“You fucked up, Beau. Last night, last week, last year. And you want to keep fucking up, but you don’t want to pay the price. I’m telling you exactly what you need to do. Do you trust me?”
My breath is shaky as I stare at her. “Yes, of course I do.”
“Then, bend over.”
Still, I hesitate.
This time in a softer tone, she adds, “Or say the word, and we can stop, but I know you can handle this. Show me.”
I’m doing this for a reason. I literally asked for this. So, what am I so fucking afraid of? There has to be some payoff at the end of this, right? Some good to come out of it. Because I know what she’s saying is true. I’ve lived all twenty-two years of my pathetic life without consequences. My mother couldn’t care enough to hold me accountable for anything and my fucking dad would turn the world inside out before he’d expect me to own up to my own shit. Everyone seems to think I don’t know that, but I do.
And maybe that’s why I’ve resented him for so long.
I’m not sure why that’s the thought that changes my mind, but the next thing I know, my elbows are on her desk and my briefs are down by my knees.
“Relax,” she says in a soothing command, and I do, resting my forehead against my arms. When I feel the soft, lubricated silicone of the plug, I tense. “I said relax,” she adds, this time with more conviction.
“I’m trying,” I reply through clenched teeth.
She takes her sweet time, working it in and out just an inch at a time, adding lube and prepping my hole in a somewhat humiliating position. The entire time, she rubs my back and thighs and is surprisingly gentle, although I know this is supposed to be a punishment.
“You’re doing great, Beau,” she whispers, bending over with her mouth near my ear. Her tone is kinder now and less authoritative, which seeps into my muscles like warm water.
Finally, after what feels like forever, when I’m sagging against the desk in a pliant mess, she makes me take a deep breath and works the plug fully in, feeling foreign and wrong and burning, but only for a minute. When it’s finally settled in place, I stand up and immediately hunch back over.
“Oh fuck,” I grunt. It feels like pressure on my balls from the inside. Not entirely a bad thing, but definitely new and very fucking unexpected.
Maggie lets out a little chuckle. “Feel a little foreign?”
“Yep,” I grunt.
“Wait until you feel it hit your prostate.”
I groan again.
“All right. Stand up. Get to work.”
I turn my head in her direction, a bead of sweat forming on my forehead. “Like this?”
With a tilt of her head, she smiles. “Of course not. Pull your underwear up first.”
A rumble courses through my chest as I force myself to stand again, wincing at the new sensation of this thing inside me. I gently pull up my briefs, afraid to move too fast. I’m so aware of the foreign object lodged against my prostate, I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to get anything done. Let alone paint a fucking room.
With my first step, I wince again. But I force myself to take another and another until I reach her office door. My cock is hardening behind the black fabric, and suddenly, I remember she said I could come as much as I want.
Turning back to her, I ask, “So I can just…masturbate with this thing in and I won’t get in trouble?”
“That’s right,” she replies with a nod of her head. “Oh!” Her face lights up as she grabs her phone. “I almost forgot to tell you about this part. It has an app on my phone.”