tagBDSMThe Birthday Gift

The Birthday Gift


He heard the door to his office open. It was late. Who could that be?

He was halfway through his third bourbon and was likely to either kill or be killed by a burglar, but pleasantly toasted enough to not give a shit about either outcome.

Then she appeared in his office door way.

He smiled.

She was wearing all black. What else was new? Her black wraparound dress was secured with a loose knot at the waist. He glanced long enough to ponder if that was all that held it together. He also thought she was wearing too much lipstick.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were going to happy hour or something?" he asked.

"I did. Just left," she said.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.

"Did you think I forgot?" she said.

"What?" he said, playing dumb.

"Your birthday. Did you think I forgot your birthday?" she asked.

The thought had crossed his mind. In the many years they worked together, she'd never forgotten his birthday. Always a message, a card, a small gift. Something. And always on his birthday. She never missed the actual day.

He wasn't upset or hurt anything. What was he, a chic? It was just a birthday. But he did feel slight surprise at it.

"I forgot it was my birthday, so how could I think you forgot?" he said.

"Liar," she said.

"I just wanted to bring you my present in person," she said.

"It isn't more ice by any chance, is it?" he shook his glass at her.

"Haha, no. It isn't. Depending on your view, it could be interpreted as the opposite of ice. But give me that," she said.

She took his glass and got him more ice from the freezer.

"Here," she said.

"Happy birthday," she said.

He added some more to his glass, and leaned back in the chair.

She was always flirting with him, jokingly propositioning him. It had become a running gag between them. So much so that he no longer took any of it one bit seriously.

"So? Where is it?" Is it edible? I'm starving," he said.

She laughed again, but he realized he was sort of being a jerk. Unfortunately, he was in that kind of mood. So she'd have to deal.

"You tell me," she said.

"But first," she said, walking into his office.

She was wearing heels he liked.

He turned around in his chair to face her.

She took the string to her dress and held it up to him.

"First, you have to unwrap it," she said, smiling at him — an evil smile, a pirate's smile, as they say.

He looked up at her and put his glass on the desk.

"Seriously?" he said.

"Seriously," she said.

"It's easy to unwrap. Just pull," she said.

He was stuck for a minute. Should he do it? It was probably not advisable.

The angel on his shoulder scolded him to keep his hands to himself. The devil on his shoulder urged him to pull. What was the big deal? It didn't mean he had to do anything.

Come on, the devil said, you know you want to....

And the devil on his shoulder was three bourbons bigger than his puny angel. He flicked her out of his mind.

And then he pulled.

She stepped back as the dress fell open, and his eyes started at the bottom, and worked their way up.


Heels leading up to stockings. Stockings heading up to end mid thigh. Red garters holding up stockings, leading past red satin and lace panties.

The garters finished at a red lace and satin corset bustier tied tightly with a thick black satin ribbon under her full breasts, ending with black satin bow tied just low enough at her cleavage.

Now he got the red lipstick. It matched perfectly.

She looked like some type of sexy old West saloon girl, and searching his eyes, hers held that same combination of bravado, sensuality and vulnerability he imagined those women exuded.

Also, while he preferred the girl-next-door type usually — she looked hot.

"Well?" she said.

"You did all this for me?" he said.

"I didn't do anything yet," she said, smiling.

"I thought this was the present?" he said.

"You haven't finished unwrapping the present yet," she said.

"That's a lot of red lipstick," he said.

"It is. What do you want me to get it on first?" she said.

He laughed.

"I want you to get it off," he said.

"I'll get it off," she said, smiling.

He fished an ice cube out of his drink, and stood up to her now. She involuntarily took a step backward, suddenly nervous. Vulnerable.

He held the ice cube to her mouth, and ran it around her lips, and her lips were so ticklish, she shuddered a little with the feeling of his fingers on them, the freezing cold, and she took the ice cube in her mouth with her tongue.

She wiped the lipstick away from her wet lips with her fingers, and as he sucked the water and bourbon off the tips of his, she watched him.

Her lips looked softer, still reddish, but full and kissable now.

"So what do you want me to do now?" he asked.

She leaned against his desk.

"Whatever you want. It's your birthday present," she said.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Sit," she said.

He sat back in his chair.

She leaned over him in his chair, hands on both arms, she brushed his mouth with hers. He was dangerously close to that black satin bow now, and could see her ample chest about to explode out of fitted corset.

His turn on simmered. It was strange. Psychologically twisted. Maybe it was the bourbon, but he couldn't help it. As she kneeled between his legs, as her fingers gently found the button of his pants, and even as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, he knew it wasn't going to work this way for him.

"Stop," he said.

He saw the confused look of hurt in her eyes.

"I can't do this now," he said.

"Ok," she said.

"I have a date for drinks," he said.

She laughed.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said.

He smiled and shook his head.

"Well, ok then," she said, leaning to take her dress off the floor, her brain a roulette wheel of four letter words and different ways he could go fuck himself.

Always the same shit. Good enough for the moment. Important for the day. Her significance fleeting and unreliable.

And often painful.

He stopped her hand holding her dress and dropped it back to the floor.

"No," he said.

"What? I don't get it," she said.

"I want you to wait here. Dressed that way. Until I'm done and come back," he said.

Now she really laughed.

"Please tell me you're kidding," she said.

"No," he said.

And he wasn't. There was something about knowing she was waiting for him there in that outfit. Having to wait for him. It was turning him on. Somewhere inside her under being pissed off, he knew it was turning her on too.

"Let me get this straight," she said, now sitting in his chair, crossing her stockinged leg, giving him a good view of her upper thigh, crossing her arms and giving him the same of her chest. Her high heel bounced up and down in tense irritation.

"You want me to wait here, like a stupid idiot, after getting this whole outfit on especially for you, putting myself on the line, while you go out and have drinks with another woman, until you feel like coming back?" she said.

"Yes," he said, smiling.

She shook her head.

"You're really an arrogant prick sometimes, you know that?" she said.

"I do," he said.

"Have a great birthday, and go fuck yourself while you're at it," she said, getting up from the chair.

He pushed her back down in the chair.

"Get off me, really," she said.

He moved to embrace her and she weakened for a moment, but he took that weakness to find an unused computer cord under his desk, and before she had time to realize he'd tied her hands together, under the chair arms, behind the back of the chair.

Now she was stuck.

"Not funny. Untie me," she said.

"Who's laughing," he said, grabbing his stuff from the desk.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Now. Do it," she said.

"I won't be too long," he said.

She yelled his name.

He ignored her and grabbed his glass and added more ice to it. And more bourbon. He found a straw and stuck it in.

"Here," he said.

"In case you get thirsty," he said.

She stared at the glass and realized he was serious.

"You realize if I get out of this cord I probably will never talk to you again," she said quietly, not looking at him.

"Maybe for a little while, but you will eventually. And I'm not worried, because you won't," he said.

"I hope you choke on your drink," she said.

He laughed.

"Well I do not wish the same on you, because no one will be around to call 911," he said.

He leaned in to kiss her cheek and she pulled away.

"You'll see. You'll feel better when I get back," he said.

"Just get out. Go meet whomever," she said.

And then he was gone.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of struggling against the cord while he was there. Once she heard the door click behind her, she pulled, yanked, and tried everything to get the cord loose. Nothing worked.

What a bastard.

She was so angry and yet there was that little trickle. That thread running through it. That hint of turn on he was talking about. Him keeping her there, tied up, wanting to know she was there, letting his mind wander to her tied up in his chair while he was having drinks with that other chic.

At least this was one time she knew she'd be on his mind while he was with someone else for sure.

And then the anger came flooding back. All the effort she'd put into his birthday and it was taken for granted. There were so many times she'd felt that way over the years, periods of him not seeing her, not seeing her as anything or anyone of value, and then there were so many more times that he made her feel like she was invaluable — precious really.

Sometimes her head was so fucked with him in it she just waned to run off to Siberia. What better time to ponder that ultimate fuckitude of her head than as she sat, tied to a chair, in a satin corset, with a ration of bourbon, by herself in the dark?

That about summed it up, didn't it? She was imprisoned. Held captive mostly by her own head, heart and body.

She took a sip of the drink on the desk. Might as well make the best of it.

He was gone two hours.

She'd vacillated from totally turned on to totally hating his guts many times over that two hours. But as she heard the door unlock, she was back to being totally enraged.

Her arms were sore, first from struggling, then just being in the awkward backwards position for that long. And she was thirsty. She hadn't finished his crappy bourbon.

And to add insult to injury, he was finishing a phone call on the way into the office. He had to be on the phone with a girl. His alcohol-soaked voice was full of flirtation and promise. Both of which had been rarely spared on her, other than in similar increments to his quarter of a glass, watered-down bourbon on the desk.

Her rage seethed.

He finished his call and his nauseatingly sweet endearments while looking at her directly in the eye, just to make sure she heard him and he could watch her listening.

He hung up the phone.

"Hi," he said.

"Do not talk to me until you untie this," she said.

He came over to the chair and gently undid the knots, trying to take her wrists and massage them a little. She yanked them from his hands.

"Come on," he said, smiling.

She stood up from the chair.

"Come on? Come on?" she asked in anger.

"You didn't finish your drink," he said,

"You noticed," she said, lifting it to her mouth in the darkness of the office.

"I was saving it," she said.

"For now?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and tossed the watery bottom of the drink in his face.

He laughed, wiping it from his eyes.

"I suppose I deserved that," he said.

"You deserved more than that," she said.

"If I wasn't physically opposed to touching you right now, I'd slap you across the face," she said.

"So do it," he said.

"I won't give you the satisfaction," she said, once again bending to get her dress off the floor. He grabbed her arms to stop her.

"Don't," he said.

"Don't fucking touch me," she said.

"Wait," he said.

Then she did slap him. Slapped him hard. And insanely found herself getting hot. Getting wet.

Anger more at herself and her fucking weakness more than at him drove her to slap him again.

"Come on, that's all you got?" he said.

"How many drinks did YOU have tonight? How many did you finish while I was stuck here?" she asked.

"Hard to recall. Four or five?" he said, smiling.

She slapped him again.

"I should have called the cops and reporting you for unlawful imprisonment, or something," she said.

"That would have been an interesting police incident for us to report in our newspaper," he said, smiling still.

"Have I done something to you that causes you to enjoy torturing me like this?" she said.

"No, but I think you were about to before I left earlier," he said, moving in closer.

Now it was her turn to laugh.

"You think you're going to get me to come near you now? You aren't arrogant. You're insane. That's what you are," she said.

"Now get out of my way," she said.

"You're leaving like that?" he said, eyeing her in her corset and stockings, dress in hand.

"I'll get dressed in the elevator. I just want to get the fuck out of here," she said.

"Ok," he said.

"Move," she said, as he stood in the way of her and the door.

"No," he said.

"I'm serious," she said.

"So am I," he said, smiling at her.

She tried to move around him and he blocked her. Then the other side, and he blocked her again.

She dropped her dress now and tried to push him out of the way, pushing hard, and pounding at him with her fists, and he took her elbows and pushed her back into the room, against his desk, kicking the door to his office closed behind him.

"No, no," she said.

"Get the fuck off of me," she said.

He ignored her, holding her, scratching and kicking, against his body, onto the desk, and his body was hot against her through his buttoned shirt, and his fingers found her hair and holding her head still, his tongue found her mouth.

She fought him, but his tongue was urgent and aggressive, his hands holding tightly to her hips, lifting them to his, and she still fought and pushed at him, but couldn't catch her breath.

She felt his fingers digging into her panties, pulling at them, too fast, so fast, it was all happening, and yet her scratching fingers now dug into his back, wanting his tongue deeper, deeper in her mouth.

His fingers holding onto her hips tightly, digging into her ass, and she was lifting her hips into the air now, to meet his waist, his body pressed between her legs.

And as she felt his fingers reach the edge of her panties, and start to pull at them, pulling them down, her earlier humiliation flashed back, all her anger, her resentment at him getting the best of her.

It shot a clean arrow through the haze of her aching turn on and she pushed him back.

"Stop!" she said.

"What?" he said.

"You don't deserve this," she said.

He moved in closer to her again.

With his fingers, he easily pulled at the black satin ribbon busting at the seams that was holding her corset together.

"You're right. I don't," he said quietly.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want it anyway," he said, gently rocking between her legs.

"That doesn't mean I didn't think about doing this, only this, the whole time I was gone. The whole time I was having drinks, I was thinking, I can't wait to get back to my office and unwrap the rest of my present," he said.

He pushed open the corset; his hands all over and inside it, finding her nipples, feeling her hips roll and writhe, her hands reaching to unbutton his pants.

"I was thinking, I can't wait to get back to this office and..." he said.

"And what?" she whispered.

Again he tried to pull her panties off and she evaded him by sliding down off the desk and pulling his pants open.

The speed and hunger with which her mouth swallowed his dick, sucking it, and licking it, almost literally knocked him off his feet. He stumbled backward and held onto the desk for stability. His already aching dick had been so ready to fuck her and now he was trying to hold onto control with her feverish tongue working him. Looking down at her on the floor beneath him, his fingers knotted in her hair, her breasts spilling out of her loosened corset, her knees spread.

He let her go for a few minutes but had to stop her, this wasn't what he wanted right now. There was only one thing he wanted.

He pulled her from the floor, fighting him, pushing her onto the desk again, this time, losing no time in undoing her garters and pulling her panties to the floor.

But still there was something more he needed.

"You know, you shouldn't wear red lipstick like that," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because it makes you look like a whore," he said.

"Fuck you!" she said, but she had to laugh.

"You just want me to slap you again," she said, "don't you?"

"Yes," he said.

She slapped him in the face again.

"I'll slap you. I owe you a lot of them," she said.

"So go ahead," he said.

She slapped him again, and this time it was enough. He caught her hand on the third time just as he slid his hard dick inside her soaking pussy.

It was all hard, it was all fast, and as he pounded himself into her, he said more things, more things he shouldn't have, and she fought him, slapped him, and kissed him hard, swallowing and sucking his tongue, his rude, rude mouth.

She slapped and scratched him, fought him until he fucked her into coming multiple times in a row and she could no longer put the concept together in her head. Her legs tightly wrapped around him, bouncing her back and forth on top of his desk, and he was so close, watching her bounce up and down, her nipples pointed at the ceiling.

And she could sense he was close, so close, she climbed her shaking self up his body, working his mouth gently now, whispering in it.

"You liked tying me up, didn't you," she whispered.

He nodded gently, still fucking her, inching closer, closer.

"You liked knowing I was struggling against that cord, knowing you had me in your control, knowing you knew my head better than I did," she whispered.

"I do," he whispered back.

"All that time, I was so angry, but I just kept getting turned on, thinking about you coming back, and doing this. Thinking about the pain in my wrists from you keeping me bound to the chair," she said.

"I know," he said.

"Next time you want me to slap you, you can just ask," she whispered into his mouth.

On the edge of his huge orgasm, he said:

"Slap me. Hard."

And as she did, he came for what felt like an hour. He felt as spent as if he did. His heart thundered.

"So your birthday present is trying to kill me?" he said, after it was quiet.

"This coming from the person who did his best to try to make me want to kill him?" she said.

"Fair point," he said.

She'd tied up the front of her corset again, and he toyed with the ribbon.

"Can you wear this for your birthday?" he said.

"Do you like it?" she said.

"No, I hate it. So much I'm going to rip it off you in disgust right now," he said.

She laughed.

"But aside from that, I'm thinking this black satin ribbon would make a great blindfold," he said, undoing the ribbon again.

The End.

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