I met Jenny in June 2022. That’s not her real name by the way. She works for a marketing company drafted in to launch a new initiative my firm were leading on. She is 48 years old, dark haired, refined and perhaps the most focused person I have ever met. The meetings I had with her were totally professional and involved very little eye contact or wasted words; she delivered her thoughts and ideas, rarely looked up from her laptop and then left after shaking my hand with a loose grip. She was efficient, distant and apparently without emotion.
She was very attractive, always dressed immaculately in a business suit with tight skirt around her slim hips. I noticed of course, but it was very clear that she did not want to be seen as a woman but as a professional, and that was perfectly right in my book too. However, I began to dread those meetings because she was hard work to be with and they seemed to drain the life out of my day.
And then one day I saw her outside of work by pure chance. I was out with friends in town drinking, and she suddenly appeared in the crowd of a loud, busy, late-night venue, looking amazing in a black sparkling dress that hugged her everywhere. I could hardly believe it was the same person. She was dancing with her arms high in the air, smiling and occasionally drinking something pink through a straw. I suddenly felt like I was seeing something I shouldn’t see, like I was spying on her, and she would be angry if she saw me, but just as I thought that she saw me, and her face lit up. She danced across to me and offered me a drink through the straw into the pink liquid. I sipped, unable to do anything else.
I want to skip forward three months now. All you need to know is that Jenny is many things. She is strong, very intelligent, very good at her job, self-sufficient, totally uncompromising and the equal of anybody who might challenge her about anything. She is also the person who struck an agreement with me that evening that she has never broken since, and I don’t think she ever will.
At 7pm every Thursday she enters my home through the door I leave unlocked. She undresses by the door and leaves her clothes in the basket I provided. Naked, she finds me and kneels by my feet, placing her head against the tops of my shoes and her arms behind her back. She stays there until I release her and fit the collar around her neck. For the following three hours we dance. We rarely speak, other than for instructions to be given. We dance and we purge ourselves of the world we both need to escape from.
In the meetings, she still does not look at me and we discuss only work. She wears her perfectly fitted suits and calls me Mr Rogers. At the end of the meetings, she shakes my hand as always and leaves. The difference now is that I know that beneath that suit, beneath that professionalism, is a submissive that bears my marks upon her willing body. That carries my thin chain of bondage around her waist. That may carry inside her any number of items that I have selected that form part of the secret we share. It is all the more glorious because only we can hear the music we dance to.