It turns out she's also in the industry.

She's a friend I've known for years, someone I developed a relationship with from being a client. She's single, divorced, and the CEO of a foreign trade company. She's usually efficient, decisive, and a bit domineering in her speech and actions. Since meeting her, I've never considered whether she shares these traits. One day, around 6 PM after get off work, she called me. She said, "You poor bastard, have you eaten yet?" (We often tease each other). I said, "Rich lady, want to treat me to dinner?" She replied, "What do you want to eat? Today, this rich lady is treating you to a big meal." I said, "Sigh, I wonder which unlucky black guy you ripped off these past few days." (The above is just background information; she and I have similar personalities—meticulous at work, but in her thirties, she's still like a child in her free time.) She's very picky about food and usually eats alone in high-end hotels. That day, the two of us were eating, and she booked a private room. While waiting for the food, she accidentally knocked over the tea that had just been poured in front of me while handing me a tissue box. A cup of tea spilled onto my thigh (it was summer, luckily I dodged quickly, otherwise my crotch area would have been the victim). I stood up and frantically shook my pants. She quickly got up and bent down to help me wipe it with tissues. Me: "I'm paying for your meal, if you can't bear to part with it, just say so. You don't have to resort to such underhanded tactics." Her: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." Me: "If saying sorry is enough, what's the point of having police?" Her: "What can I do now? It's already like this." Me: "Kneel down! Admit your mistake!" (After saying this, I stared at her, watching her reaction.) Her: ............. (Her eyes timidly glanced at me, then at the door of the private room.) Me: "Kneel down!" (This time, my tone left no room for her to question me.) She remained timidly bent over, not daring to straighten up, looking at me, then at the door of the private room. I forcefully grabbed her chin and pulled her head upwards, her throat already strained to speak. I yelled, "Kneel down!" She didn't move, just looked at me with a complicated expression. I slapped her across the face and yelled, "Kneel!" (At the time, I had no idea she was a masochist. From the way she looked at me and then at the door of the private room, I instinctively thought she was. Actually, I was also scared: if she really was a masochist, all the better. If she wasn't, our years of friendship might have ended at this dinner.) She knelt down (I breathed a sigh of relief). She knelt with her head down. I said, "Unbuckle your belt, look what you've done." She just knelt there, without moving. I kicked her thigh. She raised her head, straightened her back, unbuckled my belt, and slowly pulled down my pants, finding my thigh was already red. I said, "Dry it!" She went to get a tissue, and I slapped her across the face: "Use your mouth!" She gently licked the reddened area on my thigh from top to bottom. As I licked her to the bottom and came back up to lick again, I heard her say, "Master, I'm sorry." (This confirmed that she was a submissive, someone who shared this interest.) Just then, there was a knock on the door of the private room. She tried to stand up in a panic, but I held her head down with one hand and used the other to brace the door, saying to the person outside, "Please wait a moment." I lifted the tablecloth and looked at her. She understood my intention and obediently crawled under the table. I put the tablecloth down, pulled up my pants, and opened the door. The waiter came in, probably sensing the awkward atmosphere, especially since I was still holding up my pants. I said to the waiter, "Excuse me, I accidentally spilled tea on my thigh." The waiter said, "Oh, I see. Would you like me to get you an ice towel so you can put it on?" My eyes darted around, and I said to the waiter, "How about this, could you get me a bucket of ice? And please serve the food quickly." The dishes arrived quickly, along with the ice I requested. I told the waiter, "Could you please tell the staff outside, including you, not to come in unless I called you? I need some ice to cool down, to avoid any awkwardness." The waiter agreed. I sat down and took off my trousers and shoes. I reached under the table, grabbed her hair, pulled her close, and placed an ice cube in her mouth, pressing it against the spot where I had been burned. She obediently used the ice to cool me down. I poured myself an ice-cold beer and began to enjoy this unexpected feast. The bulging crotch in this setting provided her with endless psychological stimulation. She knelt under the table, her right hand on the ground, while her left hand gently rubbed my already erect penis a few times. I grabbed her hand and dragged her out from under the table, making her kneel in a corner. Holding two pairs of chopsticks, I made her extend her left hand and forcefully struck her palm. I told her: "Did I give you permission to do this? Don't you know you'll be punished for doing this?" She looked up, grinning mischievously, and said to me: "It doesn't hurt at all!" (The chopsticks were too short to apply enough force.) This drove me crazy! I looked around, walked to the window, and glanced back at her (she later told me that the look in her eyes was perfect: neither seductive nor indifferent, neither cold nor aloof). I opened the window, and the sweltering summer air rushed into the private room. Then I picked up the remote and turned off the air conditioner. I lifted the tablecloth and looked at her. She understood my intention and kept saying, "I was wrong, I was wrong, I won't do it again, I really won't do it again." I maintained that position, and finally, under my silent yet forceful pressure, she silently crawled under the table. She knelt under the table for a few minutes, and I kicked my sneakers under the table. I threw a sentence at her: "Put them under your knees!" Shrimp was her favorite. I put one foot on her waist, peeled shrimp on the table, and deliberately ate them loudly, occasionally saying, "Hmm, the shrimp today is good, fresh. Much fresher than before." After eating a few, I heard someone under the table say, "Poor bastard, I'm hungry, I want to eat shrimp!" I said, "What did you call me?" Say it again. She: You poor thing, I want to eat shrimp! Ignore her. She: I'm hungry, I just want to eat shrimp. Ignore her. After a moment of silence: Master, can I have some shrimp? I peeled a shrimp, dipped it in sauce, wiped my hands, and brought her over. I saw she was covered in sweat, her sweat and hair all stuck together. I grabbed her chin, lifted her head, and slowly brought the peeled shrimp to her mouth. She opened her mouth, and I shook her off.She slapped me hard and quickly stuffed the shrimp into her mouth. Perhaps feeling immense shame, she began to sob softly. I patted her head and peeled a few of the largest prawns for her to eat. People from Ningbo love seafood, and she was no exception. She was a shrimp fanatic; as she ate, she started to get a little smug. After finishing the last one, she said to me in a playful yet defiant tone: "Thanks, you poor wretch!" I pulled her out from under the table, made her kneel beside it, and stuck her butt out. Seeing me holding several pairs of chopsticks, she said defiantly, "Hit me, hit me, it doesn't hurt, humph!" (This infuriated me.) I said fiercely, "See how I deal with you!" Standing behind her, I unbuckled my belt, folded it in half, and held it in my hand. I gripped both ends of the belt and tightened it forcefully, making a chilling slapping sound! With each slap, her body trembled as she lay on the ground with her buttocks raised. I pushed her dress up to her waist; she was wearing skin-colored mesh panties. I stroked her buttocks, occasionally brushing against her genitals, and her body trembled. I asked her if she liked it. She didn't answer, but swung the belt and slapped it against her buttocks, each slap accompanied by a muffled groan. Snap. Snap. Snap. Four slaps in a row. She gasped for breath, trying to control her moans, afraid of being heard outside. The bottom of her panties was a darker color. "You slut, tell me why your panties are wet?" She didn't answer, and I slapped her buttocks several more times. The wet area on her panties slowly expanded. "You slut, tell me!" She didn't answer. Just as I was about to raise my hand to slap her again, she quickly grabbed a towel from the table and bit it into her mouth. I snatched the towel from her mouth and threw it into the corner. I pulled down her panties, which were already soaked with her juices, and stuffed them into her mouth. As the swaying belt repeatedly struck her buttocks as she lay sprawled on the floor, low moans escaped her throat through her nose. Her body writhed, a single, glistening drop of fluid slowly trickling down her pubic hair, settling at the tip, appearing exceptionally beautiful and utterly wanton. Afraid the noise would attract the attention of the waiters outside, I sternly told her: "Maintain this position." I pulled over a chair and used its back to brace against the door handle of the private room. This way, no one could open the door from the outside. After bracing the door, I walked up to her, lifted her sweat-drenched head, and removed her underwear, which was tucked into the air: "Tell me, why is there fluid coming from down there?" She remained silent. I swung the belt across her waist, and she whimpered, "Pleasure always accompanies every wave of pain." I made her kneel, straighten her back, and lift the hem of her dress herself, asking her: "Why didn't you answer when I asked you?" She didn't make a sound. She was probably too embarrassed to say it. The belt gently swished across her bottom as I asked, "You tell me, how many more times?" She said, "Five!" I said, "Ten!" She said, "Then eight!" I said, "Sixteen." She stopped haggling. I said, "Count it yourself. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (um)... What? What were you counting? Was it 5 or um? (In Ningbo dialect, 5 and um sound somewhat similar). She said, "5." I said, "Your pronunciation is unclear, let's start again. 1.............16." With each lash, although she gritted her teeth and endured, to avoid being hit again, she clearly counted from 1 to 16 in one breath. When she reached 16, my belt stopped swinging, and she collapsed. I pulled her head into my arms, gently stroking the raised, dark red welts from the belt. Pleasure always accompanies every instance of pain. I think she must have thought about this sentence for a long time; I think she must have been mentally trying to describe and express her true feelings before she spoke. And this sentence perfectly expresses her true feelings. Later, she was driving, and I sat in the passenger seat and asked her: "When did you get into this circle?" She blushed, didn't speak, and focused on driving. I said: "If you don't tell me, I'll rip your dress off right now." She grinned and said provocatively: "Come on, come on, try it if you dare." I added: "Then I'll roll down the window." (Her car had dark tinted windows, so it was impossible to see in from the outside.) She probably knew I wasn't joking this time; I might really do it. She told me that she had actually been in the circle for many years, and had been "trained" before, but it didn't feel right, and she hadn't done it in a long time. She dropped me off at the entrance of my apartment complex, and I got out of the car. She got out of the car too. I asked her: "Why did you get out of the car?" She came over and hugged me, saying, "Don't mistreat me like that again, okay?" I said, "No." She said, "I already hugged you." I said, "No!" She stomped her foot and said, "Then I'll hug you one more time, okay?" I said, "No." After she got home, she sent me a message on WeChat: "Sitting on the bed, my skin feels like it's being torn apart." I replied, "Apply some ointment, it'll heal faster." She said that the burning sensation on her skin filled her inner desires, and she enjoyed the feeling. I replied, "You slut." She sent three shy emojis. The next morning, I received a call from her office landline, addressing me by name, saying she had encountered a problem and needed my immediate assistance at her office. When I arrived at her office, she was still the meticulous boss, and I was still serving my clients. It was as if what happened last night had never occurred. [The End]

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It turns out she's also in the industry.

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