Mistress of Seduction

Book 1: Seduction

by Emma Allan

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

William Briton and Gloria Price, employees of Peacham Associates, dare not be late. Not for an appointment at the home of the woman who rules their lives, Clarissa Peacham herself.

In the office she is the aloof, untouchable mistress of all she surveys. But in her private time, the beautiful Clarissa requires more from William and Gloria than a worker's compliance. If they wish to keep their jobs, they must submit to her intimate and insatiable desires . . .


Part one of the Seduction series.

Discover Piatkus Entice: temptation at your fingertips - www.piatkusentice.co.uk

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

WILLIAM

She always wore boots, tight, black, calf-length boots with high heels as spiky as an ice pick. Above them her long legs were sheathed in the sheerest nylon, nylon that shone like wet paint. The jet black stocking-tops were held taut by the suspenders of a black satin-and-lace basque, its cinched waist clinging tightly to the natural contours of her body. Her breasts, big orbs of flesh, billowed out of the low-cut lacy bra of the basque, the upper hemispheres of her areolae just visible. She was not wearing panties. Her sex, covered in thick curly hair, was exposed.

She stood with her legs apart, and her hands on her hips. ‘How dare you?’ she said. ‘How dare you?’ The expression on her face was imperious. The scorn in her eyes was absolute. He was worthy only of her contempt.

She always wore long gloves too, made from black satin, pulled, like a second skin, well above her elbow. The tops of her arms, like the tops of her thighs, looked impossibly soft and creamy in contrast to the slick material stretched so tautly below them.

‘How dare you?’ her voice barked again. She was able to read his thoughts, to know all his secrets.

‘I can’t help it,’ he said. He fell to his knees in front of her.

Two steps forward. It was always the same. Her stockings rasped against each other, her spiky heels clacking on the floor. He could see her so clearly, her breasts quivering, her nipples so hard now they had escaped the constraint of the lace altogether, and poked above it. She shook her head as though to cast off some irritation and the mane of her long chestnut coloured hair flew as if caught by the wind. He could smell the heavy, musky perfume she always wore. If he dared to look he could glimpse the lips of her sex between her legs.

That was how it always began. That was always the image he saw first. That was always what made him erect, often before he’d even touched his penis.

He would have to be punished for his impudence, for daring to look at her nakedness. He knew that. She reached for the riding crop. Her fingers, gloved in black satin, closed around the braided handle and she slashed it experimentally through the air into the open palm of her other hand. He flinched, and his cock spasmed.

‘How dare you?’

She raised the whip high, her breasts lifted out of the corset by the movement. It was always the same. But the whip never landed. The image was frozen as a white string of semen arced out from his cock, and spattered down on to his belly. Inevitably the image began to fade. In its place he was left with its trigger, the full colour reproduction of Clarissa Peacham, dressed in a peach coloured suit, her legs crossed, her calves held parallel, sitting behind the massive desk in her office. It was the official photograph of the Chairman and Managing Director of Peacham Associates printed on the back cover of the published yearly report and accounts. It lay on the pillow next to William, the image that sparked all his fantasies.

He did not like to admit to himself that he was obsessed by her. He liked to pretend that his masturbation rites could be driven by any woman he chose. The fact that it was always Clarissa Peacham he conjured up was something he hid from himself, a secret he kept in a separate compartment of his mind, just as Ms Peacham’s photograph was kept in a separate drawer in his bedside table. He did not like to admit either, perhaps because he didn’t understand it, that his fantasies concerning her always involved her disdain and the idea of his being punished for daring even to look at her.

He did admit to himself that she was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She had strong, well-proportioned features: a straight nose, cheekbones that looked as though they had been sculpted in stone, a firm chin and a fleshy, rich mouth with very red lips. Her hair was a torrent of thick glossy chestnut, tumbling over her shoulders in soft, flouncing waves. But it was her eyes that were her most stunning asset. Almost the same colour as her hair they were large and bright with a hypnotic quality that made it impossible not to stare at them. They sparkled with life, the windows of a soul that danced to a rhythm that was unmistakably sensual.

Her body transmitted messages on the same wavelength, radiating a flow that was quite obviously sexual. She was aware of its effect, walking with the self-conscious elegance and haughtiness of someone who knew every head turned to watch as she passed by, women envious of her looks and style, men desirous of her body. She was tall with long legs that were contoured by well-defined muscles and a sleek, taut figure toned and firmed by a regular exercise regime that made her capable of catlike grace. The narrowness of her waist seemed to emphasise the line of her full, jutting breasts above it, and the generous swell of her hips and buttocks below delighted the eye.

Her attitude to the world was as clear as her sexuality. She displayed an arrogant confidence in her own ability and a total lack of concern as to what others thought of her. She dressed accordingly, flaunting her spectacular body and seeing no reason to disguise it. The way William imagined her was not far from the reality. Clarissa Peacham favoured tight, abbreviated skirts, that clung to the flat plane of her stomach, and exposed her long supple legs, always sheathed in the sheerest of nylon, more often than not woven with Lycra to give a glassy sheen. She wore tight, figure-hugging blouses with plunging necklines that revealed the dark tunnel of her cleavage and the rich curves of her breasts as they wrestled with the restraint of her bra. And, as William knew only too well, she frequently wore boots with the highest of heels, making no concession to her height, so she would tower over other women and a good few men.

In fact, William hadn’t seen her that often. While Clarissa ran Peacham Associates, one of the biggest advertising agencies in London, and was a majority share holder, William Briton was only a minion. The gulf that divided them was unbridgeable. Her office was at the top of the building, on the sixteenth floor, his on the sixth. Very occasionally she would come down to wander around among the lesser mortals in the open plan office they all shared and then his eyes would be rooted to her, unable to do anything but stare, drinking in the details of her appearance, until, like strong liquor, they intoxicated him.

He could remember every separate occasion he had seen her, how she had looked and what she had worn. How many times had he tried to imagine what her body was like under those expensive clothes? How many times had he conjured up an image of her breasts, had watched them spill from the cups of her bra as it fell away, or imagined silky panties being skimmed down those wonderful legs? How many nights, lying naked in bed, had he tried to picture her pubis nestling at the bottom of her almost concave belly? Would it be thick with chestnut hair – as he had imagined tonight – or nearly hairless, barely covering the slit of her labia? And what of her sex? He had tortured himself with thoughts of that too. Would it be loose and fleshy, like an over-ripe fruit, or as tight and thin-lipped as a leather purse?

Every single occasion he had seen her had provoked him. Each had seen him hurrying to his bedroom the moment he got home needing to deal with the almost unbearable frustration her presence had caused in the only way he had available to him. And each time would disturb him in a way he simply did not understand. Clarissa Peacham was not just a beautiful woman he lusted after but knew he would never have. Her effect on him was much more profound. She inspired something he did not understand, stimulated something that was buried in the dark, hidden depths of his psyche. He knew it was there but for the life of him he could not bring it out into the light.

The phone on his desk rang only once before he picked it up. ‘Mr Briton?’ It was a man’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘This is Ms Peacham’s assistant.’ The voice had a tone of authority acquired, no doubt, by association with the ultimate power in the company.

‘Ms Peacham?’ he queried. In his three years with Peacham Associates he had never received a call from the sixteenth floor. There was no reason to. He was a computer programmer whose primary job was to feed market-research information into the machine that would, in turn, use it to produce charts and graphics and easily digestible forecasts that the agency’s clients could paw over and discuss and often, inevitably, discard. He was not responsible for the research or for the conclusions. ‘Yes?’ he said trying to keep his voice from faltering despite the fact his heart was pounding due to a rush of adrenaline.

‘Could you come up here at once. Ms Peacham wants to see you.’

‘Me?’ The word came out with a high-pitched squeak.

‘Yes, you,’ the man said disdainfully before slamming the phone down.

William got to his feet. He was sweating, perspiration beading his forehead and upper lip. What did she want with him? He started towards the lift then remembered his jacket. He went back for it, grabbing it from the back of his chair and putting it on. The lift was on the floor below. He pressed the call button anxiously. What did she want with him? Though he knew it was completely illogical and totally impossible he felt guilty, as if she had discovered the purpose for which he had been using her official company photograph.

In the lift he straightened his tie and combed his hair, checking it in the large mirror that covered the back wall. He wiped the sweat away with his handkerchief and tried to calm himself by taking deep breaths.

The lift doors opened directly on to a large reception area with floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows on two sides. A desk made from rosewood, the size of a billiard table, stood barring the way to the corridor that led to the directors’ offices.

‘William Briton,’ he said to the receptionist who sat behind the desk. She was a gorgeous brunette in a light blue suit who looked at him as if he were something distasteful that had attached itself to the sole of her shoe. ‘To see Ms Peacham,’ he added.

She typed something into the computer terminal on the desk and waited for a response from the screen. Apparently it was affirmative. ‘Double doors at the end of the corridor,’ she said without looking up at him again.

William shuffled uneasily down the corridor. There was an oil painting by Miro on one side of the white walls and a large Hockney oil on the other. He knocked on one of the double doors. It was opened by Ms Peacham’s male assistant whom William recognised. He had always trailed behind her on her infrequent visits to the lower depths.

Without a word the man, a weedy-looking twenty-year-old who was already going bald, ushered William across the outer office. Neither of the two secretaries in the office interrupted their typing to look up at him as he was led across to a large oak panelled door which was already ajar. The assistant opened it without knocking and allowed William through. He closed it so rapidly he made William jump.

‘Mr Briton.’

Today she was wearing a peachy silk blouse, its cut so tight he could clearly see the outline of her bra and its wired cups. The light from the window behind her shone onto her hair, bouncing from its waves and flounces so it seemed to dance with shades of chestnut and orange. She was sitting behind a large modern desk – the desk in the official photograph – of polished walnut inlaid with strips of brass. The nails of her long rather bony fingers, painted the exact same colour as her blouse, beat out an impatient tattoo on the desk top in front of her.

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes, I did,’ she said, getting to her feet. Her skirt was short and peachy too and flared out from her hips. He was unable to stop himself feasting his eyes on the nylon-sheathed thighs it revealed. He had never been this close to her. ‘There’s something I have to discuss with you. Not now, I don’t have the time.’

‘Erh … right …’ He wasn’t sure what he was expected to say.

‘Tomorrow evening. Say at seven.’ She did not ask him if that was convenient.

‘Seven,’ he repeated gormlessly, sure his mouth was opening and closing like a fish. She was wearing a strong musky perfume that he seemed to inhale through every pore of his body.

‘But not here. Not in the office. I want you to come to my home.’

‘Your home?’ Again the repetition came out as though he were witless. ‘But I … why …?’

‘Thank you,’ she said sitting down again and dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

There was a string of questions he wanted to ask, but as if by some sixth sense, the assistant opened the panelled door again and he was ushered out. What did she want to discuss? Why her home? It simply didn’t make sense.

‘You’ll need this,’ the assistant said in the outer office, thrusting a small white card into his hand as he opened one of the outer doors.

William was in a daze as he stood outside the office, his mind churning. What did it all mean?

‘William. What are you doing up here?’ The voice brought him back down to earth. He recognised another occupant of the sixth floor walking down the corridor towards him. Gloria Price was a brunette, pretty enough, but with a habit of wearing rather dowdy clothes.

‘I was sent for … to see Ms Peacham.’

‘Me too. What’s it all about?’

‘God knows,’ he said unhelpfully. Gloria had as much reason to be called to Ms Peacham’s office as he did. For some reason he didn’t want to volunteer any information about what had happened to him. ‘I think it’s probably just routine.’

Gloria gave him a funny look, knowing full well routine was the last thing it was, but as she was about to challenge him the door opened and Ms Peacham’s assistant beckoned her in.

William walked to the lift. As he waited for it to arrive he looked at the card the assistant had handed him. Neatly printed in black letters it read: 10 Punishment Road, London W.1. Written in the top right hand corner in a bold italic script was: 7.00 p.m. Sharp.

William lay in bed unable to sleep, his mind torn between excitement and anxiety. Ms Peacham had not given him the slightest clue, in her manner, as to what she wanted to see him about. Her face, and her amber eyes, had been expressionless, which had given him room to read into them every possible emotion from anger to lust.

As the night grew longer and the streets outside lapsed into silence, William tossed and turned. He was developing increasingly more elaborate theories as to what Clarissa Peacham wanted with him and, just as puzzling, why it had to be at her house. Though he kept telling himself it was impossible, that a woman of her sophistication, elegance and wealth, would never have had any reason to notice him, let alone pick him out, in the small hours of the morning he was in such a state of high anxiety even this unlikely scenario assumed the status of the possible.

It was not, he told himself, that outlandish. He wasn’t unattractive. He was tall and kept himself reasonably fit. His face was well proportioned with a straight nose, a square jaw and slightly hollow cheekbones. He had dark brown eyes and very thick, curly black hair, matched by a dark complexion.

But just as he convinced himself that Ms Peacham was quite capable of selecting a male partner as casually as she could select a new pair of high-heeled boots, his mind would swing to the other side of the pendulum. He would convince himself that the only reason she wanted to see him was purely connected to work. She had called for Gloria Price too hadn’t she? Perhaps that was for the same reason and she too had been asked to her home. He had tried to see Gloria that afternoon but had been told she was out at a meeting and wouldn’t be back until the next morning. If she had been issued with the same invitation there would have been no room for doubt: Ms Peacham’s summons was no reason for excitement.

What if she hadn’t, however? The pendulum swung back. What if Gloria’s visit to the sixteenth floor had been coincidental, had been for an entirely different, and possibly trivial, reason and she had not been invited to the house? Then, William could well imagine, that Ms Peacham’s strong and powerful personality would see no reason to abide by social convention or out-dated morality. She would do as she pleased. If she had seen William on her ambles around the sixth floor, and had decided she wanted him, she would certainly not hesitate. Of course her invitation had been brusque and charmless. But that was entirely in character. Clarissa Peacham had a habit of taking what she wanted without unnecessary pleasantries.

The odd thing was, considering the number of times the presence of Clarissa had made him reach into the drawer of his bedside table and extract the official photograph of the Chairman and Managing Director of Peacham Associates, William didn’t want to begin his time-honoured ritual. In the darkness he seemed to be able to see Ms Peacham’s eyes staring at him intently, watching his every move. Though it was totally illogical, he did not want her to discover the secret of his masturbation rite.

The first fronds of daylight had crept around the bedroom curtains before William’s mind – and Ms Peacham’s eyes – allowed him to drift into an uneasy sleep.

‘Come in.’ He’d expected servants. But Clarissa opened the front door herself. ‘This way,’ she said turning and leading him down a long corridor. There were pictures on the walls that looked like Gillray cartoons except they all featured men with enormous erections sticking out of their eighteenth-century breeches. One in particular caught William’s eye. The penis was the size of a horse’s head and had been bridled around the glans with reins held firmly in its owner’s hand. He was trying to pull it back but unsuccessfully as great splashes of semen, lashed out towards the female who sat in a chair opposite, the look of surprise on her face mixed with very definite excitement.

‘In here.’

The bedroom was small and featureless. There was a double bed with a single bedside table and an Anglepoise lamp that only lit the area around the bed. The rest of the room was veiled in shadow. Heavy red velvet curtains were drawn across the window. The mattress was covered with a white sheet. William thought this must be a special room, a room she reserved not for sleeping but for sex.

‘I’ve been thinking about you, William. I’ve been watching you.’

Clarissa sat on the bed. She was wearing a dark blue satin robe, . . .