The Donnington Chronicles – BDSM Fiction

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Celia Donnington is known as The Ice Maiden in her office. Watch her thaw as she enters a world of BDSM at Hardend House. When she does will she become Mistress or slave?

Warning: Contains scenes of sex, spankings, whippings and BDSM fiction

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Chapter 1

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Weak autumn sunlight fought its way in through two high windows in the office only to be absorbed by the dark wood panelling and sombre furnishings. The patina of a green leather sofa glinted in the light giving the room the air of a gentleman’s club. Celia Donnington perched on the edge of the straight-backed chair, her long slender legs elegantly crossed. Her dark grey pinstripe skirt had ridden up above her knee to reveal a few inches of slender thigh and her sheer stockings hissed silkily as she wriggled uncomfortably.

She had already been sat in this position like a pouting schoolgirl for over half an hour whilst the only other occupant of the room, half hidden behind the polished bulk of an antique desk, droned on. Her boss was adhering to the unspoken etiquette of the company; the sofa was for entertaining clients or superiors; underlings were interviewed at the desk.

Celia studied him over the black rims of her glasses; his crumpled three-piece suit looked faded and lived in and the buttons of his waistcoat strained against his paunch. The whole of the 60s and 70s completely passed you by didn’t they, she mused. In fact they passed this company by as well until it was dragged kicking and screaming into the 1980s and forced to employ a token woman as something other than a PA.

She had had no illusions as to why she was first taken on; the blonde hair that parted at the side and flowed onto her shoulders, her glamour model looks and slim figure had distracted them. The soft smile on her almond face and the meek gaze of her blue eyes had hardened as soon as she was hired. Now her jaw line was hard and angular and her eyes glared at them and she rarely smiled. Despite her overnight change of persona her superiors had discovered that she was extremely good at her job. Clients had started to ask for her and now, in her late thirties, she had clawed her way up to a relatively elevated position in the male dominated company.

Despite the gossip amongst the secretaries, she had done it without sleeping with anyone. Although many of the older men in the company secretly lusted after her they would have admitted that they found her too intimidating to do more than that. He cool demeanour and lack of office liaisons had earned her the nickname of the Ice Maiden.

At parties she had surprised them, thrown them off balance, when she had chatted to them about football and told risqué jokes. She was always pleasant to their wives and able to silently reassure them that she was no threat, well in the bedroom anyway.

Clever and careful she was could always disguise her manipulations and ambition even though, in her opinion, she did not need to as most of the men were too stupid to realise what was happening. If asked most would have said she was, “charming,” “an asset,” “a breath of fresh air.” Had they bothered to speak to their PAs and secretaries they may have found out that she was, “demanding,” “an unreasonable cow”, and, “a hard-nosed bitch,” but, although they occasionally screwed them, they still didn’t ask their opinion and so continued in ignorance.

          Macintosh cleared his throat. Celia knew he hated dealing with her and she noted with some satisfaction that he was looking flustered. She had deliberately left her jacket off when summoned and the curves of her breasts where visible where they pressed against her white blouse. The material was just translucent enough for the casual observer to sense where the colour beneath it turned from warm flesh to cool white indicating the outline of her lacy bra. Celia had no vanity about her body but she knew it was one of her assets and so visited the gym regularly which kept everything firm and shapely. She was often quietly amazed as to how many of her competitors did not see a sucker punch coming because they were looking at her tits and not into her piercing eyes.

She leant forward and formed her lips into a slight smile, feigning interest, and let her fingers play with the top button of her blouse. She slid her polished fingernails around the taught thread as if suggesting that one cut of the sharp talons would cause the button to fly off.  

Macintosh coughed again and a small bead of perspiration appeared on his balding head. The button clung tenaciously to the crisp white material. Slowly and deliberately she leant back and uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs causing her tight skirt to ride a little higher up her thighs. A provocative triangle of smooth skin, clad only in the sheer black nylon of her stockings, appeared were the skirt was slit a few inches at the side.

For a moment she thought she had performed the manoeuvre a little too slowly and MacIntosh had actually caught a glimpse of the naked, smooth, flesh beneath her skirt, which was not something she had intended. Not that she would have minded him knowing her state of undress beneath the formal business attire; she herself had hinted at it on several occasions, hoping to increase his obvious discomfort, but she was not one to give anything away, not even a glimpse – Celia Donnington thoroughly enjoyed being the ultimate prick tease.

MacIntosh was fighting to retain his composure, ‘Lady Antonia is a long-standing client of the company so I want you to get up to Hardend House and sort out her finances, find out what assets she has and whether the bank she has taken out this loan with is going to get its money.’

Celia knew better than to protest over being given, what appeared to be, a menial assignment. Macintosh was well connected with the upper echelons of the company; an elusive group of people who seemed to disappear into the mists like the summit of a mountain in cloud, and he still held some sway over her career.

Where the fuck is Hardend House? She thought.

‘The house is in Yorkshire,’ he continued as if reading her mind. ‘Her Ladyship is from an aristocratic family. You can stay at the house and will have to be tactful. We really don’t want the bank trying to evict one of our oldest clients. It really wouldn’t reflect well on this company. . . or its staff,’ he smiled weakly at Celia.

Celia’s eyes narrowed. Great, she thought, a week in a remote house with some daffy old aristocrat. She stood up and gathered up the case files from Macintosh’s desk. ‘You can rely on me,’ she said icily and turned towards the door.

‘Oh I do hope so,’ Macintosh murmured.

She glanced over her shoulder as she left Macintosh’s office with the arm full of files. She could not quite work out what that slight grin on his face meant and she was still pondering it as she stepped into the corridor only to cannon into a tall man in an expensively tailored charcoal-grey business suit.

‘What the. . .’ Celia exclaimed as the files tumbled over the floor. She bit her tongue as she realised that she had collided with Michael Booth, a partner in the firm. Although in his early fifties he retained the handsome features and thick dark hair of a man twenty years younger. He had a natural air of authority that annoyed her. She always had the feeling in his presence that he was a man who demanded unquestioning obedience and, although that was not her style, she had always found the idea strangely attractive. She crouched down and began scrabbling at the papers, conscious that her position made her skirt ride up her legs.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’ She felt him pause, just for a second, to look down on her at his feet. She suddenly had the distinct feeling that it was not unusual for women to be in this position with him and, despite her predicament, felt a slight pang of excitement at the thought.

‘That’s quite all right Miss Donnington; let me help.’

He crouched down, there was the lightest scent of an expensive aftershave as he helped her gather up the documents. Celia noticed his long, elegant fingers and that the crisp white cuffs of his shirt were held together by gold links which seemed to be engraved with a curious crest. Probably his family coat of arms, she thought. She looked up and found herself gazing into most piercing blue eyes.

‘No. . . no, I’m sorry. . . I wasn’t. . . ‘ her voice tailed off as he handed her the last of the documents.

He smiled. It reminded her of a cat eyeing its prey.

‘Thank you,’ Celia stammered, stuffing the papers back into one of the files as she fled towards her office.

Celia shoved her office door closed, and leant back against the woodwork, her heart pounding. She hated herself for the effect Booth had on her, making her behave like a smitten schoolgirl. Even as she gasped for breath she could feel the blood pounding in her veins, swelling her nipples; evidence, as if she needed it, of her subconscious desire. God I could fuck that man all night, she thought and took several deep lungfuls of air before striding purposefully to her desk.

Her finger jabbed at the intercom sitting on the green leather. ‘Kirsten – get in here,’ she barked.

Within seconds a tall striking girl of nineteen opened the connecting door to the P.A.’s office. She wore a tight-fitting black skirt that was a good six inches shorter than the conventional decorum of the company demanded, but which served to show off her long, athletic, legs. This drew appreciative glances, rather than condemnation from the, largely male, management. Her white blouse stretched over the small swellings of her almost pubescent breasts as if it was a size too small. The shinning gold of her straight, shoulder length hair framed her angelic, almost innocently, pretty face. Her impossibly wide brown eyes blinked as if she as if she just walked from a darkened room into the sunlight making her look like a confused puppy.

‘Yes Miss Donnington,’ Kirsten’s tone was honeyed despite her boss’s obvious bad temper.

Most of Celia’s other P.A.’s had left within weeks but Kirsten had remained loyal. Initially because of her over generous pay packet and a few liberal bonuses from the partners, who had despaired of ever getting someone to work for Celia but, in the last few months, she had sensed that there was a growing sexual frisson between them.

 Usually one of Celia’s tantrums meant being on the receiving end of her vicious tongue and nothing more, but recently their relationship had progressed a step further. Celia, in a fit of rage over some inconsequential error had pushed Kirsten over the back of the leather sofa in her office and had administered several sharp smacks with the first object that came to hand. Kirsten had squealed and wriggled, more in shock than pain, as the plastic ruler had cracked across her upturned backside. As soon as Celia had released her she had fled from the room clutching her smarting behind. Back in the confines of the outer office she had lowered herself gingerly onto her chair acutely aware of the spreading damp patch on her white cotton panties. Secretly she had smiled; not just because of the excitement that she had just felt but because she knew that if Celia’s outburst ever got out it would ruin her.

Despite her innocent looks Kirsten was never one to miss an opportunity; she was sure that she could exploit this one to her advantage and enjoy herself at the same time. In the weeks that had followed Kirsten had found numerous ways to antagonise Celia and had submitted to several similar punishments. She knew they both felt an increasing stimulation as the beatings increased in ferocity. At the end of the last Celia had hauled up Kirsten’s short skirt and wrenched down her knickers to administer several slaps of the ruler to bare skin of the firm cheeks beneath.

Standing above the prostrate girl Celia had found herself marvelling at the red marks that appeared with each impact and noticed the silvery evidence of Kirsten’s arousal on the white cotton suspended between her thighs. Until that moment it had never occurred to her that the girl actually enjoyed her punishment and she found herself idly wondering what it was like to be in that position.

Celia glared at her secretary. ‘Sort this lot out,’ she snapped, thrusting the files at Kirsten.

She had not actually intended to throw them on the floor but the force of her action caused the jumble of paper to spew from the manila sleeves and spread themselves across the carpet. Kirsten obligingly dropped to her knees and began gathering up the documents. Looking down on her assistant Celia relished the role reversal from her position in the corridor but, unlike her superior, she did not crouch down to help; instead she took half a step closer and placed one sharp, glossy black high heel squarely in the middle of the last piece of paper. Kirsten looked up from the floor, her innocent eyes wide in expectation.

Continued. . .

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