to float into her head and flutter behind her eyes like a moth. "You don't want to turn around and let me look at you? It's been such a long time since we used to play together."

Olive gritted her teeth. She wasn't expecting Paul to be this forward. With her hopes to escape undetected dashed upon the rocks, she decided to change her strategy and fight forward with forward.

"You can look at the back of me when I leave in a minute. If you enjoy the view, that's none of my business. You can call my supervising attorney with any questions about the documents and I can get my afternoon back. But this thing that's happening here...I don't know what to do with it." She bit her lip, and continued.

" I do remember everything, vividly, and it's a problem for me. I don't know what to do with you. Is this...are we in a conflict of interest?"

Paul smirked, clearly taking pleasure in how easily he had flustered her. She clearly needed to be comforted, but it was so fun to make her squirm. "It seems to me that you are the only one whose interests conflict here. If you truly didn't want to see me at all, you could have backed off the case by now and handed off the research to some other hungry intern."

Olive laughed bitterly and spat, "That'd certainly work better for both of us, since you'd be able to have this conversation with someone who's more your type."

"I don't think that's a fair thing to say to someone who's literally counted the freckles on your ass cheeks while railing you from behind," Paul chided. "You look beautiful, by the way." Olive grimaced at the complimentary reply to her snide remark. He always had a unique way of making her feel like she'd prematurely shown her hand, and she didn't have a poker face like his.

" Anyways," he continued, "I'd appreciate it if you refrained from being transparent to the courts about how you used to be my little slut. I don't think it's a good look for either of us, but it'd hurt you more in this early stage of your career."

Olive knew he was right. Though the age gap between them would reflect poorly on Paul, her position was a lot more tenuous. "So..."

"So you've sought my counsel, and I've advised you. Now be a good girl and level with me-- is that truly all you want from this encounter?"

Olive shivered. The phrase "good girl" had always been a trigger for her. He knew he was pressing her buttons. Her mouth was somehow simultaneously watering and bone dry, and she felt dizzy, but a calm lightness was sliding over her body like a silken robe. She regarded Paul with wide, docile eyes, and willed herself to say something, anything that would let her keep her promise to herself not to let sex complicate her ambitions anymore. Instead, she remained silent.

"Will you come sit on Daddy's lap?"

With only a vague awareness of what she was doing, Olive apprehensively shuffled to his side of the desk, bent her knees, and lowered herself into a straddle atop his waiting thigh.

"Mm. That's a good girl. There's a lot of heat coming off your pussy right now, Olive." He buried his nose into the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply, as if the mingled scent of her perfume and pheromones could tell him what she was thinking. If she was even thinking at all.

Olive had a million questions for Paul, and he seemed light on answers. But the act of surrender she had indulged in by complying with his request had enveloped her mind in an intoxicating haze of pleasure. She would be lying to herself if she tried to assert that she didn't want desperately to continue to obey. Her desire and her reservations were swirling in her head, negating each other as quickly as they arose, like a dog chasing its tail, circling down the drain, swirling, swirling...

His hand was firm on the small of her back. His touch felt so steady against her quivering body. Olive reached up her arms and wrapped them around his neck, as if she could borrow some of that steadiness if she clung to him tightly enough. He held her for what could have been seconds or hours, gently rubbing her back, before his hands wandered down to her hips. He sunk his thumbs sharply into the depressions and Olive gasped and released her grip. In one quick, smooth movement he spun her around on his thigh and covered her mouth to stifle her groan. Then he hooked one arm around her waist and pulled her body up against his erect cock, raising and lowering his thigh into her aching pussy. He spun his office chair a quarter turn so they were facing the mirror on the wall.

"Look at you, pretty baby," he purred. "If you don't want to pick up where we left off, now would be the time to speak up." Before Olive could fully vocalize her objection into his palm, he shoved two fingers into her mouth and halfway down her throat. She gagged slightly and watched her eyes water in the mirror. She couldn't believe it. All of ten minutes had elapsed from entering Paul's office to melting into a puddle on Daddy's lap.

"I missed your mouth, princess." He pushed a little deeper, forcing another gag out of her, as drool dribbled down her chin. She moaned indignantly around his fingers.

"You may not recognize yourself right now, but I sure do, Olive. This is exactly how I remember you." He softly kissed the back of her neck and, then, very suddenly, sunk his teeth in and bit down hard. Hard enough to bruise. Olive could do nothing but wiggle on his lap, which only added to the excruciating friction on her swollen clit.

Then, as suddenly as he'd begun, he stopped. He removed his fingers from her mouth and smoothed down her hair, and then slowly, so slowly it was agony, withdrew his thigh from her spread legs until she was standing in front of him again, her breathing heavy, her legs shaky like a newborn doe. He cleared his throat, stood, and softly dabbed at her slobbery chin and ruined eye makeup with a tissue.

"Well," he began, all traces of his sensual growl seemingly abandoned in favor of a crisp, businesslike tone, "I look forward to working with you further. I will be in touch if I need anything else from you." He walked Olive to the door. In a stupor, she nodded silently. The bite on her neck still stung, and she knew she could look forward to about a week of turtlenecks, scarves, and wearing her hair down to cover the bruise at work. She knew how he operated. She knew how much he liked that he'd left her with no orgasm, and a memento that would ache.

"Bye Paul," she whispered, as she clumsily reached for the door handle. He only smiled in reply and waved her out.

Olive couldn't truly be sure she walked back down the hallway and out the door to her car, but she found herself in her car when her phone buzzed once. A text from a number she didn't have saved.

" Is this still your number? "

Fuck. If she ignored the message, could she travel back in time to before what just happened, happened? And was that truly what she wanted?

With her heart in her throat, she answered, "Yes, sir." But she didn't save the contact. Instead, she turned her phone off, put it in the back seat of her car, and cradled her face in her hands for a minute before gathering the wherewithal to drive back to Bleecker Nash to finish her workday.