Story Codes: M/F, MDom, Size, Orgasm, MC, Spanking, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism
“Stand,” he said, “right there. By the window.”
He gestured, a finger pointing at a blank square of window. I hesitated, making a face.
He pealed his jacket off and hung it over his chair. A cup came up to his mouth as he sat.
He looked at me with the Well? expression of an irritated father.
I ran a comb of long-nailed fingers through my hair and waited for the softness of an apology. Or a please. I was an intern, not a servant, and I didn’t appreciate his tone.
I wiped the inside of my cheek with my tongue and made a disgusted sound.
“You can walk there,” he said, carefully pointing at the window, “or you can walk out,” he said, indicating the tan rectangle of the office door.
He had the calm detachment of a man comfortable with either outcome. The sharp angles of his rough face flowed around sips of coffee, but didn’t soften.
“Fine,” I said. I turned.
“Fine Sir,” he said.
I whirled and gave him a look. He stared back, blank and waiting.
“Whatever,” I whispered. I walked to the window and stood, glaring at him. He turned back to his computer.
His shoulders had the bunched look of a walking cat, but the soft movement was so casual that I pictured him rolling in the sun as it lifted over the skyline. It was the quiet grace of unimaginable power, a man at total peace with a universe he commanded.
He drank coffee and words scrolled up the screen. Behind him, I made angry faces and tried not to snort in annoyance. I made sharp little adjustments to my skirt and shifted my heavy black jacket.
It might have been a test, his attitude. Some kind of hazing thing—first day, with the ink still wet on my diploma. I’d left a boyfriend and a bigger check just to be in his office, though. The opportunity to learn was too valuable. So if he wanted to keep the small talk to himself, I was okay with that. I shuffled in my heels and tried not to read over his shoulder.
The dim glow of a tepid dawn spilled over the tops of buildings and cut the room into thirds, sunlight flowing over my back and splashing onto either side of his desk while he sat in my shadow.
I fought with a smile. A rich man in my shadow. Exactly the kind of life I came here to have. I couldn’t wait for clients of my own. For an office like this one. For a taste of the top. I let myself grin. I would teach him to respect me.
Time passed. The sun moved.
“Step to your left,” he said, without turning around.
I rolled my eyes, and moved. My shadow swung back to the middle of his desk. The words on his screen jumped, then resumed the slow trickle of upward movement. He cracked his neck and sighed.
I realized, in a sickening moment, what my job was.
He was using my body to block the glare on his screen. No wonder the salary wasn’t competitive.
Four years of college, all that work. My boyfriend, my hometown.
“I’m a curtain,” I said.
“Don’t talk,” he said, simply.
“I’m a fucking window shade!” I screamed.
His shoulders dipped. He sighed. Turned. His face was a study of tired annoyance. Like many rich people, he was the product of a powerful man and a gorgeous woman, like his father and grandfather before him, so his face was unnaturally beautiful—in a cold, cruel way.
It was the face of angel, the kind of angel that razed villages and slaughtered newborn sons. Ordinary people never see a face like his. I wondered how many ordinary people ever saw the face of a king.
And how many saw him angry. I shivered.
His thick, beautiful lips curled in a snarl.
“You’d rather be an automated mail chute down in my mail room?” he asked. “How about an answering machine at the desk outside?” He stood. I am a tall girl, but he looked down at me from a head above mine. His neck was long and defined, like the braids of a cord. It was so precisely shaped it almost looked hydraulic.
I forced down the corrosive edge of my fury and took a step toward him. The big jacket and heavy skirt helped me feel a little less tiny with a palmable wisp of stomach loose under my blouse, the twig-like curl of my twenty-two year old body hidden under the professional skin of my clothes.
“I didn’t come here to be a thing,” I said. “I came to work. To learn. I’m an intern, not a… a shutter.”
I backed away as he stepped forward, but up against the huge window, that just meant sliding to the side. The sun cut through my dark hair and made shapes on his face. His blond hair was the same color as the light, sharp against his head as if edged like a knife.
He sighed again, rubbed his temples. His fingers were long and heavy, knuckles bent like the legs of a spider. He reached out and planted his arm on the glass next to my head. His palm was as wide as a paperback book. His face moved toward mine, and I bit my lip to keep it still.
“Every job,” he said, closing in until I could smell the coffee on his breath, “Every job makes someone into a thing. You want to learn? Learn this: there are women in the basement who have worked in this building since my father was in college, and all they do is sort mail into separate boxes. Someone like you delivers them. And there is nothing they do that couldn’t be done by a machine the size of this desk.”
He backed me into the corner between banks of windows. I felt myself shrinking under his glare. His other hand hit the glass with a thunk, boxing me in.
His eyes were the blue of an Alaskan crab.
“The only reason I keep them around,” he said, “is because they’re cheaper than the machine is.” The snarl on his face was also his smile.
“You fucking liar,” I said. I shoved him away from me with both hands. His body was mannequin hard but I felt him move back anyway. I felt a surge of power.
Time to start teaching him, I thought.
The young son of a powerful man made powerful by delusion. He had no idea what he was, so pretty and strong he’d never lead except through expectation.
Well. I was different.
“You don’t keep old women around because they’re cheaper. You keep them around because you like to use people.” I held in a scream, pushed him again. This time he didn’t move. But the snarl melted a little in his smile.
“I can see an easel from here that you could use to block the light. Or, hey, you could just turn your fucking screen,” I said, continuing to push on his immovable body, “or anything. But you hired someone just to be a thing for you.”
He reached up in one smooth motion and took my hands off his chest, rolling me away and onto the edge of a conference table. He moved me without apparent effort, even though I’d struggled just to get him to step back.
I tried to ignore how big he seemed. How powerful I knew he was, delusion or not. A man like him could throw me out the window and get away with it.
What was I doing? I could have just quit.
“I don’t have to hire people to be things for me,” he said. “And I didn’t have to hire you. You begged for this job.”
“You begged the recruiter, because if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
On the conference table, I tried to slide away but that meant spreading my legs. He stepped between them, planted his hands on the table at either side of my ass, and bent forward to snarl into my face.
“You folded your pretty little hands and begged my recruiter to give you a shot, because you had so much to offer.” He snorted. “You even flirted with him. Hell, you’re flirting with me, now.”
“What? I’ve worn this skirt to a funeral,” I choked out. It was a lie, but it could have been true. Severe gray, wool, and just expensive enough to afford to be simple. It also made my ass look like a dark peach, which is why I’d worn it.
He smirked, backed off. A long finger pushed up the edge of my skirt until it was up around my stomach. I gasped and pushed it back down.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I bet you didn’t wear a thong.”
I kicked out at him but he caught my legs and spun me around so I was on my stomach. He held a foot in his huge, paperback hand.
“Or three-inch pumps,” he said.
Before I could twist away, he grabbed my legs and tugged me toward him. My hands scrabbled at the table, but it was the slick wood of a polished piano key and I just slid where he pulled me. My ass pressed against his legs and something painfully hard along one of his legs made me jerk away.
“You want to be a different kind of thing?” he asked. The smile was actually evil, shape of his pretty face distorted by a delight in my fear.
“I want to be me,” I said, shivering, unable to keep my lip from shaking the words into nonsense, as I looked up into his eyes.
There was a moment of softness in the look, but the amusement twisted into anger.
“And what are you?” he shouted.
“What is a girl with pushed up C-cups and pretty bare legs and a ‘Conservative Sexy’ Cosmo copycat combo-” he sniffed, actually growling like an angry dog- “who looked up and wore my ex-girlfriend’s perfume.”
I stopped shaking. I was stunned. I’d expected him to notice the perfume—she was an actress and there’d been a piece in Variety—but the Cosmo thing…
He reached up and took my bottom lip between thump and middle finger. He pulled my mouth open just a little, rubbed at my foundation with his index finger.
“You’re a fucking parasite,” he whispered. “With nothing to offer but a pretty face and a sense of entitlement you couldn’t scratch with a diamond.”
“I have a degree from-”
He made his own disgusted sound. “You think you’re special because you went to a nice school?” he said. He stopped sounding angry and started sounding tired. Leaned on the table. Shook his head. “Your school churns out hundreds of diplomas a year-”
“-every year for over a century! And there are thousands, thousands of colleges in this country alone.”
He bent down to peer into my face again. I realized I hadn’t moved.
“The only thing special about you is that you were willing to beg for a job without a description, for less money than you could get waiting tables back where you belong.”
I slid off the table. My heels clicked as they stabbed the floor.
I’d thrown my boyfriend’s ring in the garbage, then fished it out and sold it. I’d sacrificed years of social life just to maintain the last .01 of my four-point-oh, and when I’d finally opened my legs for a man, it wasn’t for my boyfriend.
It was for a professor older than my father. And then my next boyfriend. Who wasn’t as nice as my first, but who knew people.
And the next. And the next.
I had given too much to too many to simply burn away in this powerful man’s fury. He thought I was some average girl, but I wasn’t.
I wasn’t waiting on destiny. I didn’t care what I was. I was willing to work to be what I wanted.
“I belong here,” I said, quietly.
He held back a laugh. “I thought you didn’t want to be a window shade.”
“No,” I said. “I belong here.” I pointed at his empty chair.
We both looked at his empty chair as though we could see my future self sitting on it.
“I’ll be a window shade,” I said. “Or a mail chute,” I said. “Or a vending machine, or a Roomba, or an autopilot, or a fucking microwave.” I stepped into his personal space and shoved him back again. This time he stepped back, uncertain but faintly amused.
“I’ll be your secretary, your assistant, or your whore-” I straightened up as I said it so my breasts were clear little wedges through the scoop of my blouse. “I will be anything. Do anything. If at the end of it I get to sit in that chair-” I pointed “-and do what you do.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I’m not a parasite,” I said, powered by outrage. “I don’t want to feed off of you. I want to be you.”
He laughed. Not hard. But he laughed. He sat on the edge of his table and with a stab of annoyance I realized his ass gripped it better than mine.
His hand wrapped around my arm and swung me around to face him.
“Beg me,” he said. He grinned.
“Please,” I said, without hesitating.
“Hands,” he said, looking at them and waiting.
I folded my hands. Got on my knees. College had taught me that men take a step back when you first get on your knees. The sudden change in perspective must feel weird for a moment. But he stood there, not even flexing his hips.
He was used to this.
“Please,” I repeated.
“Please what?” he asked. His face was expressionless. The soft blush of his genetic perfection had a smoothing effect it took twenty minutes and two hundred dollars to achieve with makeup.
I knew what he wanted.
“Please use me,” I begged him. Inside, I fought a sick feeling.
He was going to just throw me away.
He nodded, satisfied.
“Stand,” he said, “right there. By the window.” He pointed at a blank square of window.
I felt a surge of gratitude. Men were so ready to be used if you showed them the tiniest bit of submission.
I walked to the window and stood. He returned to his chair.
“Take the jacket off,” he said absently, drinking coffee but wincing at it.
He pushed a button on his desk. A speaker lit up next to his computer. “New coffee,” he said. A female voice said something and the speaker dimmed.
I tossed my jacket on the conference table.
“Now the shirt,” he said.
I twisted my head to look out the window, to look at the skyline with its hundreds of buildings and thousands of windows. How many people would see this?
I opened the buttons one by one. I tried to predict what he’d want.
“Don’t try to be sexy,” he said. “Just do it.”
I ripped the shirt off. The last few buttons pinged on the desk. He chuckled. Nodded.
“Bra,” he said.
Strapless and tight, the hook was in the front. I pushed the sides together and let the bra fall to the floor. The room was cold, and my nipples stood out like pencil erasers, fat and thick over my bare breasts. My skin was pale, but the faint red of embarrassment painted me pink.
There was a knock at the door. I froze.
“Yeah,” he said.
The door opened and a young woman with caramel skin and a tumble of blonde curls walked with a tray of coffee to his desk. She didn’t appear to see me. She set the tray down next to him, asked him how he took his coffee, something she must have known, and bustled with the pots and jars even though he’d asked for it black.
She refilled his cup and he took it from her.
Could she be so focused that she didn’t see a half-naked woman in front of the far window?
She started to walk away with the empty tray. The embarrassment drained out of me. I breathed.
“Leigh?” he asked.
“Yes?” she stopped a few feet from the door.
“There’s a jacket on the table, and a bra and shirt on the floor. Collect and dispose of them, will you?”
I took a sharp breath of surprise that she couldn’t have missed. She nodded at him.
“Of course, Sir.”
She pulled my jacket off the table and folded it over her arm. Stooped to pick my blouse off the floor. Stepped to within inches of me to pick up the bra. As she stood we made brief eye contact.
The jealousy in her face hit me like a brick.
I had a sudden moment of terror as I realized how slim a chance this was. He might be using me, but at least he wasn’t using me for coffee.
“Leigh?” he asked.
“Take her skirt as well,” he said.
She nodded after a tiny little pause. A shirtless intern clearly didn’t faze her. Wasn’t new. But this? Was clearly the first time.
Her uncertainty was tense with excitement. He wanted her to be something! It was written on her face.
I wondered if she would be satisfied with her new role as a clothes hamper, as I pulled the skirt down over my hips, and let it pool on the floor. I stepped out of it. She moved past me, her hair raising gooseflesh on my stomach as it whispered past.
“Thong,” he said.
We both stopped for a second. She glanced up at me, then back down. Grabbed my skirt and straightened up.
She’d decided to do anything he asked. Just like me. And she was a hamper. I felt a moment a doubt.
“Take it off her,” he said.
I unhooked my thumbs from the thong and stood back. The cold glass on my shoulder blades reminded me that I had my naked back to a city of a million people, and I had no idea who was looking. I jerked off the glass and tried to stand straight.
Leigh’s fingers slid around my hips as though she was planning to hug them. Her fingers caught the thong and slid them down and they were around my ankles. Her hair brushed against my thighs. The tickle of contact fluttered up into my breasts, and my nipples stiffened.
I stepped out of the thong and back to my original place at the window. The sun crawled up the sky, and his desk was out of the light. Leigh balled my thong up in one hand, kneeling in my shadow.
She hesitated, waiting for the next instruction.
“That’s it, Leigh.”
The furious disappointment in her face almost made me nauseous. She put my clothes on the tray and walked to the door.
“Once you’re done with that,” he said, “get a chair and sit in front of my door. Wait there until I call you, or until five. Whichever comes first.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said, opening the door. “Should I send someone in to find all the buttons?”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
She nodded and disappeared into the hallway. The door clicked shut.
He drank his coffee.
I stood there and waited. He ignored his screen, looking coolly at my naked body, propped up on stilt-like heels, the purple reflective varnish of my nails the only color in the room aside from the cherry of my nipples, the pink of my shame, and the pale bubblegum between my legs. His look hardened from annoyance into anger as I felt his arousal build.
He stood and walked well into my personal space. The warm curls of steam from his coffee breath made him look like a demon, and I realized how cold it was. I missed my jacket. I wondered if I would ever see it again.
He stood in front of me and unbuttoned his sleeves, folding them back around his big forearms like the peal of a banana. The tight bundle of his veins made a thin web over the muscle.
He brushed his arms and leaned against the table, face hard. The top two buttons of the crisp white shirt were open, and I noticed the tie looped around itself on his desk. The rounded tan of a stone-solid chest pushed at the inside of his shirt.
“Turn around,” he said.
I closed my eyes and turned to face the city. In the liquid midmorning blur, I might just be another shape in the dark, just a line against a window no one could even see.
But I didn’t believe it.
He wanted me on display. The way you’d put a doll in a case.
Fear made me angry.
I wasn’t going to let him put me in a box like that Leigh girl, and end up as a prop in someone else’s life.
“I could dance,” I said. I made an effort to sound as condescending as possible. “I could shake my ass and everyone would know you owned me.”
He grunted the way a dog would bark and pulled me off my feet. I flew over his shoulder like a sack, and he carried me the few steps to the table as I kicked and shouted at him. He sat on the edge of the conference table and threw me over his knee. I hung over his legs, several feet above the dull marble of the floor. My heels made circles in the air and I forced myself to calm down.
The explosion of his huge palm hitting my ass made me cry out, even though I had expected it. It was sharp and numbing, but the echo of the pain burned not just in my ass, but everywhere in my body.
He held me, arm circled over my back, holding me by my stomach. His huge hand held felt like fire as he spanked me again. Hard leg muscle pushed into me with each blow.
“I do own you,” he said, punctuating each word with a heavy slap. “And everyone but you knows it.”
“I’m sorry!” I cried, really crying a little, but feeling a strange buzzing high in between pains.
He spanked me and spanked me, sometimes hitting hard enough to take the breath out of my lungs, sometimes just light enough to sting.
“I’m going to spank you,” he said, pounding on my ass between every word. “I’m going to spank you, I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to fire you.”
The sudden angry statement made his hand move faster, shifting from cheek to cheek, sliding down to my thighs and even up onto my back. His hands were so big that it each slap covered half of my ass at a time. The blows smeared together until my whole body tingled and was numb. The buzzing high was a rush in my head. My heart pounded and the whole world pulsed with each beat.
I felt the sharp poke of something hard touching my stomach through his pants.
“I’m going to use you, and you’re going to thank me,” he said, breathing heavier and faster, “not for a chance to break into my life-” here he spanked me so hard I let out a moan- “like everyone else-” and he spanked me hard enough to push me almost out of his grip. I gripped his leg and held on, like someone dropping out of the sky on a roller coaster.
“Not for your worthless parasite job or your pointless white trash greed,” he said, and he brought us over to the window, staring at my reflection as he spanked me.
“Not so you can use me, you fucking whore-” and he spat the word, making it so ugly I would have shuddered if I weren’t already shaking from the adrenaline, “but because you want to be used by me.”
Over by the window, I realized we could be seen. I wondered if there were men with telescopes watching him punish me.
I wondered if they would call the police or jerk off.
It was very clear that he was hard, and he slid me over his arm so he could pound my ass like a drum, holding me at his side like the object he knew I was.
The pulsing adrenaline knotted in my stomach, and my whole body tensed more and more as he spanked. Intense spikes of electric agony wrenched a shivering pleasure into my chest. I could feel it stab into my palms. One of my heels flew off as my legs jerked against my will.
“Come, you fucking slut,” he shouted, loud enough to make it through the deafening pound of my own heart.
The tense feeling reached an edge inside my mind, and his words knocked me over it.
I had my first orgasm on a swing set at the age of ten. A family friend pushed my little body so high that the chain felt like it would wrap around the bar at the top.
The fear and the looping, stomach-flipping sensation of flight hit my little body so hard that I screamed with a feeling I wouldn’t recognize until much later, when a high-school boyfriend put a motorcycle between my legs and took us through donuts until I came like the world was exploding.
It took me a long time to achieve orgasm on anything like a regular basis. I could and vibrate and fantasize, but I needed something to make me lose control. I needed a push over an edge I could reach, but never climb.
Some men do this by accident, like my father’s friend, clumsily throwing me into the air on a swing as a little girl. Some men do it unconsciously, like the boyfriend who finally got me to scream on top of his bike.
But my boss had reached inside me and pulled the orgasm out of my body, literally with his bare hands.
I came in his arms, screaming so hard I couldn’t even hear it, coming from the pain and the relief and the fear and the shame, coming from everywhere all at once.
It was like the satisfaction of poking a painful tooth, or of scratching an itch, spread from my spanked ass to the inside my mind, and the tension in my stomach broke like something physical snapping in my body.
The spanking continued, light little taps, through the whole thing. Just enough to remind my body what was making it come.
I reached out and pulled at the glass, fingers slid over the slick material, trying to find something to hang on to. He swung me in circle, giving me no sense of something solid, something stable, and I came instantly again.
My body was like an electric current and all he had to do was touch it to get what he wanted.
“So you decided what kind of thing you want to be,” he said. Grim amusement and the thick sound of a man talking with an erection colored each word.
“Please,” I asked. But I didn’t know what I wanted. “Please…”
Please let me go? Please hold me until I stop coming? Please fuck me so I won’t stop? Please love me? Please don’t show my naked sex to the entire fucking city through your window?
He flipped me up so he was holding me against his body in something like a hug, a cruel hand on my devastated ass and another cradling my shoulders against his warm, hard body. I could feel my wetness soaking into his shirt as I clutched his hard stomach with my legs.
In the window, my ass looked as purple as my nail polish.
“What?” he asked.
Somehow, the word was sweet and hateful at the same time. My eyes wouldn’t focus on his face.
“Please,” I whispered. “Touch me.”
You could have used his triumphant smirk to cut glass. The burning humiliation almost made me scream. But the orgasm he’d spanked out of me was worth a thousand motorcycle adventures, and God knows how many swing sets.
He set me on his conference table and held my face with one hand.
“You came so hard your eyes are bloodshot,” he said. The smile was almost proud. “Just one long, low scream. I had to send security away,” he laughed, “after they watched the second or third one.”
The thought of being seen like that made me nauseous, but he was probably lying. I bet the entire building was used to hearing women scream in this office.
Then I almost laughed, thinking of Leigh on a chair just outside.
He’d wanted her to hear, and be jealous.
I squirmed. Each time my skin touched something, a little tinkling of sensation sparked over my skin. I was desperate to have his hands on me.
He slipped my heel back on my foot and I caught his wrist. It was thicker than my ankle.
“I hate you,” I said.
He smiled. Nodded.
“I want more of this,” I said. “Not to keep my job or stay out of the mail room. I just want it.”
“What do you want?”
My face burned. I tried to hold still. I rocked back and forth for a minute, then looked up at him. His eyes were hard, metal Os around black points.
“I want to fuck you,” I said. I looked down at my feet.
He pushed me away by my face, snorting in anger.
“You can ‘fuck’ anyone. And you’re slut enough to know that,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”
I didn’t want to say it. Because it wasn’t true.
It was just true right now. It was true for my body. And I hated myself for believing it.
He reached behind my head and grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling me forward into his beautiful, furious face. Almost gently.
“Say it,” he said.
My eyes showed whites and I moaned a little. The hard grip hurt and the pain confused all my nerves. It didn’t feel like pleasure, but it felt satisfying. Burning cold. I squeaked out a few words.
He hissed in my face, smiling. “Say it,” he repeated. He reached forward and squeezed my nipple between two fingers. A knife of sensation bit into the center of my chest. For a second, I could feel my heart as though he held it in cold, squeezing fingers.
Then he bent forward and licked the fat nipple with a tongue as long as a finger.
It was like uncorking a bottle. It came out of me in a rush.
“USE ME, you arrogant prick!” I said. I grabbed his arms, tried to pull him onto me but he didn’t move. “You ugly God,” I said, “you beast! Hurt me, fuck me, hang me in your window, force me to come and come because that’s all I want,” I said. I screamed it. I was almost hysterical. Tears leaked out of my face and from deep between my legs.
“All I want to do is come and come until that’s all I am. I’m a thing,” I said, telling him whatever he wanted to hear and meaning it, and hating us both for meaning it. “YOU OWN ME!”
His angry face dimmed into an evil smile and he went back to his desk. He touched a button and the speaker next to his computer dimmed.
I didn’t even care how many people heard me. I was so angry, so humiliated that I didn’t care about anything but my own body.
I wondered if that was what it was like to be male.
He pulled out of my grip, stepped back, and reached for his obvious, snake-like bulge. I’d watched it pulse as I broke down, clearly more aroused by my submission than by my naked body.
The smooth flick of his hand was a practiced, familiar motion, and it split the pants down the middle, allowing the fat, bar-like root of his uncovered cock to swell between the halves of the zipper.
“Touch me,” he said.
My hands shook as I reached forward and touched the slippery throbbing line of a blue vein that ran the entire length I could see, the few inches visible through the hole in his pants.
“Good God, you’re so big,” I said, not so much to him as myself, to prove it was actually happening.
“You have no idea,” he said. “But I’ll teach you.”
He pulled me forward by my wrists, dragging me off the table, put me on my knees, and curled my fingers around his belt. The leather was so expensive it felt wet, and so did I. I wondered if you could buy my entire education just with a belt like this one.
He made a frustrated face as I fumbled, reached down and pulled the belt so hard it tore as he ripped it off. The pointless waste of it stung and I stared up at him. He growled, his teeth drawn back in a wolf’s humorless smile.
The sheer weight and pressure of his erection pushed it out of his clothes.
His penis was a huge, thick pipe that pulsed with a slow, dangerous rhythm, hypnotic and ugly, like a bat of flesh tapping out death threats in Morse code. The head was huge and uncircumcised, flared like the neck of a cobra, and the tip was a finger-wide mouth that opened and closed as the rest of it bobbed in the air. It drooled a thin string of precum so hot it steamed in the cold air of his office.
It was like staring at the opposite of a religious experience. I got off my knees, terrified. I wanted to pray in numbers: inches wide and thick, cubic centimeters of diamond-hard arousal and liters of inhuman fluid dripping from his cock to the floor. I stared.
It looked like the serpent Satan becomes at the beginning of The Bible.
“Come to me,” he said.
I let out a small, endless moan.
He reached down and stroked his cock with the tip of a finger, the way you might pet an animal. He traced between angry blue veins and closed his eyes.
“Get on your knees and suck my cock,” he said. He pointed to the ground at his feet.
Something in myself, something I hated moved my legs and sank me to the ground, putting my face at eye level with his huge and terrifying penis. He looked down at me in a way that told me just how many women had been at his feet.
I wondered if he had ever heard the word “no.”
I wondered if that would just turn him on.
He unbuttoned his shirt, slitting it to reveal segmented muscle the color of baked bread.
I opened my mouth and made sounds.
If I were strong enough, I could have stood, walked out, called the police. Run away. Cried. Anything.
But I couldn’t bring myself to stop, I couldn’t trade the pleasure I felt for safety or justice or even my own dignity.
He lead, and I wanted to follow. The obedience felt… right.
He deserved this.
He deserved me.
His hands came forward to take my head and drill his cock into my mouth, whether I wanted it or not. He was coldly angry, the arousal twisted into something like rage, and I knew that if I let him fuck me this way, I would just end up in a chair in his hallway listening to the next conquest.
So I forced myself to be strong. Pushed myself to care less about the moment and more about what mattered to me. In desperation I came to a decision.
I decided to fuck him back. To participate in my own submission. To give in before I gave up.
So I reached out and grabbed his cock with both hands.
It was firmer than I expected, warm and smooth, with each vein standing out, rolling cord-like under the skin. But my mouth faltered a few inches before the tip. His piss slit was so large you could hide a marble in it. I opened my mouth but shrank away quickly as he growled.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” he asked in a low, baritone purr.
I thought of my boyfriend and his adorable pink-white penis. Just big enough to fit in my hand, it never hurt or intimidated. It was… cute. Like him. Sweet.
It even tasted faintly of sugar, probably from some grocery store body wash. I’d used my mouth on him in the past, but it excited him so much that I never had to do more than suck on it like a straw.
I shook my head. “Not really,” I said.
The growl of annoyance was almost sweet. He reached down and pushed my head back.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
I opened my mouth, terrified he would just stab his cock into it.
He reached down and put his fingers in my mouth, exploring it. He touched my tongue, tugging it over my bottom teeth and softly curling it with his thumb. His fingers tasted of coffee and the warm salt of his own body. That close to my face, I realized how long his fingers really were.
“You take care of your tongue,” he said. He looked impressed.
I nodded, confused.
“Most women don’t.” A momentary flash of anger flowed through his approval. “Women think men stop looking at the surface,” he said. His thumb stroked my lip. His hand had the soft feeling of polished leather, a little like his belt. My mouth automatically opened wider, accepting him.
“But they’re wrong,” he finished, pushing a finger into my mouth and slowly stroking the back of my throat. The fingers quested without pushing. He touched the spongey bit I swallow with and slipped the tip of his middle finger into my throat.
The impulse to gag rose up out of my stomach but I fought it, holding still.
He chuckled. He let me swallow the finger up to the first knuckle. His curled pinky rested on my cheek. His hand was so long. I rolled my eyes back into my head.
It was the first time he’d used my name. I was startled that he knew it.
I loosened the muscles around his finger and the desire to gag left me. He withdrew the finger, wet with my saliva, and put it up to his mouth.
I groaned from some painful, desperate place when he sucked his fingertip dry.
He explored my mouth for several minutes, telling me how small it was—a problem—and how clean it was, which impressed him. I got the impression that he knew more about the female mouth than the average dentist, and his fingers had a professional grace that made me forget that I was on my knees in front of a plate glass window.
Sunlight streamed over my back. I shifted on my heels as he gripped my mouth with both hands.
“No!” I whispered, as the huge fist-like head angled toward my mouth. He’d pulled the foreskin back, revealing a head that was so hard it was almost blue.
I tried to shake my head but he held it still.
“Shhhh,” he said, low and long, before returning to his horny little growl.
I opened my mouth as wide as I could, and the flared edges of his cock pushed the corners of my mouth aside as he entered. I felt thick droplets of precum wet my tongue, and my mouth watered defensively. So did my eyes.
I made a little sound of panic.
He said it softly, continuing to shush me, but the word was not a request. I knew that his cock was going into my mouth whether I resisted him or not, and if I wanted to get through it easily I’d have to obey him.
I made a low Oh sound and felt my jaw slacken. The head pushed in and my teeth slipped behind the ridge of his cockhead.
He grunted and gently slapped my face, suddenly furious.
“Pay attention,” he barked.
I pushed myself and my teeth lifted off his cock. He smiled.
“You are not just a hole,” he said, “whatever you were taught.”
I screwed my eyes up in confusion. Had he changed his mind about me?
“Oh, you’re still a whore, little girl,” he snorted, “but you have to work to please me,” he said.
As he said the word “work,” he pushed another centimeter into my mouth—too far—the huge tip kissing the back of my throat. My tongue struggled as I fought for air, tickling the underside of the shaft.
“Yes,” he said, “yes…” and I saw a shiver of pleasure rise up through his legs. “Use your tongue. And suck, little whore, and keep sucking. If it gets easier, it’s because you aren’t working hard enough.”
The word “hard” brought his cockhead into the top of my throat. It was far too big to do anything but force me to gag. I held still, letting it happen without reacting. It got easier.
He slapped me at the temples, a rough but careful blow.
“Work,” he said. A thin smile split his face. “Do… your job.”
I had a sudden ridiculous thought, curious if he’d pay me for today.
He held my face and withdrew his cock a millimeter at a time, forcing me to keep my teeth wide. I struggled to keep the pressure in my mouth, but I worked until I had it right.
He made a satisfied sound as his cock slid out of me.
“You’re not good,” he said, the honesty plain in his face, “but you could be.”
He lifted me to my feet by my neck, slowly pulling upwards and forcing me to step up on my heels without leaning on anything. It surprised me how hard it was to stand this way.
I’d gotten so used to leaning on something that I hardly knew how to stand on my own.
He nodded as I struggled.
“Weak men make you weak,” he said. “Women aren’t supposed to be weak.”
He pushed me back. I felt the cold glass against my back as he stepped forward.
“Weak men,” he said, “want you to be weak so they’ll look strong.” He made a disgusted sound. “Rather than become strong, they just want to look strong. So they break you by being kind.”
He lifted my arms up, pinning them to the glass above my head. His face slid past my cheek, and I felt wet breath in my ear.
“Have you ever had a man open the door for you?” he asked.
“Speak!” he snapped.
“Yes,” I said.
“…Sir,” he added, into my ear. I felt his mouth close over my earlobe for a second, and the sting of a bite.
“Yes, Sir,” I said, immediately correcting myself.
“Do you know why?”
I shook my head. Then, a little panicked, said: “No, Sir.”
But of course I knew. It was a nice, sweet thing. My boyfriend had done it at every door. Cars, restaurants, even at school. He’d rush to pull the door out of my hand before I walked in.
“Liar,” he said. The grip on my wrists became painful, and I winced. “But I’ll punish you later since I know you actually don’t.”
He let go of my wrists. My arms ached, but nothing in his look told me it was all right to let them drop. I stood, the pain in my arms evident on my face.
“A man opens the door so you won’t. So you’ll stop at an unopened door, unable go in on your own.”
I considered. After a few months with my boyfriend, I tended to wait at entrances for this sweet gesture.
“Opening doors isn’t what you’re for,” he said, a finger tracing my arms, which I struggled to hold high.
His hand closed around my neck. It was almost long enough to wrap around it completely.
“It’s to give you permission to walk through it,” he hissed into my ear, “because you’re supposed to submit to him.”
He squeezed my neck just hard enough to make it clear how powerful this position really was. And instead of thinking about him strangling me and tossing me away with my clothes, I suddenly felt the nakedness of my back against the glass. The split circles of my ass pressed against it for anyone to see. Every part of my body was visible.
“Don’t…” I whispered, closing my eyes, not really to him, just speaking to myself.
He smiled, stepped back. I stood there, eyes closed. The sudden vacuum of heat, the sudden chill of not being touched made me feel cold and isolated. I shivered.
I didn’t move.
“Sir,” he said. His face was blank.
“Sir,” I whispered. I stayed against the glass.
We stayed that way for several minutes of silence. I didn’t move away from the window. His cock didn’t even dip, let alone deflate. It stood in the space between us like a spear, and I knew that he could sink it into my flesh and bring me down to the floor whenever he wanted.
But he stood there, eyeing me.
“Sir,” I said, louder.
He pulled his shirt off his shoulders and set it on the table. He folded back the corners of his pants in a way that made it clear they would not come off. That they didn’t need to.
“Sir,” I said.
I don’t know why, but the word sent a spike of pleasure through me. It sounded silly when other people used it, but knowing I had to, knowing if I didn’t, then… actually I had no idea.
But I knew I had to obey him.
“Don’t talk,” he said. My mouth closed on its own.
He stepped forward and reached between my legs. I was so wet that it was uncomfortable, like sitting on a wet seat, when he touched me.
“I don’t think,” I said, “I don- ohhh…” the words collapsed into a moan as a long finger slipped a few inches into my vagina.
His other hand slapped me.
“Don’t make me spank you again,” he said, softly. “I’ll lose control.”
I didn’t know whether that excited or terrified me. Because I wasn’t sure what he meant.
He stroked my face on the burning print of the slap, and his body touched me. The huge cock slid over my stomach, snagging on my navel and slipping between us.
“Don’t talk,” he said, into my ear.
The finger probed farther.
“Even your finger is too big,” I said, terrified, unable to stop myself.
“Sir,” I added, hoping to make up for speaking.
The growl became something like a snarl and the hand returned to my neck. I felt my pulse reflected by his fingers.
“Do I have to quiet you?” he asked.
I shook my head. He squeezed enough to close my throat. My mouth made silent words and I closed my eyes.
“You can speak when I permit you,” he said, “or you can speak only when I let you.” The hand released my neck. The air felt suddenly cold and sweet as I breathed it in.
“Which?” He asked. He looked into my eyes. The blue circles bored into me.
I opened my mouth, and then… stopped myself from answering. I knew it wasn’t up to me anyway.
I forced myself to look into his eyes. They were sharp and furious, but the ugliness of his anger wasn’t there. I didn’t know if this was because they’d changed, or because I’d started to find his anger attractive.
I did though.
His anger aroused me more than my boyfriend at his best. More than the most romantic moment I’d ever experienced.
I closed my eyes and waited for him to decide what to do with me.
He laughed to himself.
“Turn around, little slut,” he said.
I felt a shock of terror. If I turned around, I could see anything. People watching from below. The twinkle of a lens. The nearness of other windows. I closed my eyes.
“Keep them open,” he said, “and turn. Now.”
I moved slowly, swiveling with little steps, and faced the city.
The blue wash of the naked window colored everything the same frozen color as his eyes, with their notes of steel and their paisley flecks of random darkness. Smears from my skin whirled in little loops where he’d pressed me against the glass. The tiny glove of my handprint stood within a huge circle of his fingerprints, looking like a model of the atom.
I looked out at the city and his mouth moved to my ear.
“Yes, we are,” he said.
I swallowed. I wanted to curl inside myself and vanish.
His huge finger appeared next to my head. I followed it to a bank of windows on the building across the street. It was entirely mirrored, and the rooms could be empty for all I knew.
“Come in,” he said.
I started to turn my head but a huge fist closed on the back of my neck and forced me to stare out the window. I tried to see in the reflection, but I was too close to it.
The door whispered open and there was a sound of feet.
“Sit,” he said.
A chair moved.
I wondered if he’d put Leigh behind me, or some other discarded conquest.
Or a man? The thought was too cruel, and I bit my lip. A man could do anything.
His hand dropped from my neck to my ass, curling around the back. The little space between my legs filled with fingers. One of them gently stopped on my anus.
“NO!” I started to cry, but my sense of danger kept my mouth shut. The sound slammed against my lips and made a muffled sound.
“Not yet,” he said. “But yes. You’re going to take me everywhere.”
He bent. To my surprise, he bit my shoulder like an animal. Not hard, but hard enough, and I cried out. The finger made little circles on my tightest hole, but didn’t penetrate. His next finger entered my sopping pussy and I closed my eyes.
“Open,” he reminded me, not even harshly. His cock was so hard against my back that it was actually painful. The tip of it made a puddle in the hollow around my spine. I opened my eyes.
In the street below, a man looked up, squinted. His head cocked.
I knew that the windows were not clear, and that this office was on the highest floor. But it was not impossible to see inside.
I willed him to look away. To believe he saw nothing. I cursed that my hips were so wide, so obviously feminine in silhouette. An outline both clearly a woman and clearly naked. The tight pinch at my middle, the fat swell of breasts below my shoulders.
My eyes teared in shame.
His fingers reached inside me, exploring my sex as he’d done my mouth, but it still surprised me when he withdrew the finger and put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and pulled the sticky juice off his finger with obvious satisfaction.
No one had ever tasted me before. I’d asked my boyfriend, but his obvious reluctance embarrassed me. I doubted myself. Even thought it was selfish to ask a man to swallow so much when a woman swallows so little.
But the way his growl became something like a moan when he tasted my pussy made me wonder if I’d ever been with a man at all.
Which is when he pushed me upwards against the window, lifting me off my feet.
If there was any chance of not being seen, it vanished as I rose higher along the window. I felt myself whimper as I saw the man below back into an astonished pose. His hand rose before his face and I thought for a wonderful moment that he had blocked his eyes in embarrassment, before I realized he was holding a phone.
My vagina pulsed and the long low groan of a crying child boiled out of my chest. Below me, he chuckled.
“I’m naked too,” he said. As if it mattered.
The shame burned at my face and I silently prayed I would catch on fire and burn away.
He shifted me, moving under and between my legs, carefully twisting me on his palms until he had his back to the glass, my legs clutching his face.
I was so high in the air that the first pangs of vertigo pulsed in my limbs.
I risked looking down, not at the city, but at him. He was staring at my pussy the way I would look at money, or power. Like there was nothing in the world he wanted more.
Under the anger and the control, there was a childlike want in him so innocent that it was almost lovely. I hadn’t imagined a man ever looking at my body that way, not even if he loved me.
It hit me as his tongue closed the incredible distance between his face and my vagina. He wanted things more than I did. It was clear on his face. Even something as simple as the desire to put his mouth on my pussy filled him with a hunger as strong as my impulse to run when I was scared.
It made me feel vaguely fake, as if he were more real than I was.
I couldn’t succeed in a world populated by men like him. I didn’t have the will.
“Mine,” he whispered to himself.
The one word, so pure, filled me with his desire. I slammed my palm into the glass, moaning before his tongue touched me, purely at the thought of being wanted that much.
I tried to close my hand of a fistful of glass. It slid off the window and pushed me back. I struggled to stay upright as his mouth slowly attacked my pussy.
“No,” I said, out loud, teetering on his hands, “No! No!” even though I wanted it. The slipping control made me beg and he ignored me, his lips finally coming to rest on my labia.
I’d never experienced it, but I’d read about men going down on women. The point was always exploring the clitoris, maybe finding the G-spot. Fingers inside, tongue outside. Bringing the woman off the same way she would bring herself off, just with a (slower, less skilled, but softer) tongue instead of a hand.
That wasn’t how he ate me at all. His mouth fucked me. The tongue slid up inside my body with the force and speed of a desperate cock, and he touched little places within my pussy that I hadn’t really known were there.
I was shaking so hard that I didn’t even realize I was coming until I screamed. The simple feeling of his mouth on my pussy was so intense that it was hard to tell apart from the beginning of the orgasm, until it started to peak, and I lost control of myself.
I screamed the involuntary scream of dropping in a roller coaster, the frantic gasping squeals wrung out of my trembling body as it shivered against the glass. The intense knocking crest of wave after wave guttered out of my lungs, teased up by his fluttering tongue like a rolling ball, and when my lungs were empty I filled them and screamed again.
He worked, the way he told me to work, not letting me rest, attacking the sensitive but not unbearable nerves at either side of my clitoris as I came down, tossing me back up literally and in my pleasure, so I rode through a terrifying wave of pleasure so complete that I realized I must never have really come before.
It was an odd kind of virginity to lose, in the air, held by his two huge palms on my legs, screaming under glass like a monster in a horror movie. As numb and overwhelmed as if I were drowning in ice.
When sight and sound returned to me, I was on my back. On the conference table. I jerked occasionally as a little shockwave passed up from between my legs, but the orgasms were gone, an empty painful absence in their wake.
He was putting my heels back on. I’d shaken them off as he’d eaten me.
He slid a thumb over his lips, which were softly wet, and tasted me again with his eyes closed.
“Speak,” he said, when his eyes opened again, hard on my face. The huge menace of his penis seemed unchanged. It ticked in the air like a clock. He stroked it slowly, looking at me the way a dog looks at a bone.
“Thank you,” I said. It came in my voice, but I hadn’t expected it. As soon as I’d said it, I realized I was grateful. For him. For his mouth. For what he’d done to me. A rush of gratitude that almost made me cry. I felt myself shake.
He made a face. “Don’t thank me,” he said.
He reached down and pulled me to the edge of the table. His fingers pushed so hard into my skin that I couldn’t cry, and I understood that this was his goal.
“We’re nowhere near done with you.” He cracked his neck and ran a finger over his shoulder. The muscle was the gold color of wheat, impossibly smooth, cut into his torso with a level of precision that spoke more about his wealth than anything he could actually wear.
“You have no idea what being a woman is really about, do you?”
He looked almost sad. He carefully refolded the flap of his slacks, making a little V of fabric around his enormous cock. It was an almost dainty concession, like a waiter folding a napkin under a bottle of wine.
He stepped forward and the heavy bulk of his cock tapped my stomach, which was immediately wet with his excitement.
I looked at it, swollen and vicious, like a monstrous stinger corkscrewed with veins, not the pretty penis of my sweet forgotten boyfriend, not the fantasy cock of an imaginary boy-child in the some randomly typed sex story. This cock was evil and weapon like.
And it was far too big.
It wasn’t something I could imagine inside me. It would feel like being punched.
“Please,” I said. “There’s no way you’ll get that thing inside me.”
He gripped his cock like a knife, and pumped it like a shotgun.
“Believe me,” he said. “You’ll take my cock. And you’ll thank God for every inch. And when I’m done with you-” the anger turned into something else, something half joyful, infected with lust- “when I throw you away, you’re going to spend the rest of your short, worthless life praying to me, begging the memory of me to give you one more chance to feel like you were born for a reason.”
The huge cock rubbed over my sex, sending spikes up through my stomach into my lungs, quickening my heart. The wet tip swallowed and passed over my clit, gripping it as it pulsed in his hand.
The heat from his cock was incredible, and I moaned.
“And you were,” he said, his voice hard and thick, everything human drained into his enormous throbbing prick, “you and everyone like you was born to please me.”
The huge fist of his cockhead probed the tiny pink lips of my vagina, finding an intense wetness there, the red flush of my orgasms still opening me up. The large snake-like hood of his foreskin was pulled back, the nail of his erection ready to drive up into my body. As he pushed the head past my labia, I felt his huge volcanic breath on my breasts and the involuntary spasm of an orgasm tickled at my hands and feet.
“Wait!” I cried out, clenching my stomach around the building pleasure.
“No.” he said, bending forward and dropping onto the table over me, his huge palms landing on the tabletop at either side of my head. It was like watching a lion leap down from a tree. It was an animal thing, painting him as a predator in the basest and darkest form, hungry for the sex of conquest and repopulation.
The hot breath licked my face and I wanted to scream but all I said was: “Take me.”
He nodded, smiling cruelly, and I saw how much my defeat pleased him. He shook with it, his breath rolling his head up and down as he swallowed air into lungs as big around as my waist.
My head knocked against the table and I came. The sudden jolt of orgasm shocked my whole body, and my pussy opened as I writhed as though it were screaming.
And he plunged the head into me while I was numb, taking my sex from me as completely as he’d taken my dignity, and behind my head I heard someone sigh.
And I remembered we were being watched.
The sudden shame tightened me, and he closed his eyes as he pushed deeper into my pussy. He grabbed my head and held it when I tried to look around at the sigh. The sensation of being full rapidly spilled over into something like the ache of overeating, with all the little pleasures and the tension of internal pain. I let my eyes roll back into my head and tried not to imagine that this was the single greatest moment of pleasure in my life, and that everything that followed would disappoint me.
But it wasn’t. It got better.
“I’m only halfway inside you, little slut,” he purred into my ear.
My eyes widened in panic. I looked down and saw a pillar of terrifying penis the length of my hand still outside my body.
“I’m not big enough to take you!” I said. “I-”
But his hand moved from the back of my head to the front, curling around my mouth. Words jammed against my teeth and my head swung back and forth and I tried to shake him off, to tell him I was too small, to tell him my boyfriend was a third his size, a quarter. That he was more than a man, and that I was less than a woman. Anything.
Anything to stop him from tearing me in half.
I imagined him ripping through me with a cock like a sword and roaring over my broken halves.
“Shhhhh,” he said. “Breathe, Sarah.”
But I couldn’t. I thought I could feel the pressure of his cock on the bottom of my lungs as he pushed more of it into me. He counted, and I realized they were numbers. Inches.
“I can’t take you,” I said. “I can’t take you. I can’t fucking take you.”
It was like chanting. A mantra I couldn’t stop. The fingers over my face spread and hooked my mouth but I kept saying it—even as I felt him pushing my womb up into my body.
It was like being a balloon, a sheaf, an envelope, as though my body were just a coating around his cock, as thinly stretched as a condom, which a terrified thought reminded me he hadn’t used.
And with no boyfriend in my new town, I was saving money by not buying birth control.
“I’m unprotected,” I whispered, feeling his hard, triangular waist sliding up my stomach as he pushed another inch into my pussy.
His face spread with the smile of a shark having a bad day. His lips lowered to my ear, the hot breath burning the soft flesh of my neck.
“You’re also defenseless,” he said. And he bit my neck as if he really were an animal, and I were really his prey.
The sudden pain kicked off another strange orgasm and I bucked off the table. He pressed me back down. I mounted the pleasure of another, unable to concentrate, and when I looked up I could see the tumble of Leigh’s brown hair in the corner of my vision.
And I didn’t care.
“I hate you,” I said, and pulled him into me with my legs.
He bit me again, on the other side. The huge invasion of his penis became impossibly painful.
“FUCK ME,” I screamed, and the last inch of his cock slid into position.
I felt the soft downy stubble of the hair between his legs. It kissed my clit, still wet with his precum. It felt like skin made more of velvet than covered with hair.
“Tell me again,” he said. He was just above my face, almost kissing me.
“Fuck me!” I repeated. I couldn’t stand the full sensation, it was too much. He was too big. It was like being torn in half, but it never stopped. My body just didn’t rip in two, but it felt like I was tearing apart.
Fuck me, fuck me—pull it out even a little!
He held me and stared directly into my eyes. The smile was gone.
“Say it again,” he said. His fingers hurt, but I could barely feel anything beyond the huge cable-like veins on his cock, which hadn’t even moved.
I lifted my head and looked him in the eye, forcing myself calm. “Fuck,” I said, “me. Sir.”
His hand came up under my chin and pushed me back against the table.
“Beg me you fucking whore!”
He pushed so hard that I put my hands up to my throat to keep my head from popping off, and he pinned them with one hand, as he’d done against the window.
“Please,” I choked.
And he withdrew his cock, a few inches at a time.
The sensation was intensely, frighteningly pleasurable. The sudden stabbing ache of his size was relieved in a slow, sucking slurp as he pushed out, leaving behind a cold sense of absence that was almost as painful as the fullness.
I felt myself looping around his ass with my legs to stop him from completely pulling out of me.
And he drove back in, knocking the breath out of me.
I made the hunhf sound of a boxer against the ropes, and he withdrew.
The electrical crackling of relief pulled noises out of me that no human should ever really make. My legs around his waist, feeling the swell of his perfect ass under the ankles, became a swallowing mouth that pulled him back onto me. I missed the fullness of his penetration, and I wanted to feel the relief of his withdraw again and gain.
That was what fucking was supposed to feel like. It wasn’t about friction, it was about pain. The pain of being full, the pain of being empty. The pleasure of filling, the pleasure of draining. Over and over so fast that it was all one moment of pleasure, all the same endless thumping sensation of being fucked and everything dropping away.
The room swung out of focus. I became a reflex, my hands grasping at his hard back uselessly, pulling him in and in, as if I wanted to stab him into my chest and use his pounding strength as a heart.
“You were right,” I said, as I felt my conscious thoughts begin to fracture in the mounting pleasure, “I want you to use me, if being used feels like this.”
“I could pull out of you right now,” he said. “I could stop fucking you and I could fuck that bitch Leigh-” we both heard a gasp- “again, or I could jerk off and never think of either of you again.”
My mouth chewed on nonsense words and silent rounded syllables. I could barely see, and my skin burned into numbness.
“I could say no to you, to this. Right now.”
“No!” I managed.
“No,” I whispered.
“Leigh, open the door.”
There was a quick, angry flash of brown, and I strained to see through the rocking waves of our fucking, but it was hard to stop gripping up toward his body. I came again.
The orgasms were coming closer together.
When I descended, he wrenched my head up and around so I could see the door. It was open. The heads of a dozen employees looked out of offices down a hallway so long it vanished into a monochromatic distance.
He stopped thrusting, and swung off the table, still connected to me by his cock. He stood, backing so that only the head remained inside my body.
I shoved at the table to impale myself, the freezing lack of fullness filling me with a helpless need to be fucked, to feel him drive up into me again.
“More,” I said. He hadn’t even come. “Mooore…” it was helpless and childlike. Tears exploded from my face. I felt insane, and I couldn’t breathe.
“Sir,” I said. “Sir sir sir sir please oh God don’t… fucking…. STOP!”
I forced myself down so hard that the physical pain of my effort pushed a short little scream out of my mouth.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
“I’m going to give you a choice, little slut.”
“You can pull yourself off of my cock, and Leigh will give you her clothes. Believe me,” he chuckled, “I know you’re the same size.”
He let himself sink a single extra inch into my pussy and I came again in response.
“You can leave, and I’ll give you the best recommendation you can imagine. I’ll even pay off your college. I’ll introduce you to a few people. I’ll clear the path for every dream you’ve ever had.”
He sank in another inch, but slapped me to keep me from coming. I could feel the shape of individual fingers torching my sensitive skin.
“You can leave right now, and have your happy ending. Sit in a chair like mine. Be powerful,” he said. “Stop being desperate. Stop being a whore.”
He smirked. “And never see me or touch me again.”
He pulled the two inches out, and I screamed with frustration.
But it was what I wanted. What I’d come here to get. Better, and with a free education.
It would cost him nothing he cared about, so there was no reason to believe it was a lie. He’d give me everything I wanted. Everything worth having in life.
If I pulled off of his cock.
“What if I don’t?” I asked. I hated myself. I tried to stop moving underneath him and punched the table in frustration because my stillness broke after a few seconds.
The smirk became evil. He wiped the inside of a cheek with his tongue.
“If you don’t,” he said, “you can work here. As anything I require. For half your current salary. And I’ll write threats to anyone who tries to employ you somewhere else, even a pizza place—for as long as you live.”
I froze, though my hips continued to buck and beckon him.
The offer was impossible. The answer was obvious. No one, no one would choose a life of de facto slavery in exchange for a few more minutes of pleasure. An hour?
He let go of my legs. I pushed myself toward him, but he backed slowly away. His head sat in my pussy like a bullet lodged in my soul.
He’d given me the choice between a life of power and not living at all.
“I’ll leave!” I said.
He nodded. Leigh made a disgusted noise.
But when he put his hand at his side, I rushed to force my pussy down on his cock.
“No,” I said. “I have to… stop.”
He smiled a slow, wide, hateful smile.
“Stop,” he said. “Please.” The words were toneless. Dead.
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t do this.”
I had to leave. I had to!
He backed up. The ridge of his cockhead tugged my labia apart as he slid gently out of me. The cold sensation of air tickled the open inside of my grasping pussy.
“NO!” I said. And I used my legs to pull him toward me.
He took the stumbling steps I “forced” him to, smiling like Satan’s Cheshire cat.
“This is assault,” he said, laughing quietly. “You’re raping me.”
“I hate you,” I said, “I hate your incredible penis, I hate your money, I hate touching you.”
“Please don’t,” he grinned. “I’ll give you anything.”
I rolled him onto the table with my legs. My ass still hurt from the spanking, but I got up on his thighs. His cock was like an arm connecting me to his stomach.
“I’ll give you everything,” he continued, hands folded on his chest. He reached out to push me away, lazily, and I threw his hands off me. They slid up and away. He crossed his hands behind his head.
He radiated comfort, and sickening pleasure.
“I’ll give you anything you want,” he said, “if you stop raping me, Sarah.”
“Fuck you,” I said. “You know what I want.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I hate you so fucking much,” I said. I worked another inch into my pussy and winced.
He reached down and grabbed me by a tight handful of stomach. One hand gripping my skin, so strong it might have been my own need. It stopped me from descending on his cock.
“What,” he said, the other hand still behind his head, but his smile gone, “do you want.”
“I want you to fuck me, I’ve said it. Isn’t that enough?”
I threw all my weight onto his cock but his hand kept me suspended.
“Wouldn’t you rather be a ‘Powerful Woman,” he said, making sure I understood that to him, the phrase was a contradiction in terms.
“No,” I whispered.
“Please don’t make me say this,” I whispered.
“Sir,” I whispered.
“Why NOT?” he asked, squeezing my stomach in his grip. I reached down with both of my hands and tried to hold his long fingers.
“Because I want this more,” I said. I was crying openly. I couldn’t even picture my boyfriend’s face.
“Just this? Just this sex? Me?”
“Damn you, you know you’re worth it,” I sobbed.
I wiped my eyes and looked him dead in the face. “You’re worth more than I have to give you,” I admitted. “You’re not just like a God, you are a God. And I worship you. And if you fed my pussy your huge penis I would give up anything, because I’m not strong enough to say no.”
He breathed in, and I felt his cock getting harder, which I didn’t even know was possible. The power of his domination, the extreme nature of it, in front of so many eyes, some of whom bobbed with obvious masturbation as they watched my defilement, seemed to please him more than the sex itself.
“Leigh,” he said.
Papers appeared next to me on the table.
“We’ve already discussed the change in your pay. The rest will only come up if you try to leave, which I urge you to get out of your system early,” he said.
I signed without reading them. It could have been a Power of Attorney. It could have given him my soul.
I didn’t care, because it didn’t matter.
“Now fuck me, you evil pri-”
The “SIR” hit me as he flipped me on my back, the breath slammed from my lungs.
“Never,” he said, “call me anything else. Now or ever again.”
“Sir,” I repeated.
And he fucked the life out of my body there in front of the windows, and everyone on the floor.
He started with a hard slap, enough to wake me out of the mixture of grief and hatred the deal created. There was nothing playful about the way he fucked me, nothing fun.
Sex is not play, and I was not his toy. I was his victim, his meal.
His cock bit into my body with one smooth flick of his waist. It hurt even more that the first time, because this time I was sore. I thanked him as he pushed up into my body and cried with relief. I could feel a tickle in my ribs, and for one insane moment I thought his cock was up in my chest, fucking my heart.
The sudden fantasy of him standing there, my tiny pink heart in his hand, pulsing around his thrusting cock, drove me over an edge I hadn’t known was there.
“Please,” I said, unable to stop myself. “This can’t be the last time.”
His wolf’s grin spread under curled, furious lips.
“Look at me,” he growled. His thumb held me from under my chin. The rough strength of his fingers made my jaw ache. Fluid strokes of his body bent his huge, muscular back, and his cock snaked into me in slow little bites. Pain and relief flickered through my nerves.
I looked into his eyes. They were cold, blue pools lasering into my own terrified gaze.
The yawning fear of everything ending, of never having the thing I knew I needed, the fear that drove me through college, that pulled me away from my boyfriend, that settled me in his company and in his office and up against his window and underneath his powerful body—the fear shook me and I looked away.
This will all end, I thought. I need it. I need to hold on to this feeling.
The feeling was more important than the future. I felt self-hatred overwhelm me.
He slapped me.
“You aren’t even working,” he said. “Look at me.”
I looked. He was a huge arch over my body, with sandy blonde skin and the faint smoke of stubble, muscles flowing as they moved under tight skin. Warm cinnamon smells, soft body smooth, a mouth sucking on the sharpened points of my mediocre breasts, rising to my face, tongue like a blood red finger in my mouth.
I need this, I thought. I will never have this again.
He snarled and let go of my face. His mouth bit my stomach, leaving a little oval of red where he sucked on the skin, marking me.
He bit me again and I gasped.
“You’re a fucking whore,” he said. “But you’re just lying there with your legs spread.”
He licked from my navel up to my neck, a long slow tickle that made me shiver and giggle even though he’d pulled out of me.
As the warm line of saliva pushed into the little U between my breasts, his cock pierced me again.
“You gave it away, all of it, to be a whore. My whore. My thing. And you don’t get to just lay there and take me,” he said. He pushed into me so hard that I slid up the table and he had to pull me back toward him, huge hands on my soft forearms.
He pushed into me and didn’t pull out. Pain mounted. I squirmed and twisted. My stomach bucked and my arms slapped at his body.
He groaned in pleasure as I moved.
“Yes,” he said. “Like that.”
“Come,” he said, as he pulled out. Permission and order. Relief sucked me into orgasm as the pain dropped away. And as I came, he pushed slowly in.
I came with his cock inside me, the intense sensation distracting me from the pain, adjusting me in some terrifying Chiropractic way. I wondered if I would even feel another man. Or if I would even try.
“I can’t believe,” he said, “how much of a waste your boyfriends had to be. I’ve fucked virgins looser than this cunt.” He grunted and I felt a burst of precum burn inside me. I came again.
“Move,” he reminded me. “Please me.”
I kept a rolling wave of movement, arching my back under his thrusts, and it helped with the pain and the relief, keeping a steady in-out sensation that brought me to several more orgasms, each coming quicker than the last, interrupted at the last moment as he spanked or bit some part of my body as I got close.
The lessons got easier.
“Use your mouth,” he said.
I kissed him. He shoved me back, then sucked my lower lip into his mouth and nibbled hard enough to make me grunt.
“No,” he said. “Fucking talk.”
I didn’t say much. Clichés and pleading.
But after a while I lost the ability to control my mouth, and it was all just a steady, low noise. My mouth hung open and slack while he plowed into me, and I moved and struggled and begged with my body, pulling him deeper even when it hurt and feeling myself grow hoarse.
I came again, squeezing his huge bicep so hard that it left a row of little marks.
He sped over my body, alternating between harsh spanking and hard squeezing to keep the orgasms from entirely landing, and pushed them closer and closer together, until each arrival was doubled, then quadrupled.
Finally, at the strategic moment, he pumped faster and they became continuous.
The endless icy arc stretched from my toes to the tip of my hair. I spread my arms out and gripped at nothing, too weak to even close my hands into fists. My mouth opened in a scream so high pitched it was silent.
I lost the ability to see color, and still I rose.
His body was a jackhammer. It was impossible to feel anything but him, and the difference between crying and coming became academic. I was a pure electric sensation, unthinking and mindless, and the pleasure burned away my fear of ends as completely as dying, the way any new and powerful experience will change who you are.
It was like drilling grooves in a record, through miles of exploding neurons soaked in pleasure chemicals like a sodden sponge.
Deep in the frozen scream of my endless orgasm, eyes still and staring, my mouth open and locked, I was tense and motionless, and I felt him speed up again, frantic, as his eyes closed.
His cock began to twitch.
“Do you love me, whore?” he asked, and he choked me so hard I couldn’t have answered even if I knew how.
His own explosive arrival started slow, with the twitch and swell of his huge urethra, the big pipe-like line down the underside of his cock. It jerked, and my pussy filled with a warmth I knew was the first lazy droplets of his cum opening his cock as he came.
His body became a blur in the gray smear of undifferentiated visual sensation as I rose farther in the knowledge that I’d pleased him.
“Come the rest of the way you worthless fucking professional vampire cunt!” He said it as he lost control, his hatred of me peaking, his hate for all the women who took from him, constantly, because they saw him as a means to an end.
And I felt my own arrival come from the edges of my orgasm.
“Come,” he said. Order and permission both.
And, from the starting point of my continuous orgasm, I came.
It wasn’t anything like the euphoria of coming. It was so intense that euphoria would have felt like pain.
I literally did not think I could live. My lungs would not breathe, my heart did not beat. It felt like every cell in my body was coming at once, as if life were a bomb and his cock were the trigger.
I didn’t want it to end, and in a way, it didn’t. His cock gave me a pleasure so intense that I knew it would never completely stop. That the peace and joy of submitting to power would be with me for the rest of my life.
I forgot what hate was. I loved him. If I could love at all. The peace beyond pleasure made love seem too simple and thin. He was consuming me, devouring me, and I wanted to be destroyed. I wanted both of us to do as we were made to.
I understood him.
A woman is just the prey of a man. To love him is to accept her destruction.
Love is nothing more than approval of those things that can’t be changed.
He fucked me and I let him because that’s what prey is for.
I could imagine spending an eternity just standing in the window shading him, and feeling completely fulfilled. Anything he wanted. I could have died at that moment, or lived forever. I could rise or fall. Either would be a success, if I submitted.
It made me feel lucky to be what I was.
There could be no point to life beyond feeling. Nothing but the achievement of that single sensation.
It was impossible to imagine that my body had any other purpose. Because, of course, it didn’t.
This, too, is what prey is for.
It was so much easier than fighting, and so much better than victory.
I felt his cock cumming into me like a gun, each sudden painful bullet of cum spreading over deep and vibrating nerves, soothing and warming and coaxing more and more pleasure from me.
The sensation of accepting him was not merely spiritual, it was all there was.
I descended from the orgasm like a plane falling out of the sky. It hurt. The sudden rush of blood and the weight of my physical body was an unexpectedly agonizing burden. I’d been free, pure light within his prism, moving without touching my body, a spirit in constant flight as he fucked my soul directly through the conduit of my body.
But now it was all flesh, and gravity, the weight of self, and the harshness of oxygen. The pleasure of the orgasm stayed with me, but it was a soft mocking background that made it clear just how pathetic and small my life really was.
What had I been?
Climbing a ladder that didn’t exist to cast my shadow over people I didn’t know, to free myself of a life I didn’t understand?
My former goals disgusted me.
I’d found fulfillment in my own body, just by letting go and letting him.
“I can’t,” I said. I shuddered and rode through the aftershock of a small orgasm.
“You won’t,” he said. He pet my hair the same way he’d pet his own cock. Another aftershock rippled through me. I tried to remember anything that mattered to me, but gave up after a few minutes of trying.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I meant it. I wanted him to forgive me.
To forgive who I was.
“Yes,” he said. He was carefully dressing, snapping sharp creases into the fabric of his shirt and pants as they came together.
“It’s late,” he said. His tie was immaculate. I realized his skin was dry. He hadn’t sweated, not through the whole experience.
I stood, wobbled. My legs didn’t work properly. Not yet. The conference table was clean. I was still wet with him. With myself. I felt the handprint on my stomach and winced as I shifted my weight.
I struggled to think. I tried to remember what I had wanted. Where my purse was. Where I was parked. What I should say.
“Tell me what to do, Sir,” I said.
He shrugged. “Leave,” he said.
I looked at him, confused. “But…”
He pointed at the skyline, as he assembled a cufflink with his other hand.
“The sun is nowhere near the tops of the buildings anymore,” he said.
I looked at him.
“So I don’t need you,” he said.
The jacket slid over his shoulders, black and thin, and clung to his body like an advertisement for the power of sin.
He led me to the door of his office, pushing me between my shoulder blades, and I found myself outside it, walking through a sea of eyes, dripping and bruised.
Because he’d given me permission to come back.
The sun rose every day.
At the elevator, the young security guard pointed to a space in front of the desk where the scanners were. Under his uniform, he had the long unwieldy body of an underdeveloped teen, his round face sprinkled with blemishes. Awkward and child-shaped. I wouldn’t have noticed him when I was a teenager.
“Stand,” he said, “right there. By the scanner.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, smiling. And did as I was told.
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