Owned 4: A Day at the Office

Malcolm should have known better than to tell Clara about his fantasies, because she's exactly the kind of woman who takes them as a challenge. Now he has to get through a day in Whitehall.


Malcolm tugged at his bonds, but the ropes coiled around his wrists were solid. Soft cotton rope, red rope. It looked good against his blue Scottish skin. Or so Clara told him. He didn’t fucking much care how he looked. He liked that he was held so tightly by it. Implacable, inescapable: a rope harness wound around his chest and shoulders, another rope holding his wrists fast to the bedpost. He was on his knees on the floor, thighs spread. Helpless, oh fuck yes, helpless. No choices to make, nothing to do but feel what his mistress wanted him to feel.

Right now she wanted to pet him. Clara’s hand was on his head, stroking him, scratching his scalp, as if he were her pet dog. Which he would cheerfully be, if she wanted.

He was nude, plugged, hard, and more than a little frustrated. When he’d handed himself over to her cheerfully enough once they’d locked the door of his house. “Anything you like,” he’d said, like the fucking desperate fool he was. Promise to tie him up and he’d do anything. Tonight that had meant teasing him. Bringing him to the edge and not letting him fall over. Fucking sweet torment.

What next? She seemed to have lost interest in his prick.

Clara said, “Talk to me, Malcolm.”

Shit. This was the part that scared him most. Clamps on his nipples? He liked that. Her hand squeezing his balls? Painful but worth it to see the delight on her face. But when she made him talk, he had to keep his wits about him.

“What about?” he said, suspiciously.

“When you masturbate–”

“When I used to fucking wank, you mean–”

“What did you think about?”

“The usual shite.”

Clara made a clucking noise. “Tell me about a fantasy.”


Her hand stroked down to the back of his neck and rested there. “You heard me. Your most secret fantasy. Tell me.”

Malcolm shook his head. His fantasies weren’t interesting. Not compared to this. “I didn’t often get far beyond imagining myself tied up in ropes at the foot of a gorgeous woman.”

“That means you sometimes got beyond that.”

“Yeah. Truth is, the reality went far fuckin’ beyond my fantasies.”

“But you must have had some.”

She was touching him here and there, maddeningly. His nipples, the backs of his thighs. Everywhere but his prick. He’d been turned on and on the edge of coming for an hour now, and he was almost beyond suffering.

“Yeah,” he said, because what else could he do but admit it? He was in one of her traps already.

“So tell me one. The one you most fear somebody else knowing about. The one that makes your stomach flutter to think about, to think about me knowing.”


She’d promised him he could come, if he was obedient, so he was of course going to answer her. And answer her as fully as he could. But what should he tell her? Most of the shite he used to wank to was painfully boring compared to what she was doing to him right now. Except–

“There’s one thing. Drives me crazy.”

“Sounds like a good one.” Her arms came around him; a hand slid down to his belly. Malcolm’s cock jumped.

“Is, yeah.” This one had been premium stroke fodder, back when he’d been allowed to stroke himself off. When nobody had cared if he stroked himself. And once or twice after she’d told to him to stop. Not that he was going to confess that.

“Tell me.”

“It’s about proving myself, yeah? Proving how completely owned I am. I’ll do fucking anything my mistress wants, even things that are completely fucking insane. Career-ending. Impossible.”

“Like what?”

Malcolm swallowed. Here it was. “A day at work with one of your fuckin’ rope harnesses on me, under me clothes. Plugged.” Like he was right now, like he couldn’t stop thinking about. His arse, opened up and filled by Clara’s will.

She tugged at the ropes wound around his chest and shoulders and arms, so decoratively. “Sitting in a meeting with Tom with this harness on you?”

“Yeah. Shit. Oh, fuck, Clara.”

Her hand was on his cock now. Malcolm bit his lip and tried not to thrust against her. Permission to come had not yet been granted him, and he was teetering.

She said, “Just snug enough that you can feel it.”

“Fuck, I’d be so hard. All day. So hard.”

A slow caress along his cock, balls to tip. Malcolm whimpered.


Malcolm was breathing hard now. “Yours.”

“Constantly reminded.”

“Fuck me. Oh, fuck me. Clara–”

“Is there something you’d like?”

Oh that voice, so wicked, so amused, teasing him, because he was starting to tremble and she had to feel it.

“Wanna come. Clara. Please.”

“I want to do it to you. Tie you in a harness under your clothes.”

“Fuck, darling, that’s fucking mental. We can’t–”

She stilled her hand on him. The noise he made was undignified, but fuck him, he’d lost all his dignity the moment she’d pushed that plug into him.

“We can. Do you want it?”

“I want it, oh fuck me, I want it.”

“Do you consent?” That word, that word, she always wanted that word from him. Didn’t she understand that he’d already given himself to her?

“Yeah, fuck, Clara, I consent. Let me, please. Please please let me come.”

Both hands on him, moving. Wasn’t going to be able to hold off no matter what if she kept it up.

“Come for me, Malcolm.”

Long moments on the edge, the awareness that it was now, it was happening, and yet he was still hovering, and then orgasm. Whiteout. Straining against his bonds so hard that it hurt except it felt good. His cock emptying itself. Her hand on him, almost painfully stripping it all from him, unrelenting. His voice, hoarse, saying her name over and over.

And then the ropes were loose and she was helping him stretch his legs. All Malcolm could do was fall back onto the floor and breathe.

“God, you’ve got rope marks all over you,” she said. “It’s amazing. God.”

Malcolm smiled up at her faintly. She liked it. Good.

In the shower a little later, Malcolm found enough of his brain working again to know regret. Clara was, he had learned, daring and calm and entirely too willing to try new things. And she had a disregard for the opinions of their colleagues that he found thrilling and fucking terrifying by turns. He loathed them and their utter selfish uselessness; she found them interesting only to the extent that they aided her ambitions. Most of them. She had, with as much cunning as he, figured out which ones of them gave two shits about the nation and which ones only about their doughy selves. The latter distressingly outnumbered the former. The fucks.

All this meant that she was likely to hold him to it.

She was going to tie him into a harness, plug him, dress him in one of his bespoke suits, and send him off to Downing Street.

And he was going to submit to it. To her. Because it was what he did.

Fucking hell.

His dignity was nothing he was going to be allowed to hold onto. The morning of the day in question started with a inescapable reminder: a brutally thorough and humiliating cleanse inside and out, administered by a Clara who seemed to be thrilled by both his initial struggle and his final surrender. Then the plug-- not the largest one, thank fuck, but a new one she’d bought just for the purpose. “Easy to wear,” she said, and smiled at him. Just large enough that he was going to be maddeningly aware of it, constantly.

Which was the fucking point. It was what he wanted. He wanted to be on the edge all day long. If she’d spared him in the least he’d have been disappointed. He knew it. Clara probably knew it too. He was fucked if he understood her. He tried, oh how he tried, when he was on his knees desperate to please her. Mostly he succeeded. Maybe it was his desperation that was pleasing, all by itself. Maybe it was his submission. The way he knelt on the bedroom floor, head down, cooperating as she wound the rope around his chest. White rope, soft, thinner than what she’d used on the weekend. Easier to hide under his shirt, she told him.

How fucking thoughtful of her.

Turtle shell harness, she told him, as she looped the rope around itself. Often worn under clothing. He hadn’t known this shite had names. To be fucking brutally honest, he didn’t care if it had a name. He had his own name for it: the fucking torture harness. Around his balls, up between his arse cheeks, tugged by a painstaking Clara until it was snug.

She dressed him, which was something he found both deeply erotic and deeply humbling. Being fussed over by her, having her linger over him like this, almost tenderly, buttoning his shirt, tucking it into his trousers-- it moved him in ways he couldn’t describe. He had no idea what she felt about him. He was maybe just another stepping stone for her. A friend with fucking kinky benefits, maybe, if he was feeling confident about himself. A fuckbuddy if he wasn’t. Who knew? Here she was, winding a tie around his neck, brushing off his shoulders. She had an eye, he had to give her that, always dressed well, always had a deft hand with her makeup. And he looked good too, when she was done knotting his tie: impeccable, color in the right places, absent where it ought not be. He looked like one of the Poxbridge twits.

He’d always been able to look like them. The contempt only came when he opened his mouth and they heard his accent. Fuck them. He turned the knob to fucking eleven, every time, and gave them the expletives they dared never say.

Clara’s face had an expression on it that made Malcolm look away. She looked like she was glowing. Or something. Fucked if he knew what it meant.

A shared cab into Whitehall, arriving at work together, which was a thing they had done a few times before, back when Clara had wanted to make it very clear that they were an official couple. She held his hand in the cab and rubbed a thumb over the back of his hand, soothing him. His knee was jumping. He wasn’t hard, not really, but he couldn’t keep his mind off the plug in his arse. When he moved his shoulders the ropes shifted and moved against the plug and fuck, the thing was fucking him. Literally. Clara was fucking him.

Malcolm flushed.

She squeezed his hand. “It’ll be okay, Malc,” she said.

“Easy for you to fucking say.”

She grinned at him, that fucking evil grin that said she knew exactly what was going on. Devil of a woman. Malcolm squeezed her hand.

“Text me if you need to.”


And on cue, his phone sounded off with a flurry of incoming texts about some idiot who’d popped off about a new initiative on Good Morning Britain without asking permission first, thus arse-fucking an entire well-planned publicity scheme. Malcolm clenched his jaw. Right. This was what he needed: a good solid rage-inducing distraction. He stabbed at his phone. “Jamie? Fucking be in my office when I get there. I’ve got someone whose entrails need to be wound around his own neck. Yeah, Whiting, like you needed be told. Fucking love you. Ta!”

And he was off.

It was a day. It was fine so long as he didn’t slow down, didn’t stop to think or stretch or otherwise remind himself that she’d bound him in a rope harness, that her plug was inside him, that he was her willing slave. The trick was going to be channeling it into anger. They wouldn’t look at him too closely if he were swearing at them. This was always true. Except, of course, that he couldn’t stop thinking about it during those quiet moments, when he was supposed to be scanning the morning memos, catching up on the radio interviews he’d missed the night before.

All he had to do was flex what passed for muscle on his body and he could feel it. If he touched himself he could trace the ropes around his ribs, feel the place where she’d tied the knot in the middle of his back. And always, fucking always, the plug inside him, heavy, thick, holding him open, tickling him. The first time she’d plugged him it had been the main event, it had been so overwhelming for him. He’d made more noise than he did when she spanked him, from the moment her fingers had first touched his arsehole. He’d made a fool of himself and come almost instantly later on.

Sweet fucking memory it was, of apologizing to her, groveling, and the affectionate way she’d told him it was her fault, not his. And then made him suffer anyway. Oh, the devil that was Clara.

And thus he found himself hiding behind his desk when Sam came in with the mid-morning papers, because fuck him, he was a decent man, he wasn’t about to inflict the sight of his raging rampant stiffie on his PA. She was a good one, a smart one, and he was going to damn well refrain from offending her.

Sam graced him with his morning tea as well, which he gulped down gratefully while he ripped into the papers. He had fuck-all time to read them, though. He was scheduled to have a quick heart-to-heart with Tom about the intolerable fuckwit who’d ejaculated prematurely all over ITV, and fuck him, he had to piss. And do something about the stiff prick before waggling it around in front of Tom. Though Tom wouldn’t notice. Tom had the usual interest heterosexual men who serially cheated on their wives had in other men’s pricks: none. If he had to endure a meeting with Nicholson he’d be nicked, but with Tom he was safe.

Piss first. Right. He could manage that.

Walk down the hall. Walk normally. Don’t fucking run. Walk. Dodge Reeder. Into the bog. Another fucking idiot in there with him, fucking hell. There was no way he was going to take himself out anywhere near somebody who might see he was stiff. Into a stall, door closed and locked. Malcolm leaned his head against the wall and breathed. So far so good. Yes, he had to piss, but he could do it here. Even with a stiff prick he could do it.

He studied himself carefully in the mirror as he washed his hands. No sign of anything under his shirt. Somebody who stared might see a larger than seemly bulge under his trousers, but the fucker would have to be staring. Nobody would stare, surely? Oh, shit.

Out, walk over to Downing Street from his building. His raging prick had calmed itself with the blast of cold air, but now he was reminded of what it was like to walk with a goddamned plug in his arse. Clenching was not helping him, but Malcolm couldn’t stop himself doing it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking Clara.

His pocket vibrated. His personal phone, with a text from Clara. Thinking of you she said. Fucking fuck her, the devil. Did she know he was heading into Tom’s office? Fucking had to. It was his usual time with him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He was shown into Tom’s office immediately, as usual. There was a thrill Malcolm didn’t want to examine here, in his weekly heart-to-heart with his boss, the country’s boss, the toppest of the top fucking dogs, who made time for him and gave him instructions that nobody else in the government ever heard. The real plan, the one Malcolm had to maneuver to bring into being without Tom being seen to do so.

Hands outstretched, the ritual handshake, Tom’s free hand coming to rest on his elbow. One of those little touches, those loyalty-inducing gestures that he was famous for. He used them on Malcolm every time, and it never failed to work.

“Malc! You look thrashed. Clara tiring you out?”

“You know how it is,” Malcolm said. He showed his teeth.

“Women!” said Tom.

“I’m not complaining.”

Laugh, yes, laugh together, the fucking hearty chuckle of men who’d just shown off how much arse they were getting, and who could now get on with business without needing to clash antlers. Malcolm could only feel grateful that Tom didn’t attempt any further pleasantries on the topic. If he’d said anything about Clara directly Malcolm might have had to swallow his rage in a way he hadn’t in years.

Fuck him, he was doing it, he was sitting in Tom’s office nodding at the plan to savage Whiting and get him out of office without being seen to do so. And here it was, a rush of blood to the head, to his cock, every fucking nerve in his body alive. In fucking Downing Street with a harness on him, ropes cutting into him, Clara’s handiwork, plug in his arse, while he carried Tom’s water. Oh fuck him, he was fucking bent.

Breathe, Tucker you fucker, breathe. Concentrate on Tom. On the task at hand. On making sure the man knew his will would be done with the usual amount of smokescreen fume and roil. The Tucker specialty.

Out. Breathe. He’d survived it. Phone out of his pocket, thumb it alive, swipe out a text to Clara: fuck you. She would understand what he meant. And probably punish him for it come the evening, which would be de-fucking-lightful.

It was all downhill from there. A bacon sarnie brought him by Sam at lunch, wolfed down while he finally got through the radio disasters of the week, then a bit of evisceration by memo, never as satisfying as doing it in person. He did have to admit it was a pleasure to write the Queen’s English with more elegance than these overeducated overbred fucks ever managed.

The worst trial was Jamie, lounging around in his office, mooching afternoon tea from Sam. He’d arrived with a tin of biscuits that he’d lifted from Baldymorte, so Malcolm was obliged to welcome him, eat a biscuit, drink more tea than he strictly wanted. But tea meant it was nearly over, so Malcolm let himself relax into a soothing session of planning out how Jamie was going to hack at Whiting’s support from behind while Malcolm broke his will with a frontal assault.

Coat on, shoo Sam out of the office, duck out onto the street, darkening already and damp with rain. Thumb out a text to Clara: On my way to yours. Ten minutes to make his way over. Pleasantries on his way through the office, the sharp satisfaction of seeing fear on faces melt to relief when they realized he was on his way to Clara, rather than there to strip their worthless hides from their backs. Not that they were worthless; this department was full of solid experts. Malcolm almost never came here unless he was there for Clara.

Speak of the devil: Clara, in her office, sharp and modern, everything filed away neatly. No PA for her, no gatekeeper, but she’d be at that level soon enough. Her last paper, analyzing the effects of the taxation shift, had annoyed Tom with the implications for the economy, but it had been so masterfully written that even Tom hadn’t been able to call it bollocks and ignore it. At least she’d done the right thing and been quiet about it.

On the way up, Clara Oswald. His Clara. His magnificent brilliant gorgeous Clara.

A finger raised to him, signaling that she was almost done. Malcolm stood watching her type at her laptop, finishing whatever she was working on. He had a hand in his trouser pocket, jacket unbuttoned, so she could get a good view of what she wanted to see. Yes, darling mistress, he was hard. Again. Yes, he’d spent the day thinking about her constantly. Yes, he could not fucking wait another minute to go down on his knees to her.

“Sorry about that,” Clara said. “Got a surprise request for a set of recommendations on that software industry stimulus plan.”

“Popular woman.”

“These days.”

Malcolm brushed his fingernails against his jacket. “Perk of knowing me.”

“Usually you’re a stormcrow, a harbinger of death in Whitehall.”

“Not for you.”

Clara smiled at him briefly. “Right, that’s it.” She shut up her laptop and stuck it into her messenger bag. “Shall we go out to dinner?”

Malcolm glared, then he saw the spark in her eye. She was having him on, of course. She knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“Straight home,” he said, as mildly as he could say anything.

“Yours or mine?”

“Mine,” said Malcolm, and that meant he was asking her to finish what she’d started. Grins exchanged, and they were off together, to a cab Malcolm summoned with his phone. Sam had revealed her tricks to him and made him install the app.

Clara snuggled up to him in the cab. Malcolm put his arm around her. He wasn’t sure if he should kiss her. He liked kissing her, but he’d only done it thus far on invitation. Which she wasn’t going to be delivering while in a cab lurching its way north through London. Though maybe–

He put it to the touch and kissed her temple, then her lips. She smiled at him. Oh fuck him. That was a sweet smile, and he was returning it in a way that he knew was utterly fucking simple. He kissed her again, lingering this time. He felt fucking strange, floating, light, as if he were in a bubble.

The moment he got her inside his door, he grabbed her, spun her around, and kissed her proper hard. He got his hands into her hair and stuck his tongue in her mouth. Shut her up good with the snogging of her life. Fuck it, she was going to redden his arse anyway, if he was lucky. Might as well be hanged for mutton. He lifted her skirt and picked her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Malcolm pushed her up against the door and rutted himself against her.

“Shit, Malc. What–”

“Can you feel me? Can you fucking feel me? Been that way all fucking day.”

“Driving you crazy?”

“You fucking know it drives me crazy.”

“Was it everything you dreamed about?”

“Clara-- I–” Malcolm shook his head. The things she did to him. The things she was going to do to him. He had no idea how to predict her. No desire to predict her. Fuck him, he was in over his head, and it was the most amazing thing.