Gromet's PlazaTG/CD Stories

Shredded Secretary

by Cynthia Trusscot

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© Copyright 2014 - Cynthia Trusscot - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; cd; tv; secretary; bond; gag; chairtie; interogate; cuffs; chain; bdsm; susp; true; cons; X

“What’cha doing, dear?” my Significant Other asked.

“What does it look like?” I replied as I fed another sheet into the shredder. Like most families anymore, a lot of our mail consists of things best not read by others—so we shred them on general principle. I was working my way down through our monthly stack of credit card come-on’s, invitations to retirement and time-share deals, and other nonsense.

“Probably destroying vital evidence, I’d guess,” she said with a mischievous grin. That sparked an idea.

“Yeah,” I replied, “I ordered my secretary to shred all of the secret files while I fled to Brazil, leaving her behind to take the rap. If you hurry, you might catch her in the act.”

She knew exactly what I meant. “Right. I’ll get a warrant and get on the case. She’ll be in custody before she can cover up the crimes any deeper than they already are.”

With that, I stopped shredding and headed to my secret closet. I stripped off my regular clothes and put on my black lace bra, panties, and opaque pantyhose, followed by my secretary uniform: White blouse, black skirt, patent heels. Blonde wig, a touch of makeup, and pearl ear clips, and I was the perfect secretary.

My high heels clicked down the hall to our home office. I quickly started shredding the now-secret important documents. If the authorities got ahold of these, it would be prison or worse for everyone in the office.

As I fed more old bank statements, er ‘vital financial documents’ into the maw of the machine, an authorative voice suddenly came from behind me: “What are you doing! That’s evidence! Step away from the machine, miss!!” My S.O. stood in the door. She had changed into an authorative pants suit and chunky heels, her hair pulled back, a badge pinned to her belt, and a toy gun in her hand. I stepped back and raised my hands. She spun me around and frisked me, her hands lingering on my breasts, crotch, and legs under my tight skirt.

“You have the right to remain silent,” she said maliciously as she slapped a piece of silver tape over my mouth. Then she pulled my arms down behind me, and fastened my wrists with our leather play cuffs. I moaned.

“Shaddup, cunt,” she snarled. With one hand holding me by the elbow, she looked over the old bank statements and junk mail I’d been getting rid of. “Ha! This evidence will put that scuzzbag away for a long time. And you’re going to tell us where he is! Move, cunt!” She shoved me out of the office. I could imagine how a real secretary would feel, dragged out of the office past her fellow workers, her hands cuffed, in custody. Our heels clicked over the wood floors of our house. I’d expected to be taken to our bedroom (that’s where most of our little playlets ended up) Instead, I was marched to our dining room. The rough, industrial-look furniture made a pretty good “interrogation room.”

“We’re going to have a little conversation, you and I, and you’re going to tell us everything you know abut your boss’ operation.” I was pushed into a steel chair, and my S.O. tied me tightly to it – roping my torso to the chair back, tying my ankles separately to the bottom of the front legs, and roping knees wide apart. I was helpless, open, totally vulnerable, and she knew it

After setting the standard interrogators bright light to shine into my face, she unbuttoned my white blouse, spreading it open to expose my (admittedly fake) breasts in my lace bra. With malicious glee, she pinched my nipples, and I moaned appropriately.

“There’s worse to come, cunt,” she snarled. Oddly, her use of degrading female terms made me feel even more womanly. She went on to have a little fun – yanking off my earclips and putting them on herself, slapping me a couple of times, lightly, caressing my throat, squeezing slightly, just enough to demonstrate I was a woman, completely in her power. She reached up under my skirt to stroke my inner thigh. With my legs tied apart, I couldn’t press them together and had to endure the attention.

Finally she perched on the edge of the table, swing her high-heeled foot insouciously, looking at her disheveled, tied, and humiliated victim. “Now, you’re going to tell me . . . Now what?” She looked over to the side, stood up and left the room. Alone, I squirmed within the ropes, feeling the tight bondage that held me. It was delicious.

I had barely spared a thought for why she had left me—probably, I thought, to worry about what was to come. When she returned a few minutes later, I could see a change in attitude. She was much less assured. She brought with her some of our bondage rope, her own ball gag, and a cat o’ nine tails. She quickly undid the cuffs on my wrists and undid the knot binding my arms.

“Apparently, you really are a totally innocent party,” she said apologically. “We had no business interrogating you. Internal Affairs has mandated punishment for the officers involved.” With that, she removed her suit jacket. Underneath she was wearing a white halter top that left her back completely bare. That, and the whip, told me what she wanted.

“On your knees, and hold out your hands,” I ordered after I peeled the tape from my mouth. I buckled the cuffs on with her hands in front of her. She had to wait, kneeling next to me, her head hanging, as I untied myself from the interrogation chair. After I was free, I strutted around her in my high heels, then inserted the ball gag into her mouth and fastened the waist chain from her cuffs. I also reclaimed my earclips from the thieving bitch. A couple of sharp kicks from the pointed toe of my shoe got her to her feet.

Triumphantly, I pulled her through the house to our bedroom. There was a hook next to the closet, the perfect height to hold a flogging victim’s hands up over her head. She obediently draped her wrists over the hook, and I tied her ankles loosely together. Then I shook out the ‘Cat.

She jerked as my first stroke flashed across her bare back. The whip was made of soft satiny cords, so it wasn’t painful – it was the concept of flogging that I was getting across with every stroke. She arched, rising on tip-toe as the whip impinged on her naked back, the ball gag in her mouth muffling her moans of pain / pleasure.

I finished off with three strokes of a wood paddle on her ass, and then unhooked her cuffs. She toppled back onto our bed, limp with reaction to her flogging. Tenderly, I removed her gag, and kissed her.

“Hey, cop-lady,” I whispered, “Want some lesbian love-action with one of your suspects?”

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