Without hesitation, she walks to me.
“On your knees,” I growl.
She sinks down, and I paint my cum over her lips. She slips her tongue out, licks it up, and it’s as if tasting me on her mouth brings her to her senses. "Oh, my god!" She flushes, then jumps up and scampers off.
I admit I don’t take my gaze off the twitching of her backside until she’s out of sight. Then I clean myself up, change out my shirt and pants, and toss the used clothes into a laundry basket in the corner, before walking out to my desk.
"There you are." My father looks up from where he's standing by the window. "I need to talk to you."
15
Penny
"I… I… I saw him jerk off." There. I said it aloud. So what if it’s only to myself in the ladies room? I had to get it off my chest. The worst thing? It was so hot. Soooo hot.
I went back to ask him something—what it was, I can't remember, and you can’t blame me for that. I saw my boss wank himself off, and it was the most erotic experience of my life. How pathetic am I?
I stare at my face in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed; my lips are parted and seem swollen, as if he’s been kissing them. Though he hasn’t. Fact is, we've never kissed. He seems to be attracted to my body, but clearly, it has nothing to do with tenderness or feeling. It’s purely lust that draws him to me. And the only reason my lips are puffy is because of my state of arousal. It’s not because he painted my lips with his cum, and I licked it off. Then found the taste so enticing, I licked them again and again. Nope, nah I did not do that. I totally did that. Seeing him squeeze his monster cock—P.S. that massive ego of his is justified— the way his fingers wrapped around his shaft, and his biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirt as he wrenched his hand up to the crown and down, is a sight I’m not going to forget for as long as I live.
Each time he squeezed down, his entire body went rigid. The muscles of his thighs strained against his pants. The tension shimmered off of him. The heat of his body reached out to me, even though I was standing a few feet away. And I smelled the sea-breeze of him, laced with the scent of his sweat and something more complex, more musky and earthy, which could only be his arousal. I knew I should leave, but not even a bomb going off next to me could have tempted me to drag my gaze away from the lewd act of my boss pleasuring himself.
And watching him take care of himself had seemed dirty, and obscene, and it made my pussy drip like a melting ice-cream cone. The emptiness inside of me amplified until every part of me felt needy and wanting, and so very desolate. Everything in me wanted to go to him, drop to my knees in front of him, and take him down my throat so I could taste him.
So, when he indicated I should go to him, it was as if he had a chain attached to my cunt and yanked on it. I scurried over, and he rewarded me with his cum on my lips. I flick out my tongue and lick my lips, and oh, god, the salty, earthy, musky taste of him fills my senses again. I allowed him to smear himself on my lips before he kissed me— If only he kissed me. What’s this obsession with wanting him to kiss me? But why hasn’t he wanted to kiss me yet?
I scowl at my reflection. There you go, building dreams about a man who only sees you as a plaything. A man who has too many devils of his own. A man suffering from PTSD from whatever he went through, and who refuses to acknowledge it. A man who is now focused on building his empire to the exclusion of anything else. A man who, certainly, does not do relationships—except for the carnal kind. And would I be happy with that? Would I be happy as his fuck-toy? My breasts seem to swell, and my nipples tighten. My body is very clear about its response. My mind and my logic, however, are waving red flags. I need to…
Move on from the sex-starved dreams I’m beginning to have about my boss. Except now, the image of him wanking off is burned into my brain. It’s a tableau I’m going to pull out every time I need to orgasm. In fact, thinking of it now is turning my knees to mush. I grip the edge of the sink and take a few breaths. Count back from five-four-three-two-one.
I draw in a breath, then another, getting a hold of myself. Then, I lean forward and run water over my hands, dry them, and walk out, up the corridor to my desk. As I take my seat, an older gentleman walks out of Knight’s office. His jaw is set, his steps determined. He strides off without noticing me. Something about the set of his shoulders and his gait reminds me of Knight. Guess that must be his dad, the man who started this company.
There’s a loud bang. I jump and turn to find the doors to Knight’s office are now closed. He must have slammed them shut. Guess there’s something—or someone—who ruffles his composure, huh? For the next hour, the doors to his office stay that way. The entire floor is silent. The other executives in their offices must also be focused on their work.
I shift around Knight’s appointments and reply to his emails, to the extent I can, and flag the ones on which I need his input. After another half hour of concentrating on the screen, my vision begins to blur. I roll my shoulders. I need some caffeine. I’d prefer a chai tea latte, but since I don’t dare step out to a coffee shop, I guess I’ll have to make do with the coffee machine in the kitchen. I grab my phone, then head toward the kitchen, which is at the other end of the floor. The walk is welcome, though. I pass by the conference rooms and the offices of the few other executives on this floor before I reach the coffee machine. As I wait for it to fill my cup, I message Mira.
Me: You have no idea what happened today.
She replies at once.
Mira: Let me guess. You ran into your dishy boss and then he pushed you over his big executive desk and the two of you had office sex?
Me: You think I’m living in a smutty office romance, don’t you?
Mira: Hey, I’d give anything to live in a smutty office romance with a sex-on-sticks boss.
Me: It’s nowhere as smutty as your books.
It’s smuttier. But I’m not going to tell her that.
Mira: Ha, somehow with that eye-candy in your face all day I doubt it. But what were you going to tell me? What happened today?
I begin to type out the incident, then erase my words. Can I tell her I saw a glimpse of my boss’ pecker, and that he was jerking off to thoughts of me, and yep, that was sensual and carnal and raunchy, and I’d want to have him come all over me next time? I squeeze my eyes shut. No, no, no I can’t say that. It’s bad enough I’m admitting it to myself. To tell her would be akin to confessing how much of a slut I am.
My phone buzzes, and I yelp. I glance at the screen, and it’s an unknown number, so I decline it. It rings again; I decline it again. Then, another message pops up.
Unknown: How dare you not take my calls?
Unknown: Also, why aren’t you at your desk?
Unknown: My office. Now.
Of course, it’s him. And how did he get my number? Probably from HR. I change his name in my contact list, so the message now reads:
SirKnighthole: My office. Now.
Okay, so that was childish. But it makes me feel better. The three dots at the bottom of the message move again.
SirKnighthole: Why are you not here?
SirKnighthole: Don’t keep me waiting.
Oh, my god! This man is certified. I message Mira.
Me: Gotta go. The bosshole is calling.