Punishment of a Slave. Part 1

I stood in the corner of his office, barefoot, wearing only a simple cotton shirtdress that barely reached mid-thigh. My hands were clasped behind my back, my chin raised—exactly as the Master demanded when we were in his workspace. He called it "the attention pose." And I hated waiting more than anything in the world. "You distracted me today," he said, not looking up from his papers. His pen scratched against the heavy paper, the only sound in the quiet office. "You knocked on the door three times, even though you knew I was busy. You put your impatience above my orders." I swallowed. The dark wood walls of the office seemed to weigh me down, and the smell of old books and candle wax only reinforced the feeling that I had done something unforgivable. “Look at me,” he ordered coldly. I turned my head and met his gaze. He sat behind a massive oak desk, wearing a pristine white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—his workaday appearance always made my heart beat faster. "Your punishment is to learn to wait. You will stand in the corner for exactly as long as I deem necessary. Silently. Without moving. Not daring to make a sound. Do you understand?" “Yes, Master,” I answered quietly but clearly. "Well, let's check," he said, leaning over the papers again, and I remained standing. The first few minutes were easy. I stared at the spine of the ancient tome on the shelf, at the candle flame, at the shadows dancing across the walls. But soon time seemed to thicken. My bare feet began to freeze from contact with the cool parquet floor. My dress seemed weightless, and I felt acutely vulnerable. And the Master seemed to have forgotten about me completely. I shifted from foot to foot, just a little, a barely perceptible movement. "Freeze," his voice rang out, and I froze. He didn't even look at me, but somehow he knew. He always knew. Maybe half an hour passed, maybe an eternity. My shoulders were stiff, my knees were shaking slightly, and a lump of unspoken words, sighs, and pleas had formed in my throat. But I held on. For him. Finally, the chair creaked. The owner stood up. His steps—slow, measured—were approaching me. I didn't dare turn my head. "Look how you're shaking," he said, stopping a step away from me. "And it's just from anticipation. And I haven't even started yet." I felt his hand on the back of my head—his fingers lightly ran through my hair, twisting a strand around his fist. The movement was simultaneously threatening and so desirable that it took my breath away. — You broke the silence when you came in. You were thinking only about yourself. Right? “Yes, Master…” my voice sounded muffled. He turned me around to face the table, still holding me by the hair. A pen, an inkwell, a stack of papers—now I could see his workspace so close. — Lean against the edge of the table. Palms down. Don't move until I give you permission. I complied. The wood was cold, and the position humiliatingly open. The hem of my dress had ridden up, revealing my thighs. My master stood behind me, and I felt his closeness, but not his touch. Only the warmth of his body and his breath in my ear. "Did my impatient girl think that if she wanted attention, she'd get it right away?" His whisper burned my neck. "Not at all." The next moment, I heard him sit down in the chair directly behind me. And then there was silence. I stood bent over the table, not daring to turn around. My thighs were bare, and I knew he was watching. I felt his gaze on my skin. Seconds, minutes passed. The anticipation became unbearable. My body, which had betrayed me, began to react to his silent presence—I felt the moisture between my legs grow wet, and the flames of shame scorched my cheeks. Finally, his palm touched my thigh. I flinched, but didn't make a sound. The Master's fingers slowly crept up, lifting the hem even higher. "You're wet," he stated dispassionately, barely touching me. "Is standing and waiting really all it takes for my girl to become like this?" “Yes, Master…” I breathed out barely audibly. “Waiting for you…” “Shut up,” he snapped, and I bit my tongue. He pulled his hand away, and I almost groaned in disappointment. Instead of touching, he made me wait again. I heard him shuffling papers behind me, as if that intimate touch had never happened. My arousal became my punishment—I desperately wanted affection, movement, anything, but I had to freeze in place, like a statue. "Turn around," he ordered after an interminable pause. "Slowly." I followed the order and saw him—he was sitting in the chair, legs apart, pen in hand again. His white shirt contrasted with the dark upholstery of the chair, and his gaze was still cold and inquisitive. "On your knees. Under the table," he nodded downward. "And wait. If you move or make a sound before I finish the job, your punishment will last until tomorrow evening." My heart pounded somewhere in my throat. I dropped to my knees and crawled into the space under the table. It was dark and warm there, smelling of wood and him. I found myself between his legs, facing his trousers, and froze in anticipation. Above me, the pen scratched again. I don't know how much time passed. I listened to his breathing, the scratch of his pen, the occasional rustle of paper. My knees ached, but I was afraid to move. And then his free hand reached down and stroked my head, like a faithful dog—silently, without even looking. This gesture made my heart swell with tenderness and devotion. “That’s enough,” his voice came from above, and he pushed back his chair. “Come out.” I crawled into the light. My legs were numb, and I stood up awkwardly. The owner looked me over from head to toe, his gaze lingering on my reddened knees. — Have you learned your lesson? "Yes, Master. My impatience is disrespectful to you. I must wait as long as it takes." "Good girl," the corner of his lips twitched in a semblance of a smile, and this stingy praise washed over me with a wave of warmth. "Come to me." He held out his hand, and I placed mine in it. He pulled me closer, and his lips covered mine in a long, demanding kiss. I trembled, finally feeling the taste of his lips, his tongue, his power over me. "Tonight," he whispered, pulling away, "you'll show me how well you've learned to wait. I'll bring you to the edge, but you won't cum without my permission. This will be your test. Understand?" “Yes, Master,” I exhaled, and a mixture of happiness and fear spread through my chest. — Now bring me some tea. And remember: don't enter without knocking. Ever. - Yes, Master. I will remember. I turned to leave, feeling his gaze follow me. My panties were hopelessly damp, and my heart was full. I had received his attention, his praise, and the promise of a night. And it was worth any wait.