The Press Release…

At last I’m inside Caliacorp, or one of their many headquarters at least.

This has taken two years of requests, catfishing, research, provocative articles… all to get an official press meet from the largest, most ubiquitous yet secretive organisation on the planet. And that’s not an easy task – Caliacorp hate journalists like me. In my case, that emotion works both ways.

I’ve tried to dress the part, dusting down my only decent jacket, ironing my best shirt, but I still stand out like a vagabond among the ultra-smart, ultra-focussed business types milling around in the lobby. The woman in charge of reception – there is literally a small army of mostly female employees, purposefully criss-crossing the vast atrium, meeting and directing visitors, frantically tapping tablet screens – informs me there is a quiet corner where I can wait.

So I wait, on a low, comfortable, padded sofa, surrounded by propaganda pushing one thing and one thing only – the Caliacorp ‘Give!’ charity. Slick presentations flashing soundlessly across huge screens, eye-catching posters, thick manifestos and leaflets are in every line of sight.

‘Give!’ to those less fortunate. ‘Give!’ to invest in education, health… It’s not fooling me. Charity drives like this are 90% spin, 10% substance, and Caliacorp is an expert at pumping positive image to cover up the unethical corporate agenda that I know is under the surface.

The agenda I am about to expose.

Soon a ridiculously young, ridiculously pretty assistant approaches with the cutest smile, which I force myself to ignore, along with hem of the short dress she is wearing, which bounces perilously close to the tops of her toned, bare thighs.

“Hi, Mr. Robertson… Robinson, ooooh, I’m soooo sorry!” She giggles, shrugging her shoulders and shuffling awkwardly, managing to look vulnerable and sexy at the same time. But I’m prepared – none of this play-acting will derail me. I’m on my guard, a silent assassin, one they’ll never see coming: Get the story, get the quotes… then get out! No ‘giving’ for me today!

“It’s fine,” I reply, summoning my most engaging and sympathetic smile. “Is… Ms. Lamb ready to see me now?” I curse myself inwardly for the delay in recalling her name, as if I’ve not been background checking, profiling and planning for this since I received her email six weeks ago.

“Yes! Totally!” exclaims the assistant, so excited she rises up onto her toes, as if literally about to take off.

I chuckle internally. She’s behaving like a clueless little girl. Maybe she actually is. Maybe this will be easier than I imagined.

“But I’m soooo sorry, Miss Lamb is very busy today and won’t be able to greet you in person.” She pouts so much her lower lip seems to be inflated by some invisible pump. “But she had such a cool idea - maybe you wouldn’t taking the lift to the tenth floor on your own? It would really help oil her schedule!” Now she’s actually wringing her delicate little hands. Cute, adorable even, but only making me even more confident I’ll get what I came for.

“Of course, no problem!” I stand, pick up my notebook and smile even more warmly. The assistant practically melts with glee, almost skipping to a bank of lifts so that her hem gives me a glimpse of pert ass cheeks as she does so. The doors open and I step inside as she reaches around to press the button marked ‘ten’.

“You’re soooo understanding!” she coos, stepping back and fluttering her eyelashes as the doors start to close. “I hope we catch up later! Have an absolutely amazing day!”

Then she’s gone, leaving me in silence as the lift smoothly starts to ascend. The plush carpeted floor, walls and even ceiling absorb all sound and practically all light into its thick, burgundy pile.

“Floor one, lobby, going up,” announces a husky, feminine voice from a small speaker in the control panel. I lean back into the soft warmth behind me and close my eyes for an instant, breathing deeply to gather my thoughts. If Miss Lamb is as vacuous and feeble as the lobby assistant, this will be quick and easy.

A single screen set into the wall flashes through aspirational artwork as we rise slowly, starting with a tennis player launching the ball upwards to strike it with slow-motion precision.

“Floor two, conferencing, going up,” soothes the recorded voice.

No, I’ll still need to be on my guard. Just in case.

The screen changes to a table setting, expensive-looking plates and gleaming silver cutlery.

“Floor three, administration services, going up.”

The space is feeling more and more like a sensory deprivation capsule. At least it will allow me to empty my mind, prepare myself. The hum of the machinery catches my attention, high-pitched and insistent, as if some muted conversation is going on somewhere nearby.

The next image flashes up, a white flag fluttering in the breeze on a deserted beach.

“Floor four, communal working, going up.”

I’ll use this time to get into the zone, to be ready for whatever comes next.

Now I’m looking at a pyramid from low-down, streaks of colour smearing the dawn sky behind its peak.

“Floor five, employee wellbeing, going up.”

In spite of myself, I let out a big yawn. Strangely, I’m starting to sweat. Maybe the lift is warmer than it seems…

A ceremonial knife, ornate and bejewelled...

There is a loud ‘ping’ and the doors open suddenly. “Floor ten. You have reached your destination!” The screen is blank.

I blink in disbelief. Did I miss something? But there’s no time to think as the woman I am meeting steps forward to grasp and pump my hand vigorously.

“Mr. Robinson, thanks for taking the lift without me, I can’t apologise enough, really! Terrible manners, what must you think of me, expecting you to come without me?” Her smile is broad and irresistible, her hazel eyes intense and piercing. What do I think of her? She’s intimidatingly energetic, attractive and immaculately dressed in a figure-hugging, charcaol-grey business suit that draws my eyes to her generous, downright sexy curves.

“Um, no, no problem… Ms. Lamb?” I stutter.

“It’s Miss, but please, call me Theresa, let’s not be formal! I’m so excited! Are you excited? I just know we’re going to be productive together!” She pulls my hand hard enough for me to stumble embarrassingly out of the lift as she takes two large steps backwards. She doesn’t seem to notice, having already whirled on her shiny, black business heels and set off at a fast walk between desks, monitors and more criss-crossing employees. I have to jog the first few steps to keep up, looking for an opportunity to launch my opening gambit.

I never get the chance, as we pass pot-plants, aspirational posters and expensive-looking sculptures at speed, one of which I knock awkwardly with my elbow in my haste.

“Don’t worry about that, no-one would be sad if it got smashed, to be honest,” she calls over her shoulder. The dark grey, curved lump finds its point of balance again and I breath a sigh of relief.

“Personally I hate it,” she sneers. “Looks like a stunted cock, don’t you think?”

I stumble again, shocked.

“What, do you like the stunted cock?” She is smiling now, pausing for me to catch up. “Finally I’ve met someone who likes the stunted cock!” She snorts, a half-laugh, striding off again. “If you behave yourself, I might let you keep it, hah!”

Miss Lamb finally stops in the centre of the large space, from which all the desks, meeting rooms and passageways radiate outwards. She turns, spreads her arms wide and announces dramatically, “Welcome to the ‘ME’ floor! It stands for Media Enterprise – the hub of Caliacorp’s Worldwide Information Services and Public Relations!” She leans forwards dramatically, her intense, hazel eyes flashing wide, her voice barely audible. “We shorten it to WISPR!”

“I see…”

“Do you?” she snaps, straightening so that her jacket button strains against the swell of her cleavage. “Do you like whispers, Mr Robinson?”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind! So what did you give today?” she interrupts, smiling widely enough to show her perfectly white, perfectly even teeth.

“I… excuse me?” I stammer.

“Our ‘Give!’ campaign? Are you a ‘giver’?” There is a pause long enough for me to start to panic, groping for an answer, but then she is talking again. “Giving to those less fortunate than ourselves, caring for them, nurturing?”

Another pause, another second of panic.

“Well… I…”

“Of course you are! I bet you love giving! How can I be so insulting? You would give at a moment’s notice, wouldn’t you? Like that!” She snaps her fingers, making my nerves jangle. “Not now, not yet, but I’ll make sure you get the chance, don’t fret! So, did you eat, are you thirsty?”

This woman couldn’t be more different from the assistant I first met. She is a whirlwind! I open my mouth but she is already speaking, fixing me with a stare so intense the words dry up in my mouth.

“Maybe not, Mr Robinson, but we would like to give to you, if you see what I mean!” She laughs, nodding directly at me, although her eyes show no warmth. I barely notice, distracted by way the curls in her long, brown hair dance and bob around her porcelain features.

Focus, I tell myself.

“Anyway,” she continues. “What is this floor called, Mr. Robinson?”

“The… yes, the Media Enter…”

“...Enterprise floor, that’s right. Well done!” She sounds patronising, making me feel like a schoolboy. I need to gain the initiative, I decide, drawing a deep breath… But I am too late.

“Good boy! It used to be called the ‘Media Centre’, but that shortened to ‘MC’ – too close to ‘Mistress Calia’ – which is not really representative of the function performed here! Can you imagine what the press scum would make of a ‘Mistress Calia’ floor?!”

I am stopped in my tracks, struck dumb by the casual insult, only to see she is already laughing again.

“Your face! Ha! I’m so sorry, my sense of humour!” She slaps both hands on her thighs, a healthy, provocative sound that jerks me back to the present. I can’t help noticing how her cleavage makes her business jacket strain at the buttons, jiggling when she laughs.

Focus!

“Seriously,” she pauses calmly, disorientating after the machine-gun fire up until this point, “I chose you specially for this meeting. We’ve admired your work for a while, a true journalist, someone we can couple with, for sure. I really am excited!”

This could be my chance. “Me too, really, so…”

But she holds up a finger to my face. “Sorry, I can’t let you finish! Not yet! How excited are you?”

My mouth falls open and my mind flits to something completely inappropriate. Before I get back on track Theresa is off again. “Are you about to burst? Good! You can produce when you’re excited! You can hit targets when you’re excited, pound them senseless!£ There is a real fire in her eyes now, a genuine smile. “Sweating, producing, counting down to the explosive deadline…!”

I’m blushing, for some reason, and sweating under my jacket, suddenly acutely aware I need to take back some of the initiative. “I have some questions…”

“First, did you like the lift? What was on floor eight?” Her head tilts to one side and she shifts her weight over to one hip, a pose that allows the material of her expensive-looking trousers to crease into the line of her crotch and slide along one shapely leg, exposing a perfectly-presented ankle. She has a bracelet there, I notice, with several tiny keys dangling along its length.

I am distracted and confused all at once. “Wha… I don’t recall…” I have no idea about floor eight. Did I blank out? I shake my head but can’t seem to look her directly in the eyes. “My questions, can we sit somewhere and…”

“And what colour was it?”

My mouth falls open but no sound comes out.

Theresa places one hand onto a nearby water cooler. “Blood or wine?” Then she takes a step forward, bringing her porcelain features so close I feel the urge to shrink backwards… or forwards.

“I’m sorry, what?” I flounder.

Her face lights up and she grips both of my shoulders tightly, with surprising strength. “The colour scheme of the lift! Some call it ‘blood’, I call it ‘wine’. Would you like a glass? Of either?” She smiles wickedly and I feel my scrotum tighten, unable to raise my gaze any higher than her mouth, her plump, soft lips and dark red lipstick.

“I could do with something warm, wet and relaxing! What about you? Not here, though!” She looks around, searching, and lets her hands trail down from my shoulders absent-mindedly, down the front of my jacket. I freeze, trying not to appear weak but knowing I am failing.

“Carly!” she shouts across the room to a young, immaculately dressed women perched on the edge of one of the desks. “Is ‘Everything’ free? Book it for me! Now!”

The fact that Theresa’s attention is not on me, even for a few seconds, feels like a break in the storm, which I use to pull together the scattered strands of my strategy. First, win her confidence. But just as I part my lips to speak, she places a finger over them, shushing me. Slowly, her predatory stare returns. I start to tremble.

“Tell me, did you like my assistant’s perfume? Downstairs? Rose? Jasmine?”

My mind slams on the brakes. “Um, I’m not very good with scents, I’m afraid.”

She laughs again and I curse myself as my eyes flick to her cleavage, shaking as the giggles subside. “Do you even have a memory, Mr Robertson? Her name! Jasmine, I think… No, wait, Janice, yes!”

“Um, it’s Robinson, not…”

“Actually, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll call you Howard.” She is suddenly serious, her stare piercing and coldly professional. “And Janice’s perfume…?”

“Why do… I mean, is that relevant?” I force a measure of authority into my voice, or try to. I have to do something to slow the onslaught of this woman.

As a reaction to my assertive attempt, Miss Lamb simply curls her lip dismissively. “Is the smell of my assistant relevant? No. But your memory, your senses, your ability to notice things around you, the detail, the context of a situation? Yes, that’s vitally important to a journalist, wouldn’t you say?”

I am speechless. She has run circles around me and now I look, and feel, humbled and inadequate. I need time to think…

“I’ve booked a room for our interview, Howard – I assume you have some questions for me, and I have a complete agenda for you, needless to say.” She looks me up and down, a sneer almost visible beneath the surface of her perfect make-up. “How long do you think you’ll last, Howard?”

I stare dumbly at her. Not only am I feeling disorientated, bewildered and stupid, another sensation is sapping my confidence from a completely unexpected direction: I am starting to feel aroused by this woman, teased and stimulated, bubbling underneath the blanket of intimidation.

She watches me, letting the silence stretch my discomfort and pummel my weakness.

“Come.”

My eyes give me away and she laughs again. “…With me! Come with me to the ‘Everything’ suite. I’m hoping we can straighten out a press release there…”

She leads the way and I follow. Meekly, consoling myself with the possibility that at least now her defences are down: She thinks I’m an idiot, perhaps that gives me the advantage… Unless she’s right.

The ‘Everything’ suite is plush, decorated floor to ceiling with the same dark crimson carpet as the lift, producing the same sound-deadened, light-deprived sensory feeling. More aspirational pictures adorn the walls; a female fist in the air, gripping the planet; a simple, polished, gleaming key.

Theresa seats herself in the largest of the conference chairs at the head of the dark-grained wooden table, lounging as if she was about to watch a movie at home.

I sit nervously in a smaller chair to the side, trying desperately to affect an air of calm and dignity, sure I am failing.

There is an awkward silence, during which Theresa stretches her long legs across to the next chair on my side of the table, kicking off her heels and letting her feet settle on the seat. Her toes wriggle as she flexes her ankles and arches, sighing deeply. “Oh, that’s better! Heels! If you only knew! Yes, they look great, create a feeling of invincibility, but after a while my feet and toes need a really good massage to recover!”

Here eyes never leave me, her smile wicked and genuine, perhaps for the first time. Languidly, she presses a recessed button on the table’s surface. The clear glass panes on either side of the door instantly fade to an opaque, uniform grey, making us invisible to anyone outside of the room.

I can’t stop myself from gulping and shifting in my seat. Then my eyes hunt around the room for anything other than her predatory, intimidating stare but settle disastrously on her feet, her pink, soft toes, still wriggling and stretching.

I gulp again, praying for the sensation in my crotch to subside.

Miss Lamb takes a sip from a tall glass filled with a liquid as scarlet as the walls and floor. She licks her lips, giving the impression she is savouring more than just the drink, and wriggles her toes deliberately.

“So go on then,” she purrs. “You want to, I know.”

I have to force myself not to pant, my brain barely functioning.

“Go on, ask me your questions… if you can remember them.”

Relief floods my system and I tear my gaze from her perfect feet. This is it, I tell myself. I’ve planned for this, certain I can get to where I need to in three questions, however she responds. Then checkmate. At least, I hope so. My need to get out of this place is reaching feverish levels.

I concentrate on controlling my breath. “I’d like to start with the company’s mission statement. When it says…”

But she cuts me off, as easily as if I were a pet or a small child, “No.”

One simple, quietly spoken word is all it takes to stop me mid-sentence. She flexes her toes, splaying them and curling them almost in a wave. I can’t help myself, I am staring again, amidst a stronger swell of arousal.

Her smile and voice tell me she has noticed. “No, I’m sorry, that’s just not the right question to start with. Where are you going from there?” She takes another slow, deliberate sip from her drink, licking her lips. I watch, anger and dismay blending with confusion: I realise I have no recollection of seeing the drink when we entered the room, or of anyone bringing it in subsequently. This minor detail nags at me, as if shielding a more important truth.

“Do you want to try again, or shall I ask you a question instead?” Her voice has changed, I am sure of it. Outside of this room she was harsh, energetic. Now she is decelerating, seeming to slow time itself.

“I thought so.” Her voice appears smaller as the thick wall coverings absorb all echoes, but no less powerful. I am hanging on every word. “Are you thirsty? Think before you answer…”

I lick my lips and try to focus on my question, but find myself suddenly so parched I can only croak.

“Let me get us some drinks.” Theresa reaches for the desk phone and picks up… half of the receiver. I frown, disbelieving my eyes. With her other hand she pops a coffee pod into the cradle where the ear-piece should be, then presses one of the keys. There is a buzz, a gurgling and a shot of coffee pours from the mouthpiece into a waiting espresso glass.

I blink several times, unable to look away.

Then she reaches to her other side, pressing a button on the coffee pod machine. There is an audible click and a metallic voice says, “Yes, Miss Lamb?”

“Phoebe, can you send in a large burgundy for me, and some nibbles please?” she replies softly.

The speaker somewhere inside the coffee machine sounds again, “Certainly, ma’am.”

Seconds later a tall, elegant woman enters silently, places a tall glass and a small plate on the table and leaves with a curt nod.

Theresa stares at me, raising one eyebrow as if in a challenge. I let my mouth fall open, failing to understand how the drink she was consuming earlier with such relish – that wasn’t here when we entered – was delivered just now, completely full.

“Let’s do a calibration check, shall we?” She leans forward, sliding her feet gracefully onto the floor and allowing her linen-covered breasts to brush across the dark tabletop. I am torn between that image and watching her toes sink into the deep pile of the carpet, almost gripping and teasing the plush thickness. My cock is fully hard now, straining against my pants, so obvious she must be aware.

“What was the name of the charity drive in the lobby, Howard? Can you remember?”

“‘Give’, Miss Lamb…”

“Theresa, I already told you, Howard.” Her reproachful voice stings and I struggle to correct myself.

“Miss Theresa…”

Her light, taunting laugh makes me blush and my cock twitches noticeably, causing me to stifle a groan.

“Well, if we’re going to be on first name terms, why not call me by my shorter name, Tress?”

“Tress…?”

“Are you hungry, Howie?” She pushes the plate of snacks across the table, her smile twisting into a mocking sneer. “They’re sponge fingers, but yesterday’s, I’m afraid. They’ve gone very hard. Will you want one if it’s hard, Howard?”

I try not to writhe in my chair as my cock protests, twitching and throbbing for attention. Tress has definitely noticed, but the urge to cover my embarrassment is still one I want to act upon. I reach for my notebook in front of me, hoping slide it onto my lap.

“Ah! No!” she growls. My hand halts, the book halfway off the table, and I feel shame at how easily her voice is able to dictate my actions. “Howie, dear boy, don’t hide from me! Think about your questions. Let’s not get side-tracked by our baser urges!”

“Yes, Miss…”

“Ah-ah!” she warns, wagging one perfectly-manicured finger at me. “Remember, we’re not being formal now!”

“Yes, Miss Tress…” As the words slip out I realise what I’ve said.

Theresa’s outburst of mocking laughter displays her relish at the way I stumbled blindly into her humiliating little trick.

“Mistress? What should I call you then, Howie? My little subbie?” She throws her head back and laughs with abandon, her breasts bouncing and jiggling, creating sympathetic twitches inside my trousers.

Suddenly it’s unbearably hot. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my jacket off, Miss… I mean…”

Theresa’s expression is halfway between bemusement and mockery. “What jacket, Howie?”

I look down. I am wearing no jacket, no shirt… no clothes at all, except a tie. Everything turns to slow motion in my head. What is happening?

I jerk my head up when Miss Lamb snaps her fingers. “Are you alright, Howie, do you need a moment. You seem to be a bit… flustered, over-stimulated.”

My eyes flick downwards and I see my clothes back where they should be, with huge relief. It is short-lived, as Theresa stands up, towering over my seated figure, and takes a step towards me.

“Back to business, Howard. What is the floor we are on called?”

“I… uh… Media. I mean ME, ‘me’!” I blunder through my answer.

“And what did it used to be called?”

“Yes! Mistress Calia!” Alarm bells are ringing in my head now, somehow I can sense there is something wrong.

Miss Lamb slides her gorgeous, plump ass onto the table next to my chair, pushing herself back until her legs dangle by my knees, those beautiful, sexy feet so close to my greedy eyes.

“And what about the sponge fingers, Howie? Are they too hard for you? Too hard to put in your mouth? Where would you put hard fingers?”

I barely hear her words as my gaze is inexorably drawn upwards to the fleshy meeting of her soft thighs, covered by the tight fabric of her trousers. She leans her torso towards me, as if to gain my attention and now I am staring at the large, soft breasts straining to be released from her silk blouse, beneath which the outline of her cobalt-blue lacy bra is clearly visible.

Wait! I have questions, I’m here for a reason! I snap my head up, daring to level my gaze directly into those intense eyes, to mount a challenge before it’s too late.

“Howard, you look like you’ve remembered something.” Her tone is one of a reluctant teacher about to eviscerate a particularly poor student. “What is the name of this room, Howard, can you remember that?”

“Uh…” My mind is in treacle. Miss Tress is so far above me now, I’m on a level with her knees, not her eyes. I don’t know why… “Everything. The room is called Everything, Miss…” Then I realise I am on my knees on the floor, naked once more and grasping my rock hard cock in one hand.

I look up into her feral, burning eyes. “Miss… how did…?”

Theresa snaps her fingers, loudly. I sit bolt upright, back in my chair, one hand on my notebook. She is sitting across from me, bare feet stretched out, only the desk phone on the table in front of her. I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes.

“Are you thirsty, Mr Robinson?” she purrs.

“No!” I shout, suddenly finding myself in a moment of clarity. “No, I want to ask you questions! Please!”

My outburst doesn’t affect Miss Lamb in the slightest. She merely raises an eyebrow and waves a hand dismissively. I fumble through my notebook, determined to claw back as many shreds of my sanity as I can. And to leave. I need to get out of this place.

“Fine, ask away, Mr. Robinson. First though, tell me, how many questions do you have left? You had a plan, didn’t you? And you’re almost out of time.”

I look up in the middle of turning a page. Something about her tone grabs my attention, a gravity I’ve not heard before.

“Let me be honest, I had a plan too. My plan was to offer you a job, a press position at Caliacorp. Would you like to stay? To be my press?”

I am stunned. Is this a trick? Another game? “I already have a job,” is all I can offer as a reply.

“Oh yes, ‘chief hack and arse-wiper’, isn’t it?” she sneers. “I’m talking about a proper job, real journalism, with rewards. We’ll even tell you what to write, what to publish. In fact, there’s a press release in ten minutes. Would you like that? To release? In ten?”

She is leaning forward again, her breasts irresistibly pressurising the buttons on her blouse. “Is it even possible for you to say no, Howard?”

“I…”

“What’s my name, Howard?” She is relentless now, each word hammering inside my skull.

“Miss Theresa… Miss Tress,” I stammer.

“Would you like a job from me, a press release, Howard?”

“Yes please,” I gasp, even though I can think of nothing I want more than to suck her toes, to feel her breasts pressing into my face, her thighs clamped either side of my head…

“Could you work hard under me? Follow my direction? Release for me?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She stands from behind the desk and I stare at her gorgeous body clad only in bra and thong, tracing circles with one finger over her vulva through the sheer, black fabric. Where her clothes have gone, I don’t know. I look down again to see my own naked body, cock in hand.

“What about your question, Howie. You only get one, now.”

I look at my notebook, back in my seat, a tiny cup of espresso and a stale sponge finger next to it. This is my chance, I know it. I lick my lips. Time to ask, time to escape.

“Read the question, Howard. There it is, on the page.”

She is right. There is one question on the page, in my own handwriting, My mouth opens, starting to form the first word.

“What is the charity called, Howard?”

“‘Give’, Mistress,” I stammer automatically.

“And the floor we’re on? What did it used to be called?”

“‘Mistress Calia’.” I am stumbling over my words, I think. I need to get to my question.

“And the name of the room, Howie?”

“‘Everything’, Mistress.” It makes sense now, the fog clearing.

“Put them together, Howie. What do you get?”

“Give. Me. Everything.” I chant, a mantra.

“Again.”

“Give Mistress Calia everything.” There. I understand now.

Miss Lamb’s voice drifts across the room as if from miles away. “That’s right, Howard. Good boy. Are you ready for the press release now?”

A sense of calm descends, a thick, warm blanket. My pulse and breathing slow, my mind quiets. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good, then you may ask your question.” There is a finality in her tone. We have arrived.

I look at the scribbled, handwritten question in my notebook, the only question I need to ask, the culmination of months of planning. I look up at Mistress Lamb, standing over me in her lingerie, towering and dominant, glorious and sexy. From my kneeling position, naked at her feet, one hand wrapped around my aching, throbbing, pulsing cock, I finally summon the courage to ask my question.

“Mistress, please may I stroke for you now?”

It feels like release.