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At the Top of the Stairs

Categories Fiction, Consensual Sex, Domination/submission, Job/Place-of-work

Author: zenmackie

Published: 11 September 2019

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This is bad, Chelsea thought. This is really bad. David hated it when she was late. And she was very late. And her cell-phone battery had died. And it had taken forever to find a taxi because it was pouring rain.

And it was their anniversary.

They had met exactly one year ago. June. Chelsea’s mouth quirked into something between a smile and a grimace as she remembered how it had happened.

It was because she’d been late. David had been shrugging into his coat just inside the doors of the very restaurant they were going to tonight and Chelsea, way overdue for a lunch meeting with a client, had barged in without looking and nearly knocked David off his feet with the door. He’d recovered his balance without falling but Chelsea had managed to give him a bloody nose.

She’d quickly enlisted the assistance of the maitre’d to fetch a cloth napkin filled with ice and had led David to a seat at the nearest available table. Chelsea’s client had chosen not to wait, apparently, which was for the best as Chelsea was able to spend the next hour or so with David. She had apologized over and over; had used the end of her napkin, moistened in her glass of water, to clean him up while he held the ice pack to the side of his nose, and ended up by offering to buy him dinner that night by way of compensation. Though by then they had both known it was more than that.

There had been a spark between them almost from the moment they had sat down together. After the initial fumbling with apologies and reassurances between them the conversation had begun to flow with an ease that surprised them both. And very soon something else – something less like a spark and more like an electrical charge - began to flow between them as well. It was something neither one of them would have dared to acknowledge, at least not out loud, so soon after they had just met, especially Chelsea. She was no prude, by any means, but for her sex was something that happened only after a suitable period of getting to know someone and building emotional trust and intimacy.

But sitting there at the table with David, telling him some innocuous anecdote about the client she had been rushing to meet, Chelsea had become more and more aware of a sense of power radiating from him. Something in the frank way that he’d looked into her eyes seemed to brush aside all of her normal defenses and stir something at her very core that had never even been touched before. She’d felt the beginnings of moisture between her legs and suddenly began to stumble over her words, and then to blush, which caused her to stumble even more, sure that David had noticed and that somehow he knew the reason for it.

Whether he knew the reason or not, David had noticed Chelsea’s discomfort and had tactfully taken over the conversation, telling her more about his work as a lawyer specializing in environmental causes while she recovered. But she never did, really. Even though she managed, by a terrific effort of will, to bring herself under control and return her focus to the subject at hand, Chelsea had been unable to keep certain thoughts from circling at the edge of her awareness. Her imagination had refused to be reigned in and persisted in trying to draw her attention to a short film it was showing, over and over, of Chelsea smiling at David and saying, “Excuse me a moment,” then sliding off her chair …crawling under the table…seizing the tab of his zipper in her teeth…

She’d suddenly realized that David had asked her a question and torn her attention away from the film, trying to slam and lock the door to the projection booth behind her. For the rest of that first encounter with David she could hear that projector whirring away somewhere in the recesses of her imagination, but she’d gotten through it somehow. And before parting they had agreed to meet there again for dinner that Friday night.

She’d gotten nothing done at work that afternoon beyond an apologetic phone call to the client she’d missed at lunch. Well, she had done something: late in the afternoon, when she could stand it no more, she had quietly closed the door to her office, returned to her desk and for the first time in her life slid her hand under her skirt and masturbated at work.

She’d watched the film her imagination had created, now in glorious Technicolor and digital surround-sound, while she touched herself. She’d watched it again, this time sliding two fingers beneath the elastic at the crotch of her panties. It shocked and fascinated her, watching these images of herself, in her somewhat severe office clothing, down on all fours beneath a table in a public restaurant, her skirt riding up her thighs while she used her mouth to pleasure this man she barely knew.

But it was the Director’s Cut of the film that had caused Chelsea to lose all restraint – to raise her hips long enough to slide her panties down to her ankles and kick them off under her desk, then spread her legs as far apart as she could. She’d fingered herself to orgasm, her free hand over her mouth to cover her moans while watching David haul her fantasy-self out from under the table, throw her down on top of the table and take her right there in full view of everyone, while holding her wrists above her head.

Ohhhhhhhh….

Afterwards, when she had recovered somewhat, she had felt ashamed and more than a little disturbed by the fact that she’d been so aroused by playing such a submissive role in her fantasy. She had never been the type of woman who dreamed of being taken by force, or tied up or sexually dominated in any other way. And she’d had no idea why this chance encounter should have affected her in this manner but she was not at all comfortable with it.

That had been Wednesday. Several times between then and her scheduled date with David on Friday evening Chelsea had seriously considered calling him to cancel or at least postpone, more than once getting to the point of taking out her phone and starting to punch in his number. But each time she’d told herself that she was being ridiculous, that seeing him again would prove that his effect on her had just been the result of a passing mood.

And she had pointedly ignored the insistent whirring of the projector in the back of her mind while waiting for the hours to pass.

Still, when Friday night arrived she’d found herself growing more and more nervous. She agonized over what to wear, completely changing her outfit and hair several times, trying to find the right balance between safely attractive and blatantly sexy. She’d gotten so involved in the process that she lost track of the time and was running late before she’d even gotten out the door. And since the restaurant was a good distance from her apartment building she had arrived nearly twenty-five minutes late.

David had been waiting for her in the same place where she had nearly knocked him over the previous time. He’d smiled and brushed off her apologies while taking her coat, and nothing more had been said about it. Yet somehow Chelsea had known that wasn’t the end of it, though she couldn’t for the life of her have explained how she knew. It was like a distant rumble of thunder heard from over the horizon on a clear, sunny day. It was something in the way he looked at her while they talked, something similar to the first time, but now in some subtle way more focused. There was nothing at all in his manner that Chelsea would have described as sinister or calculating, but nevertheless she’d found herself repressing an occasional shiver – and even the whirring of the projector had faded into the background.

The dinner itself had been a great success, at least on the surface. They had talked easily and with increasing openness as the evening progressed, aided somewhat by the bottle of very good wine David had ordered for them, and by the end of the meal they were well on the way to being comfortable with each other. The sexual magnetism between them was still very much present, though of course unacknowledged.

They’d shared a cab on the way home. They’d stopped at Chelsea’s address first and David told the driver to wait for him. He’d accompanied her to the front door and into the unlit vestibule of her building. They’d made plans to visit an art exhibit the next day and Chelsea was already looking forward to it. David had drawn her into an embrace, kissed her lightly on the mouth and told her how much he’d enjoyed being with her that evening.

Then, instead of releasing her he had suddenly bent her forward, trapping her under his arm. And with his free hand he had given her two hard swats on the behind, one on each cheek, before releasing her and stepping back. When she had straightened, gasping and outraged, he had simply laid one hand gently along the side of her face and said, “Try not to be late tomorrow, all right?”

Then he had smiled at her, turned and left without another word.

Chelsea had been mad enough to spit, and had come close to charging after him and giving him a piece of her mind. Telling him to get lost and never try to contact her again. Instead she had stood there, mouth open, panting with…rage, she’d told herself. Then she had hurried inside. She’d pushed the button for the elevator – then pushed it again when it didn’t arrive quickly enough.

The moment she was safely inside with the door closed, and had pushed the button for her floor, she had hiked up her skirt and thrust both hands down the back of her panties. She’d felt the heat of her skin in the two places where David had struck her…and moaned out loud.

By the time the elevator door had opened on her floor she was already using one hand to hold up her skirt while the other had moved between her legs and was stroking furiously. She’d stopped long enough to hustle to her apartment door and unlock it, hurry inside and close it behind her before tearing off every stitch of clothing and collapsing onto her back right there on the floor to finish what she’d started, this time imagining that David had not only continued to spank her there in the vestibule but had pulled up her dress and yanked down her panties to do it.

Afterwards she had lain there on the floor in a daze, wondering what was happening to her. And when she had finally dragged herself to bed she had slept fitfully, her mind filled with disturbing dreams and images.

But the next day she had arrived fifteen minutes early for her date with David. He had arrived exactly on time, and although neither of them mentioned anything about what had happened the previous night, there had been a knowing look in his eyes when he saw her waiting there that had absolutely infuriated her – and made her wish she’d had the nerve to deliberately arrive late. Though she hadn’t been sure if it was because she wanted to assert herself or because of what might have happened if she’d done so.

The rest of the date had gone very well. The art exhibit had stimulated their conversation to a whole new and deeper level, and the afternoon outing had segued into dinner without ever being discussed. Also not discussed was the fact that Chelsea would be going home with David that night, because they both knew it.

David had turned out to be a strong, confident lover, just as Chelsea had hoped. He had taken her by the shoulders and kissed her, pressing her back against the door to his apartment the moment it was closed behind them. He had taken both her wrists in one of his big hands and stretched her arms over her head, holding her in his gaze as he raised his free hand to take hold of her chin and run his thumb across her lips. He had caressed and fondled her through her clothing, taking possession of her, until Chelsea had felt that if he let go of her wrists she would simply collapse.

But he had let go, and she had continued to stand there, not even lowering her arms, pinned there by his gaze. Until he told her to take off her blouse… And then her skirt…

Chelsea had never experienced anything remotely like it: standing in front of a man and being told not only to strip but exactly what to take off and when, removing item after item under his gaze and handing each one to him as if slowly surrendering pieces of her will - which she was, and gladly.

And when she’d finally placed her panties into his hand – somewhat embarrassed by the amount of moisture she’d felt there as she handed them over - and stood naked before him, she had never felt so vulnerable. Or so aroused. David had sensed this, apparently, for without any further attempt at foreplay he had simply opened and unzipped his pants and yanked them down past his hips, exposing his already fully erect cock. Then he’d reached down behind her knees and lifted her off the floor, simultaneously spreading her legs and slamming her back against the door as he thrust into her.

It was overwhelming. It felt almost like a rape, almost like… The Director’s Cut of her fantasy had suddenly filled her mind: being held down and used like a slave-girl on the restaurant table. Oh God, oh God, oh God….

She’d come almost immediately, letting out an animal-like groan as she did. Then she’d wrapped her legs around David’s waist, meeting his every thrust with one of her own, reaching her second orgasm just before his first.

They had both collapsed to the floor then and lain there intertwined, looking into each other’s eyes without speaking until their cooling perspiration made them feel chilly. David had stood then and shed his rumpled clothing before kneeling down to pick Chelsea up in his arms and carry her into his bedroom.

That had been only the beginning of the most intellectually, emotionally and (of course) sexually fulfilling relationship Chelsea had ever experienced. And now, a year later, she and David were still head over heels in love with each other. They called and emailed and texted each other several times a day. They talked about everything under the sun. They loved being together and lusted after each other unfailingly. They had long since moved in together and marriage was definitely something they both wanted when they were a little better off financially. For Chelsea it was the happiest time of her life and she believed it was for David as well.

But…

David had never spanked her again. And though in some ways Chelsea was glad about that, not wanting to displease him for any reason, there was something about that night that nagged at her imagination, a new film loop in the projector: not only being spanked by David, but spanked in a public – or nearly public – situation. Spanked the way he had spanked her in the vestibule that night, but the way she’d re-imagined it later, with her skirt up and panties down…and harder, and longer.

They were usually able to communicate their sexual desires very frankly and openly. They had experimented with bondage and role-playing and had delved into the Kama Sutra. Chelsea had even bought David a remote-controlled vibrator to use on her sometimes when they went out. But for some reason Chelsea could never bring herself to mention spanking, and David never did, so it remained what Chelsea told herself was a tiny and insignificant lack in their otherwise magnificent sex life, not at all important.

Except for that occasional annoying whir of the projector.

It wasn’t that Chelsea had never been late again either, certainly. Sometimes her clients were late themselves, or needed more time than Chelsea had scheduled for them. Things happened. But if she was supposed to meet with David at a certain time and was running late she had always managed to let him know, and usually well ahead of time. Though Lord knows she had often been tempted to simply show up late, without a word of explanation, just to see what would happen. But she just couldn’t.

And now this. She’d had to go to the client’s office at the other end of the city. Had gotten so involved in sorting out the chaos the project had fallen into during her absence that she’d completely lost track of the time until she was out on the sidewalk trying to hail a taxi - in the pouring rain, for which she was completely unprepared, not having so much as a portable umbrella, never mind a raincoat. And then the discovery of her dead cell-phone.

This was bad. This was very bad.

Chelsea paid off the cab, dashed up the outside stairs to the apartment building, fumbled in her purse for her keys and let herself in. The building was an old four-story and long overdue for renovation, which is why Chelsea and David had been able to afford a fairly large apartment there. The ancient elevator was out of order, which was not unusual at the best of times and only to be expected on a day like this, Chelsea thought as she hurried up the stairs, soaked to the skin and vainly trying to squeeze the water out of her hair.

Their apartment was on the top floor, and as Chelsea reached the landing before the final flight of stairs she looked up… And saw David waiting at the top. His arms were crossed, never a good sign. Chelsea ran up the stairs to him, babbling apologies and explanations, but David simply took her in his arms and hushed her, kissing her wet hair and saying, “There, there, it’s all right. Happy anniversary, darling.”

Reassured, Chelsea kissed him back and rested for a moment in his embrace. Looking over his shoulder she could see that he’d left the apartment door open, displaying the romantic glow of candlelight within: their celebration dinner. Overcome with guilt, Chelsea again tried to explain what had happened but David simply held her at arms’ length and said, “Look at you, poor thing, you’re soaked. Let me have those wet shoes and jacket.”

Chelsea gratefully stepped out of her shoes and struggled out of her dripping wet linen jacket and handed it to him. David picked up her shoes and headed into the apartment. Chelsea began to follow him in but he turned and said, “Wait.” And there was something in his expression that stopped her in her tracks. He deposited the shoes and jacket inside then returned to her in the hallway. “Take off your blouse,” was all he said.

Chelsea’s eyes widened. This was a familiar gambit, a favorite prelude to sex for both of them ever since that first night. But that had always been in private and at the moment they were standing in the hallway of a floor with three other apartments besides their own. Chelsea started to protest…then saw the look in David’s eyes and thought better of it. She glanced around nervously then meekly unbuttoned her white blouse and handed it to him, exposing the lovely lavender-lace brassiere she had chosen that morning in anticipation of their romantic evening.

David barely glanced at it. “Skirt.”

Chelsea drew a quick breath. Was he planning to make her strip completely naked out here? She had to admit that the thought was exciting, at least in the abstract, but these were their neighbors in the surrounding apartments, people they both knew. If any of them should open their doors and step out, or worse yet appear at the top of the stairs… Well, in for a penny, she thought to herself. Besides, her skirt was soaked through and she was dying to get out of it, although this certainly wasn’t the location she would have chosen.

On the other hand, Chelsea was definitely getting more than a little turned on. So she not only held David’s gaze as she reached behind her back to unfasten and unzip her skirt, she deliberately arched her back slightly as she did so in order to make her breasts lift. In fact, she took quite a bit more time than necessary, enjoying the effect she knew she was having on David - an effect that was somewhat spoiled when she had to struggle and tug at the wet fabric to get it past her hips and thighs without ruining her thigh-high stockings. And when the skirt finally fell around her ankles Chelsea was somewhat mortified to discover that her panties were equally soaked…and therefore nearly translucent. It was somehow more obscene than it would have been if she’d been wearing no panties at all. Strangely, the first thought that entered Chelsea’s head after making this discovery was that she was glad she’d shaved that morning.

In any case, there was nothing to be done about it. Chelsea stood and waited for David’s next command, expecting to be told to remove her brassiere, then her panties and then – or possibly not, depending on his mood – her stockings.

Instead, he took her wrist in his hand and walked past her, turning her as he went. He led her over to the balustrade, the old-fashioned wooden railing that enclosed the stairwell on three sides and descended along the stairs to the bottom. Without a word he bent her over the handrail, giving her a somewhat dizzying view down the stairwell. He reached over the railing to draw her left hand down and wrapped her fingers around one of the wooden posts. Then he did the same with the other hand before stepping back. This left Chelsea with her head down, her wet hair falling around her face and her breasts practically spilling out of their cups, on the far side of the railing, and her ass high in the air on the other.

It was all so strange and had happened so suddenly that Chelsea hadn’t had a moment to consider what David’s purpose might be…

SMACK!

The sound of David’s hand striking Chelsea’s behind – made even sharper by the wet fabric of her panties – echoed through the stairwell, followed closely by a yelp of pain from Chelsea. Shocked, she instinctively released her hold on the railings and began to straighten, turning toward David and saying, “David, what the hell do you…” But she got no further because David placed his hand on the back of her head and shoved her back into position so hard that she had to grasp the railings again just to keep from tumbling over. He held her there with his free hand while he unleashed another flurry of blows on her behind.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK…

The first slap forced a muffled sob from Chelsea. Then she bit her lip to try to keep from making any more noise than she could help. She truly did not want to be discovered in this position and state of undress by any of her neighbors if she could avoid it - and if the sound of her behind being slapped, which sounded as loud as gunfire to her, didn’t bring them out anyway. So she bit down hard, trying to hold in the grunts of pain as each blow landed and the whimpering that tried to force its way past her lips in between. There was nothing she could do, however, about the tears that leaked into her eyebrows and fell away like raindrops down the stairwell.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK…

A door opened.

They both heard it. David stopped spanking Chelsea. But he continued to hold her head down so she was unable to move from her position. Chelsea thought the sound had come from the floor below, and sure enough a moment later she saw someone look out over the railing. She held her breath and prayed. But in vain – the person turned his face to look up in her direction. It was old Mr. Lund, who had the apartment directly below theirs. He squinted up at her, and Chelsea saw that he wasn’t wearing his usual coke-bottle thick glasses. He must have been able to see at least something, however, maybe her blonde hair hanging down, because he quavered, “Is that you, Chelsea?”

Not knowing what else to do, she replied, “Yes. Hi, Mr. Lund.”

He deepened his squint as though something looked strange to him although he couldn’t tell what. “I thought I heard some kinda noise out here. I guess you did too, huh?”

Chelsea thought fast. “It’s probably that cranky old elevator again. It’s a wonder it still works at all.”

That set Mr. Lund off and he rambled on for a while about the penny-pinching landlord and how nothing in the building ever got fixed. Meanwhile, Chelsea continued to hang there in her ridiculous position, nodding occasionally even though she knew Mr. Lund couldn’t see it. At the same time she was more than a little distracted, first by the sudden realization that her panties were being lowered until they puddled around her ankles, then by David’s free hand, idly caressing the burning skin of her behind.

Oooooooo…

Eventually, Mr. Lund wandered back into his apartment, still muttering to himself, and shut the door. David must have been listening for the sound because an instant later he began swatting Chelsea’s behind again. He gave her ten more smacks, each harder than the last, before he finally released her.

When Chelsea managed to pull herself upright she was dizzy, stiff, sore…and really, really horny. She looked at David, who was, to his credit, looking slightly apprehensive, wondering if he’d gone too far, no doubt. She smoothed her wildly disarrayed hair into place as best she could. She smiled at him, even though she was still gasping for breath. She reached behind herself, unhooked her bra and let it slide off her shoulders and down into her hands. She stepped out of her panties, reached down to pick them up and handed them, along with her bra, to David. She left her stockings as they were.

Then she wrapped her arms around David’s neck and kissed him hungrily. When, after a moment, he dropped her lingerie to the floor and wrapped his arms around her waist in return, she reached back, took his hands and guided them down onto the still-burning skin of her behind. She pulled back to look into his eyes and said softly, “Thank you. That’s the loveliest anniversary present I could have ever imagined.”

She jumped up lightly and wrapped her legs around his waist, nearly causing him to stagger before he caught himself. Then she kissed him again and said, “Now let’s go inside so I can give you yours.”

Their anniversary dinner was very, very cold by the time they got around to it, but they didn’t care.

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