Marta was quite tall in her stilletoes, they helped her reach the files at the top shelf. She wore stockings and her lipstick was crimson. Her boss was Mr. Isaac Charles and he kept a thin steel chain in his deskdrawer with a hook for the collar she wore- at all times.

When the office closed its doors at 5, Marta quickly undressed herself and continued answering calls, barebreasted, in her panties, nylons, and heels. The clasp at the front of Marta's slim black velvet and leather collar--that was made for the hook of the chain in Mr. Charles drawer-- held a pearl as a pendant.

Mr. Charles would often have Marta bring him a scotch and water around 6 o'clock. He would make Marta set it on his desk, and then kneel at his side with her hands together on his knee waiting for him to be done whatever it was he was doing. Waiting here was a welcomed relief from waiting at her desk and from where she kneeled she got to watch Mr. Charles' movements. He was a panther, every move sure, strong, smooth,--controlled. Lounging as he spoke on the phone, an animal at rest. His fingers toying at the clasp in her collar or stroking her cheek; Marta would look up at him unabashedly in love and lust intermingled.

Mr. Charles had a small room hidden behind a flat door in his office, and Marta would think of all the things that could possibly happen from here to there, when he got off the phone. The small touch of her palm on Mr. Charles knee was always the torture to Marta. Feeling the heat of him through the fabric of his pant. Only that, under her palm--his muscles shifting gently, unconciously, perfectly--and waiting.

Mr. Charles' smell was of oak and unburnt tobacco and as the evening passed it would become deeper and more animal, mixing with Marta's own salt and sweetness.

Marta would wait and secretly flex her thighs against each other, or rub her nipples against Mr. Charles' pantleg, growing impatient as her senses warmed her. Mr. Charles jaw was strong and his eye was sharp, and Marta knew he could tell what was happening to her. He wouldn't even turn his head, Marta would straighten her back and become still again.

When she was very good, and waited. Mr Charles would close the file on his desk, or hang up the phone, and have a sip of his scotch, watching Marta kneel. He would rub her bottom lip with the tip of his thumb or wrap his fingers into the slack of Marta's collar and smile. He would tell her in soft low tones how lovely she was, what a good little bitch.

The sound of Mr. Charles top middle drawer was an interesting thing: when heard in the middle of the business day-- that particular heavy rumble with the shivery chinkings of steel link somewhere within it-- Martha would immediately grow a little damp, butterflies would swoop through her belly, her mouth would fill with sweet water...For, hearing it in this moment, Marta is more than a little damp and she smiles and tilts her chin up in anticipation of Mr. Charles hands moving against her throat, slipping the hook at the end of the cold and glinting leash into the clasp of her collar.