by Cynthia Harder

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© Copyright 2008 - Cynthia Harder - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f; bond; rope; forced; cons/reluct; XX

Claudine leaned back in her expensive executive chair. One of the privileges of being the youngest vice-president of D------ & Cie. was having to work late. It went along with the sumptuously furnished private office. She turned to look out the window at the view of the glittering city. The view was pleasant -- but the view from the President's office was better.

She glanced at her watch. Ten. She had one more thing to accomplish, and she would be done for the week. Taking off her suit jacket, she hung it on the hook by her office door. She was just turning back to her desk when she heard the noise.

Her subordinates were all long gone. Even the cleaning people had finished. She should be alone in the office. But once again, there came a faint sound, as if someone were moving stealthily about. She went to investigate. She moved nervously along the rows of cubicles, peering about in the dim nightlights. She saw nothing, but couldn't eliminate the feeling that there was someone -- something in the office with her. Her high heels echoed on the tile floor, telegraphing to any intruder that here was a woman, alone, and that she was right.

It occurred too suddenly for her to react. One minute she was passing a dark doorway, the next a hand clamped firmly over her mouth. She was yanked back against a hard human body by an arm around her waist, lifted bodily off her feet. Pencils scattered as she was thrown face-down across a nearby desk. One wrist, then the other, were twisted down and trapped into the middle of her back. Rough cord was wrapped around her wrists, drawn tight, then tighter still. A hand groped under her skirt, and her silk panties were torn away. Her jaw was prized open, and a wad of cloth was forced into her mouth. A ripping sound and a piece of fabric was tied over her lips, gagging her.

Again fingers probed between her legs, finding her cunt. A masculine grunt of surprise and pleasure announced that they had found her already wet. A booted foot kicked her ankles farther apart, and suddenly she felt a thick, snakelike probe searching, then thrusting into her from behind.

Her scream was thoroughly muffled by the gag. Her attacker leaned forward over her back, reached under, seized her silk blouse and ripped it open, then took her breasts in his callused hands, kneading and squeezing the soft flesh as his member rammed into her again and again. He reared back, pulling her hips down as he thrust into her a final time. His breath sucked through his teeth as she involuntarily closed her vaginal muscles on him. He panted like an animal, his member throbbing deeply within her, his hands bracing him on either side of her. Finally, he withdrew.

She lay unmoving, sprawled across the desk, legs akimbo, the pointed toes of her Italian pumps barely resting on the floor. From behind her came the sound of a zipper being closed and a belt being buckled. Suddenly she was lifted by her hair, hoisted to her feet, dragged across the bullpen to her office. He flung her down onto the leather sofa like a piece of discarded trash. More rope was wound around her ankles and jerked tight.

For some minutes she lay there, controlling her breathing, her body recovering from its violation. Then she awkwardly rolled over so that she could see her attacker.

He sat insolently in her executive swivel chair, clearly making himself comfortable. The lugged soles of his boots soiled the papers spread on the corner of her desk. He was eating a piece of fruit he'd taken from the decorative bowl on the table. As he chewed, he read the confidential report she'd been working on.

Surriptiously, she strained at the ropes that tightly bound her wrists and ankles. She managed only a clenching and unclenching of her fists, a slight sliding of her legs, before he noticed. "Lie still." She stopped struggling. Carelessly, he threw the half-eaten fruit away, missing the basket. Stepping over to where she lay bound, he ripped the remains of her blouse off her body. He wiped his hands on the white silk, then tossed it aside. With a grin, he ran a finger around each aureole. Unbidden, her nipples swelled, hardened.

"Qu'est-ce qu'on regarde? Bien, bien", he said with malicious glee. From the desk, he retrieved two binder clips. Exquisite agony lanced through her as first one, then the other teat was crushed by the black spring steel. Her red-painted fingernails dug into her palms as she moaned through her gag.

Blinking away tears, she watched as he casually searched through her desk, her office, her life. He opened each drawer and dug around in the contents. Something in the bottom right drawer seemed to amuse him. In another drawer, he found her purse. He emptied the contents on her disk, threw the assortment of feminine items about, quickly located a white envelope. He thumbed the cash it contained and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

He came back to where she lay, bound and helpless, on the sofa. "Not much here, is there?" he said roughly.

He lifted her by the hair again, apparently for the exclusive purpose of slapping her face. He pushed her back down and quickly untied her ankles.

"There's one piece here worth taking, though."

Spreading her open, he unlimbered his tool. Its hardness pumped upward. She turned her head away from the onslaught as he bent and thrust it into her again. He twisted her chin back, forcing her to look him in the eye as he took her. Part of her knew she should be revolted, but her traitor body responded to the strong manhood above and within her. Unbidden, her hips began rocking, moving against his prick as he galloped her. He laughed in scathing triumph as her orgasm shuddered through her body.

She sprawled on the sofa, half-nude, bound, and defiled. Presently she became aware that her attacker was tying her legs together again, the cords tightly wound around her knees and ankles suturing the wound of her defilement. "Sit up," he commanded, pulling her upright by the nape of her neck. Roughly he crushed her bare breasts under more rough rope. He looked down at her contemptuously.

"You don't remember what I look like," he ordered her. "Nothing happened to you. You worked late, that's all. You understand?" A large, gleaming knife appeared in his hand. She whimpered as he slowly stropped the flat of the blade over her chest, up across her throat, against her cheek. With a --Jerk!, the cloth holding the gag in her mouth parted. He left her office without a backward glance. A moment later the exit stairway door slammed.

After an endless time, she finally shook her head, dislodging the wad of cloth that gagged her. With a surge of revulsion, she realized that it was her own soiled panties. Gathering herself, she rolled her tightly bound body off the sofa, flopping onto her side on the carpeted floor. Digging the edge of one shoe into the rich carpeting, she inched her way painfully through the debris covering the floor. Working awkwardly with arms tied behind her back, she managed to lever herself up onto her knees, and open the bottom drawer of her desk. She fumbled out the garden clippers that lay inside, almost dropping them, then grasped them in her bound hands and maneuvered the blades under the cords securing her wrists.

Squeeze, squeeze again, sobbing in frustration. Finally, a sensation of loosening. She dropped the shears, then pulled and twisted at her bonds until her hands came free.

Exhausted, she sat down on the floor. Carefully, she untied the remaining knots, then leant back against the side of her desk. She lacked the strength to climb up into her chair or even remove the loosened coils of rope still draped around her body and legs.

Finally, she managed to stand and shrug off the ropes. One binder clip had sprung off her teat during her struggles. Her hand found the other and carefully removed it. Shakily, she made her way to the lavatory, where she washed the tears from her face and bathed her chafed wrists. Wearily, she pulled on her suit jacket. She was nude under it, but that did not matter. Pouring herself a glass of cognac at her small bar, she began trying to restore the order of her life that had been so brutally taken from her by the sudden attack.

She was putting the shears and rope into the drawer when the telephone rang.


"Are you all right?" The voice was tender, concerned.

"Oui," she sighed. "Tres bon."

Are you certain? You sound a bit , well, . . "

"Everything's fine. It -- just took me a bit longer to do some things."

"Ah. But you managed."


"Perhaps the cutters will be in the top drawer next time."

"But if I couldn't free myself, the security guard might have discovered me. They'd increase security, and no rapist would be able to get into the office at night."

"He would break into your house."

"No, I don't want you in my home. ..."

The voice grew hard. "You don't tell me what I cannot do. You don't tell me I cannot enter your home, or your office, or your body. Remember that."

She slumped. "No. Of course." She hesitated. "When will I see you again?" She didn't bother to hide the yearning in her voice.

There was an ominous pause. "You'll see me when I decide to see you. When I want you again. When you've had enough time to come up with more money. It won't be soon."

"Oui," she said, meekly. Anything else would sound arrogant, and she would be punished less.

He did not deign to end the conversation. His phone slammed down.

"Au Rivoir, Cherie" she said to the dial tone.


The End


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