Little Train

The only interesting thing about this story is that it supposedly happened in real life. It was recorded from the words of a young man in 2016. The changes are minimal, only literary polishing and a bit of philosophical musing of my own.

A woman named Larisa entered my life. She appeared at the company suddenly and took the position of chief designer. Accordingly, I was assigned the role of assistant. The executor of her artistic ideas on the computer and on paper. But that's in theory; in practice, it turned out that hundreds of tasks I had no idea about before became part of my duties. From ordering pizza or a table at a restaurant, to watering the plants in the studio and making coffee. And,

may I be damned if I did it under coercion. It couldn't be any other way around Larisa. She herself worked like a she-devil and infected everyone around her with it. The company's affairs took off; we started getting clients we hadn't even dreamed of. Bonuses and raises started pouring in.

Could I have refused the extra workload? Taken a stand. Probably could. But imagine, when Larisa is deciding something fateful over the phone, to blurt out "go get it yourself" in response to her request to bring a pastry from the diner across the street. Everyone knows she doesn't eat lunch. So I went and brought it. I wasn't paid extra for these "labors," but my salary was raised. But the main thing, as you've probably guessed, was something else—my immediate supervisor was a striking woman. I deliberately avoid the word "beauty"—people's tastes differ. But there wasn't a man who wouldn't stop and give her an interested look. She attracts like a magnet.

Sometimes she went on business trips. Life would freeze for me. I eagerly awaited her return. She is seven years older, which puts her within my zone of interest. I can allow myself to dream about her. Of course, I knew she was married, but I never heard her talk about her husband. He existed somewhere, but it was as if he wasn't there.

One day, I gathered my courage and made a move. I was pushed by a phrase I accidentally heard on the radio, that women are silent about husbands who don't care for them, supposedly there's nothing to say, nothing to boast about. And I invited her to dinner. At the same time, I wasn't counting on anything special. Our, domestic dinner, not a Hollywood one where you definitely end up in bed afterwards. Larisa looked at me strangely. It was as if she truly noticed me for the first time and was now studying me.

— You're inviting me? Asking me out on a date?

I jokingly supported the tone she set:

— I'm begging you! I'm just pleading…

She didn't smile; her face remained thoughtful. I was both glad and not glad that my proposal was being considered so thoroughly. It occurred to me that Larisa saw more in it than just sitting down and sharing a bottle. Perhaps she suspects something Hollywood-like in it after all…

— Then get on your knees and ask properly, as it should be, — she said without a hint of irony.

I gave a jester's bow and, theatrically twisting my hands, knelt down:

— I beg you to dine with me, oh beautiful lady!

I remember very well what happened next—it's etched into my memory forever. Larisa had a half-drunk cup of coffee in her hands; she demonstratively, slowly poured its contents onto the floor in front of me.

— Lick the coffee off the floor, and you'll get your romantic evening, — she said quietly but significantly. So seriously that not a shadow of doubt about the truthfulness of her words flickered.

It was a direct promise. It was like a punch to my solar plexus. And at the same time, my cock swelled in my pants as if pumped up by a compressor. Instantly, and with such force that I didn't remember it ever being in such a state.

I suddenly broke into a sweat and… chickened out. I strained to stretch my mouth into a grin and say something witty, to somehow save the situation. And to retreat as quickly as possible.

— I don't joke about such things. Lick it, — she repeated calmly.

My heart was pounding like an alarm bell. I leaned down and licked the brown puddle, keeping my gaze on her face. I still hoped that the corners of her mouth would twitch now, and we would laugh together at this prank.

— Lick it all up, to the last drop!

I licked it all up and, exhausted, as if I had unloaded a wagon of coal, plopped down on my rear near her feet.

— We'll have dinner at my place. You know the address. Be there exactly at eight, — she stood up and walked past me towards the exit.

I somehow got up, sat down on a chair, and sat motionless for about ten minutes. I was knocked out. Morally. However, my organ had its own ideas. It hadn't shrunk; it was persistently reminding me of itself. I had to unbutton my pants and, with a few sharp movements, cause the strongest ejaculation. Strange, isn't it?

The rest of the working day turned into a continuous Hamlet-like "to be or not to be" for me. My decision changed to the opposite every five minutes. But you've already guessed that exactly at eight I was standing at the door of her house, otherwise there wouldn't be this confession.

Low-rise development just beyond the ring road in a fashionable European style. Clean, well-kept courtyards and alleys, few people, a calming landscape. Not Rublyovka, but solid business class. Larisa herself opened the door. She was wearing a stunning long dress with deep cutouts on the chest and back, as well as side slits up to the waist. I can't even imagine where to wear such a thing, only at home.

— Good. You're on time. I love punctuality. Follow me.

The apartment was huge. A long corridor with massive doors on the sides. In the wall spaces, there were lamps, mirrors, paintings… Somewhat gloomy. It was as if I had entered an aristocratic house from the nineteenth century. I walked on the soft pile of the carpet, looked at Larisa's flexible back, and realized with horror what I had foolishly gotten myself into. This is not my level! In essence, as it turned out, I knew nothing about my boss. God knows how such a bird ended up in our swamp. But one thing is absolutely certain—with the income from our firm, it's impossible not only to buy such a palace but also to maintain it. So—her husband?! And I, well, I showed up…

We ended up in a dining hall. There's no other way to describe it. With a fireplace. And the size of my entire apartment, including the balcony and storage room. On the walls were paintings depicting… They're hard to describe. All conceivable and inconceivable types of sexual perversions. I've seen photos on this topic on the internet. But… For all their seeming documentary quality, internet photos always contain an element of staging. The viewer understands it's not entirely serious. A different matter is a painting done in oil, one and a half to two meters in size, with all the force and exuberance of the artist's imagination. A completely fantastical work, but the effect is completely different. The realism is off the charts. Horror and arousal freeze the blood.

— Sit here, — Larisa points to a small chair near the fireplace. The chair is strange, only slightly larger than those I remember from kindergarten, but on sturdy legs capable of supporting an adult's weight. In response to my puzzled look, she explains: — This is your place. Sit!

I get an erection immediately. My head feels like cotton wool. I don't understand what's affecting me so much. She's clearly humiliating me, and I… I should explode, tell her to go to hell, spit, curse her out, and slam the door! Instead, I, melting, sit down on "my place." I almost wagged my tail.

She stands opposite me, dressed like a princess, and looks at me sternly. I wait. What's happening has swept me up like a powerful current. Struggling is useless; you can only stay afloat and conserve strength. For what? Behind this question lurked an answer that only Larisa knows. It depended on her whether I would learn it. And the desire to know what's there in the darkness makes me obey.

— I see, — she finally said, — you are ready… As we call it, for cooperation. If not, you can leave before anything serious happens. Something where the bets are made and you can't fold your cards. It's your choice.

I looked at her. At that moment, my brain was insistently urging me to get up immediately and leave this house. But the damned cock has its own desires, independent of reason. And, once aroused, it always defeats common sense. I only obediently nodded in response, not moving from the spot. Don't think I'm a spineless rag. I even managed to quit smoking! But Larisa in this setting acted on me hypnotically. An unknown voice whispered to me: "Do as she says, obey, forget about pride and morality—they are just conventions, invented by some people to keep others in check. She is offering you a direct deal, without intermediaries. In return, you will get bliss…"

— Mix me a cocktail, — she sat down on a chair opposite mine. On a normal oak chair with armrests, casually crossing her legs. Her shoe swung just below my nose. — Martini, rum, lemon juice, an olive. Over there, at the bar.

This affected me like a sergeant's command to a recruit. I jumped up as if on springs and rushed to carry it out. — Two glasses, — came to my back.

I mixed the drinks and felt her gaze on my back. I turned around and handed her one; she took it without thanking me, as if it were my daily duty to prepare and serve cocktails.

— May I have a drink? — I asked hoarsely because my mouth was dry.

— Yes, — she answered briefly and added: — It's right that you asked for permission.

A maid entered—white apron, cap… My face fell. What did I expect? It's hard to keep such an apartment in order without staff. A girl of about twenty asked if she should serve dinner.

— Set the table. I promised.

Don't ask what dishes were served, how much I ate or drank. Everything is as if in a fog. I remember nothing extraordinary happened at the table; we sat and talked like normal people. Nothing indicated a special relationship. We seemed to talk about work, about promising projects, about vacation plans… When the silent servant cleared the table, Larisa dismissed her. Presumably home. I got nervous, guessing that the main part of the evening was about to begin. My cock, which hadn't lost its tension for a minute, increased in volume, literally trying to break out of my pants regardless of anything. I was afraid of the thought that I would have to get up from the table and this wild erection would be obvious to Larisa. The shame was that she gave no reason for such a violent reaction. No kisses, no embraces—just her presence had such an effect. And it emphasized her power over me.

But I didn't yet know what real shame was. As soon as we got to our feet, the door opened and a stately man in an expensive suit entered. "Lord, her husband!" — my inner voice gasped in panic. "And you're standing here with a tent in your pants. Help!"

— This is my husband, — Larisa confirmed my fears. — Igor, this is Pavlik, a colleague.

I quickly wiped my sweaty palm on my pants and took a step forward. I extended my hand and put on a social smile. At least, I tried to. As if I had dropped by casually, had a bite to eat as friends, chatted about work matters… nothing personal. "Come on, at least give me two fingers to shake, I'll hold on, scrape my foot, and get the hell out of here."

He ignored my hand. He examined me carefully for a few seconds, then turned and headed towards another door in the hall. Already practically leaving the room, he threw over his shoulder without turning around: "He'll do."

Larisa turned to me:

— You passed the test, darling, — she said quietly. — Get undressed.

She couldn't have shocked me more if she had suddenly started swearing or done something else outlandish. Just—get undressed. I stood as if frozen to the floor.

— Do it! — she sharply raised her voice.

Hanging my head and staring blankly at the floor, I reached for my belt.

— Look at me, not at the floor! — Larisa said abruptly. — Then you won't be ashamed of what you're about to do.

Easy to say… With great difficulty, I raised my gaze to her, afraid to see mockery or contempt in her eyes. There was none of that. She calmly and seriously awaited the execution of the command. She was simply telling me what I had to do. And I did it.

Larisa watched carefully as I took off and folded my clothes, watched as I exposed myself to bare skin. I didn't put on any "to take off or not to take off the underwear" circus. I understood—I had to take everything off. Naked, I stood with my hands at my sides, awaiting further instructions. My completely obscene, excited penis stuck out like a flagpole, shimmering in all colors from purple to red.

— You have a decent body, — she said in a tone one uses to say "no precipitation today." I involuntarily straightened my shoulders; after all, I worked out, went to the gym. I'm not ashamed, at least of my build.

— And you have a nice cock. I like how it salutes its mistress, — Larisa added. I was struck by how matter-of-factly and coolly it was said. A statement of fact, nothing more. She talks like that at work: "Good model—it will sell."

My damned organ jerked up towards my stomach from the restrained praise. Something inside me was clenching-itching, buzzing—in short, I was moments away from a spontaneous orgasm. I could have ejaculated without a single touch to my cock.

— Get on your knees, — she ordered. I expected something like this, so I knelt down without protest. — Closer!

Awkwardly, on my knees, I moved towards her, keeping my torso vertical, since no instructions had been given on that matter. My cock swung from side to side. Probably funny from the outside.

— When you need to go to the bathroom, ask me for permission, — she said quietly and caringly. This phrase, taken out of context, puzzled me greatly. Why would I need to? Why the bathroom? Meaning, the toilet or… And this "ask for permission." They might not let me? In general, after these words, I felt small and dependent.

— Okay, — I nodded.

— No, Pavlik, you can't answer like that. When you understand an instruction, you must answer: 'Yes, Mistress,' or 'Yes, Master.'

Master?! Damn, we didn't agree on that! Noticing the doubt on my face, she snapped:

— Is that absolutely clear, Pavel?! Igor Stepanovich is our employer (what news!), and your master. How should you answer, Pavlik?

— Yes, Mistress, — I blurted out, stunned.

— My husband expects complete obedience and polite behavior from you. Then, as a reward, you will get me. Is everything clear?

— Yes, Mistress, — surprisingly, it came out of me naturally and willingly. Well, of course, the little dog was promised a very specific sugar bone for faithful service.

She walked around me, opened a bureau drawer, and took out a collar on a chain. Seems I guessed right about the little dog. Larisa sat on a chair and beckoned me with her finger.

— I'll put this on, — she said, fastening the collar, — so that you understand your current position.

To be honest, I was completely lost as to where my position was and what I represented at that moment. But I didn't