Margot's Contract Ch. 01

(If you've read my other two stories you'll know I like to give the background first before getting down to business. So the further in the more action. If you don't like stories that involve cross-dressing, forced-bi, sissy maids, chastity and spanking then this isn't for you. My style of writing isn't everyone's cup-of-tea.)

Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott was the object of my desires, very secret desires; desires it was never my intention to let her -- or anyone else - ever find out about.

Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott was, at the time I first became aware of her, about 45 years old, perhaps even in her 50s. I was 20.

Like all the male colleagues I used to hang around with at the time, I would lust after girls more or less my own age, the good-lookers, the ones with knock-me- out breasts and gorgeous figures. You know the sort, the ones who populate nearly every story you'll read on here. I'd never dare tell anyone that I really fancied the woman more than twice my age that we'd see occasionally about the office.

Don't get me wrong, Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott was in no way ugly, but she wasn't a head-turning glamorous beauty either. Tall, classy with short almost white hair, she was clearly a well groomed, elegant and fit lady for her age. I knew of her existence before ever meeting her. She was the Finance Director of the firm that employed me, a person of some seniority within the firm, having one of the only six car-park spaces reserved for named senior staff. That was where I first saw her name.

My fascination with her began almost a year after I'd started working for the company. As a relatively junior clerk, I worked in an open plan office in a team of about 10 others, all about my age. One day, it was my turn to go and get drinks for the team from the machine at our end of the office. On this day though, this machine was out of order and I had to go to another at the far end of the floor and outside in a corridor by a staircase.

As I was in the process of getting the drinks, I heard the footsteps of two people coming down the stairs and two voices. One was of my immediate manager -- Jim -- a senior, well-respected figure - the other, a female whose voice I didn't recognise.

"Have you got that straight Jim? I don't expect to have to tell you about this again. Got that?"

I heard Jim mumble his assurances to whoever the voice belonged to.

Then the door to the corridor in which I was standing opened and Jim entered followed by the lady who I was to find out was Margot Stott. Jim shot me a sheepish glance. Margot Stott continued berating him, perhaps unaware that one of his junior staff was in earshot.

"Cross me at your peril and I can assure you you'll regret it. Have I made myself clear?"

Jim stopped by the drinks machine, nodding his understanding and Mrs Stott, straight-backed and imperious walked on past us to her office. Jim looked at me and grimaced.

"Let that be a warning to you Denis, cross Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott at your peril," he advised me when confident she was out of earshot.

He probably thought my vacant, gawping look was caused by my shock that he was being put down verbally by this woman and that I was embarrassed for him. That wasn't the reason though; I was in awe at her total command, so sure of herself, she exuded self-confidence. It stirred deep, unexplored desires in me I never knew existed before.

Since that day, I became fascinated by her. It was something about her absolute air of confidence, almost arrogance, the way she would brook no dissent, her tall frame and sometimes bespectacled face almost daring any mere male to cross her. I began to pay special attention to her whenever we were in the staff restaurant at the same time or when our paths crossed elsewhere in the building.

I would deliberately change the time of my meal breaks so that they might coincide with hers. I studied her clothes, the types of dresses, suits and blouses she wore, the shoes (usually all with three-inch or so heels), and her hosiery. (I imagined she had on stockings but as she always wore skirts that went down to just above her knees could never really know for sure.)

She usually wore a gold necklace and, although she was not overly endowed in the breast department, it dangled near enough to the top of her low cut blouses and low-neckline one-piece dresses to allow a brief glimpse of an inviting bosom below. I could envision her male colleagues at meetings with her being distracted from the business in hand as they frequently caught a brief sight of her cleavage and secretly longed to feel and suckle her tantalisingly glimpsed breasts. There was something about her that was superior, not just her look but even in her walk and the way her clothes and jewellery seemed to adorn her, emphasising she was, well -- a class act.

She wore a ring on her wedding-ring finger but I'd learned from overhearing a conversation some of the staff in her team had during a works party that she was divorced. For some reason I was pleased about this, not that I ever contemplated even daring to talk to her, let alone telling her of my secret desire for her to dominate me.

You might think that I was acting rather like a stalker, and yes, I'd checked her out on LinkedIn and various social media sites (anonymously of course) but to me she was just a secret fantasy woman that I would jerk-off to whilst imagining her standing over and sexually humiliating me. It was a harmless fantasy that's all, no threat to her. My original fascination had, I admit, become an obsession, but nothing more than that. Why, young men often dreamed or obsessed about fit older women; film or pop stars usually. My obsession simply happened to be with a senior colleague at my workplace.

I did wonder though why I found her dominating manner so arousing ever since hearing her tell Jim off. It made me recall a brief one-night stand I'd had with a girl a year or so before. We'd spent the night in my hotel room. The sex was alright I suppose. I wasn't the most experienced lover I'll admit and my todger wasn't that big if I'm honest. We'd both had a bit to drink which would be my excuse if she was to belittle my lovemaking the next morning. She didn't; having to get dressed early to head off somewhere. The most exciting thing about the event though was her telling -- no, ordering -- me to get her panties from the bathroom and bring them to her. I can still remember the thrill, not just of handling her delicate light-blue lacy briefs but feeling like I was her underling who must carry out her orders without question.

Although I'm sure many, perhaps most, men my age spent much of their spare time looking at and wanking over porn on the internet, I was not like that. Sure, I'd look at porn and jack-off from time to time, but I had plenty of other hobbies that kept me from becoming a porn addict. I was, for instance a keen runner and spent a lot of my spare time at the gym. You might even say that that rather than the internet was my obsession. I even took protein shakes and vitamin supplements to help bulk out my slight frame, hoping too that this would make me more attractive to the opposite sex.

I guess what I'm trying to say was that, when it came to sexual fetishes, I was not that well-versed in just how far they could go. Call me naive, but I reckoned being dominated by a woman (such as Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott) simply meant the female being on top during sex and maybe even spanking the man. Okay, chuck in a bit of thigh-high leather boots with tall heels and a whip and that was about the limit of my imagining a dominatrix went!

Then, when going through a rather long spell without a girlfriend or even the odd one-night-stand, I registered with an online dating site that I'd heard a workmate talk about; one that was for the "less vanilla" I think was how he described it, whatever that meant.

After a while, I started searching for women that mentioned they were of a dominant nature; who were looking for submissive men. To begin with, these women were clearly on the game, and although I may have been a relative newcomer to such sites and profiles, I wasn't that green!

One day though, after an age of scrolling through profiles, I once again keyed in "dominant" and "submissive" into the search criteria and lo, to my utter amazement, amongst the usual women who wanted money, was a new profile and, although the face was obscured, it looked remarkably like the body was that of Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott! How could I be so sure?

Well, hadn't I observed her closely for some time now and become familiar with her every curve? And the shortish black dress she was wearing in the picture together with the shoes, one of which dangled on the end of her foot, looked just like a dress and shoes I'd seen her wearing at work. And, I could just about make out plum-coloured varnish on the toenails that peeked out from her dangling shoe, a colour I'd noticed on her toes too.

"Busy, successful mature dominant business woman requires submissive man --preferably under 30 -- to serve her. Occasional sexual favours may be granted to satisfactory applicant. Expect humiliation and servitude. Total obedience demanded."

I read her profile again and immediately got a hard-on; furthermore, the location mentioned in her profile was where I lived. Surely that made the likelihood of it being Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott even stronger!

I ought to mention here that there was no mention of "chastity" in the ad or "sissy" -- a concept of which I was totally ignorant about. As I said, I didn't spend all my spare time looking at porn.

Of course, I had no intention of responding to her advert; I was content just to worship her from afar, wanking-off at every opportunity at the thought of being her submissive partner. After about a month, the advert disappeared, and I figured she'd either found her lucky man or she'd given up.

Life carried on as normal for a few months after that. I still kept an eye out for her and looked on in awe at her assured air of superiority, imagining that, no matter how feminine her underwear may be, she could still totally dominate a man like me. Then something totally unexpected changed my outlook.

I'd been having repeated, sharp pains in the lower left-hand to middle of my stomach. At first I just assumed it was indigestion or a stitch or something trivial that would disappear over time. However, when the pains persisted, I decided to see my doctor.

Now, as I've mentioned, I was young, gym-going and athletic and considered myself the embodiment of good health. So much so that I couldn't even remember the last time I'd visited my G.P. It was probably to have some sort of inoculation when I was an infant.

When I rang the doctor's surgery, they had my name on their records, but the doctor my appointment was made with was unknown to me and me to him.

On explaining my problem, the doctor examined my stomach, feeling and pushing it gently, before deciding that I should go to the local hospital for tests and a scan. He tried to put me at ease by saying it was probably, at worst, something like kidney stones.

I duly went for the hospital tests and was surprised to receive a telephone call from the doctor's surgery, asking me to come in as soon as possible to discuss the results. I sat in the waiting room, awaiting my name to be called with a sense of foreboding.

"Denis Emerson. Dr. McHale will see you now in room four please."

I made my way to room four, even more convinced I would hear bad news as it wasn't Dr. McHale I'd seen the last time. Maybe this doctor was some sort of specialist I thought.

"Come in Denis, please, take a seat."

The doctor had an air of doom about him I thought.

"Mr. Emerson -- Denis, we've received the results of your tests from the hospital. It looks as though there may be an issue we have to pursue further I'm afraid..."

"How come? What exactly is the problem?"

"There's a shadow that has shown up in the region you were experiencing pain. We need to see what that is and I'll arrange for you to go for further tests. It may require you having a small, invasive operation, so you may have to have some time off work. It's probably nothing serious, but we have to be sure."

"What you mean is it could be a tumour; cancer. Is that it?"

"Well, Mr. Emerson -- Denis. We need to examine you further to rule that out. It might well be something totally innocent, benign and nothing to worry about. It might just need a change of diet..."

"But it could be cancer doctor. And we both know a cancer in the stomach - the pancreas say -- is unlikely to end well don't we! If it is, how long would I have?"

He didn't really want to answer my worst-case questions, but eventually suggested that, as a fit young man, I might have another year, maybe two before it became too much. Even so, he insisted that I waited until I'd had the further tests before thinking along those pessimistic lines.

I spent the next few days disbelieving that a healthy young male like me who looked after himself could possibly have a life-threatening illness. Then I became angry.

"Why me?"

Then I thought, damn it, why bother taking all these vitamins and protein shakes, what a fat lot of good they'd done me if it turned out I did indeed only have a year or two of life left.

The possibility of an early death had me thinking that, in my remaining years I really should try and fulfil some of my unrequited desires, the main one of which was having Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott sexually dominate me. That idea monopolised my thoughts (along with worrying about my possible untreatable condition of course). I had to do something about it; while I still could.

One of the things I'd found out about her was that she was a member of the "Churchill Health and Spa Club" a rather posh place with a gym: a place with membership fees more than I'd normally entertain paying. However, these weren't normal times. I decided my best chance of meeting Mrs Stott and maybe quietly mentioning my desires would be there.

The next day, after work, I went to the "Churchill" and signed-up as a member. Whilst filling in the various forms regarding my health (I never mentioned my current problem) and bank details, I asked if I might see their daily members' signing-in diary, saying I wanted to see when the less busy times were. The receptionist was happy to oblige but really I wanted to see on what days and times Mrs Margot Elizabeth Stott attended. It was random weekdays but nearly always on a Saturday or Sunday.

That first Saturday after my joining, I went along to the "Churchill" at around the time she usually went, hoping that I'd see her in the gym or in the pool. I wasn't sure what I'd say to her even if I did find myself alone with her. I knew I'd be as nervous as hell, but it was worth a try and I knew I'd regret it if I never mentioned my feelings to her if the opportunity arose: I didn't want it to be a regret I'd have on my deathbed!

After my session in the gym -- in which she never appeared -- I was walking back to the changing room when I heard the sounds of people in the nearby squash court. I investigated, hoping that Mrs Stott would be in there and, to my delight, she was. Not just in there but actually on the court, playing. I sat in the spectator's gallery and admired, lusted after her. Watching her fit, well-trimmed frame dash about the court made me even more determined to carry out my wish. In her short, white, pleated skirt I saw more of her long legs than I'd ever done before. Occasionally, when stretching or jumping to make or return a shot, the hem of the skirt would lift up slightly, giving me an ever-so-brief glimpse of the white panties she was wearing.I could have wanked-off there and then but for the other spectators there.

When the game finished, I went back to the changing rooms and stripped down to just my swimming trunks and went into the pool, hardly able to get the vision of my fantasy woman's legs out of my head or stop myself imagining the gusset of her panties straining against her vagina and brushing against her pubic hairs as she raced across the court.

There are sometimes occasions when you feel fate has taken over and decided to take matters in hand for you and that not to acknowledge this and go with it would somehow be a big mistake. This day was one such occasion.

After finishing my swim I went first into the sauna and then into the steam- room. There were people in both of them and, by the time I went in to the steam-room, I'd managed to suppress my thoughts of Mrs Stott. And then, in she walked, paying no-one else any attention and sat directly opposite me. Although I didn't like to stare (and anyway, the steam obscured too close a view), I could see she was wearing a little black bikini. It was so frustrating, so frightening, being so near her and wanting to tell her my desires but, as there were three others in the steam-room, I knew I couldn't say a word. Then within a minute or so, the others all left, leaving me alone with her. My heart was pounding and yet she seemed totally oblivious to my presence, let alone my nervous state. I knew though that I might never get another golden chance like this and sensed that fate had engineered this opportunity: I had to take it.

I took a deep breath. What follows omits embarrassed pauses and hesitations, but take it from me, my words were delivered in a trembling, frightened voice.

"Excuse me, it's Mrs Stott isn't it?"

She slowly raised her head and looked across through the steam at the young man who'd addressed her. She didn't reply straight away, making worse, by now, my almost nauseous, nervous feelings. I recalled the withering tone she'd used on Jim that time and half closed my eyes expecting a put-down for daring to talk to her.

"Yes. And you are?"

"I'm Denis Emerson.I work at the same place as you..."

I paused, not sure how to continue but knowing I just had to tell her or forever hate myself for letting the opportunity -- perhaps the only opportunity I'd get -- slip by.

"Oh, right. Well hello Denis, pleased to meet you."

She then lowered her head and returned to the pose she'd maintained before I'd addressed her, signifying that our conversation was over. I couldn't leave it at that - I had to say something more; it was no time to be fainthearted.

"The thing is, with respect, I've seen you at work -- from a distance -- and, like, I've become fascinated by you. Almost to the point of worshipping you and I wonder if..."

She'd raised her head again by now and stared at me but I was determined to finish.

"I wondered if you'd consider taking me as a submissive to er, like.... dominate. I'd do absolutely whatever you wanted. Without question, I swear."

The silence that followed had a kind of electric charge to it and I waited as nervously as possible for her response. Would she slap me across the face? Would she call for help thinking I was some kind of pervert?

"And what makes you think I'm even looking for someone to dominate?"

I didn't dare tell her that I thought I'd seen her advert in a raunchy online dating site in case it wasn't actually her.

"I don't know Mrs Stott. But I just had to tell you, just in case, by some miracle, you would even consider having someone like me as your submissive sexual partner, even if it was only from time-to-time. I adore you Mrs Stott, believe me."

Another silence followed but this time I was less nervous, more excited. She hadn't rebuffed me and was clearly thinking over her options.

"And whereabouts in the firm do you work? Who with?"

"In the new business team Mrs Stott, with Jim- Jim Platt."

She made a long sigh and pushed her now damp hair away from her face with one hand before replying.