Dave’s fingers were still buried deep, three thick digits stretching me open with slow, punishing patience. Every time I tried to push back for more friction, he stilled—completely—until I whimpered and went pliant again. My forehead pressed to the cool table, breath fogging the surface, wrists still locked in his single grip above my head like I was under arrest.
“Look at you,” voice thick with satisfaction. “The man who signs my timesheets, who writes me up for raising my voice… bent over your own desk with your trousers round your ankles and my fingers up your arse. Dripping for it.”
He twisted his wrist just enough to graze my prostate again. My whole body jolted; a broken moan tore out of me.
“That’s the spot, isn’t it?” He pressed there deliberately, rubbing in tight, merciless circles. “Right here. Makes your cock leak like a fucking tap. Bet you’ve jerked off thinking about me doing exactly this—haven’t you, boss?”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form words. Only a slight sound that might have been agreement.
He chuckled, low and filthy. “Thought so. Every time you called me into this office, every time you sat there all prim behind your desk looking down at me… you were already imagining it. Me taking what you pretend you don’t want to give.”
He withdrew his fingers suddenly—empty, aching—and I whined at the loss, hips rocking uselessly into nothing.
“Shhh.” His palm cracked once across my arse—not hard, just sharp enough to sting and bloom heat. “You don’t get to chase it. You get what I decide to give you.”
The sound of his belt buckle coming undone was obscene in the quiet room. Leather sliding through loops. Zip dragged down. Then the heavy, hot weight of him resting against the cleft of my arse—thick, slick at the tip already, painting wet streaks across my skin.
“Feel that?” He rocked forward, letting the head nudge my hole without pushing in. “That’s what you’ve been begging for without saying the words. My cock. Stretching you. Filling you. Owning you.”
I tried to spread wider, holding me still.
“Say it.”
My voice cracked. “Please—”
“Not good enough.” He slapped my arse again—harder this time. The crack echoed off the filing cabinets. “Say it properly.”
I swallowed, pride crumbling under the weight of raw need. “Fuck me, Dave. Please. I need it.”
He leaned over me, chest to my back, mouth at my ear. “Need what?”
“Your cock,” I gasped. “Need you to fuck me. Own me. Please.”
There it was—the surrender he’d been waiting for.
“Good boy.”
He lined up and pushed in slow—agonisingly slow—inch by thick inch, letting me feel every ridge, every vein, until his hips met my arse and he was seated to the hilt. The stretch burned, then bloomed into something overwhelming, perfect. I keened, loud and shameless.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, holding still, letting me adjust. “Gripping me like you never want me to leave. Like this cunt was made for me.”
He pulled out halfway—then slammed back in. Once. The desk creaked; my whole body rocked forward.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Take every fucking inch like the needy little slut you are.”
He set a rhythm then—deep, controlled, relentless. Each thrust punched the air out of my lungs, drove my cock against the edge of the desk so I was grinding helplessly against the wood. Pre-come smeared everywhere; I didn’t care. Couldn’t care.
“Look at you,” he panted between thrusts. “Manager of the fucking year… getting railed over your own paperwork. Bet half the staff would come in their pants if they knew. Bet they’d line up to watch me wreck their boss.”
He changed the angle—hit that spot dead-on—and my vision whited out for a second.
“Dave—fuck—right there—”
“Yeah?” He hammered it again. “Right here? Where I own this pretty arse? Where I make you come apart?”
“Yes—God—yes—”
His hand left my hip, just holding, possessive. The other slid down, fisted my cock in a tight, dry grip.
“No hands,” he ordered. “You come from my cock or you don’t come at all. Understand?”
I nodded frantically, words gone.
He fucked me harder, faster, skin slapping skin, desk rattling. His breath was ragged against my neck, voice dropping to pure filth.
“You’re mine now, bossman. This hole? Mine. This cock? Leaking for me. This whole fucking office? Smells like sex and surrender because of me. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I called out. “Yours—fuck—Dave, I’m yours—”
“That’s right. “My good little manager slut. Gonna fill you up. Gonna mark you inside so every time you sit in this chair tomorrow you’ll feel me dripping out of you.”
The thought snapped something inside me.
I came—hard, untouched—shuddering, clenching around him, spilling across the desk in thick ropes. A broken cry ripped from my throat.
Dave groaned, hips stuttering. “Fuck—yeah—milk me—take it—”
He buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural sound, flooding me, pulse after hot pulse until I could feel it leaking out around his cock.
He stayed inside me for long moments, both of us panting, trembling. Then he leaned down, kissed the back of my neck—almost tender.
“See?” he murmured, voice wrecked but smug. “Told you I’d take it all back.”
He pulled out slowly, deliberately, letting me feel the wet slide, the emptiness. A trickle of his come followed, warm down my thigh.
He turned me around—gentler now and kissed me deep, slow, claiming.
“When this meeting’s over,” he said against my lips, . “Andwe’re doing it again. Slower. Harder until you can’t remember ever thinking you were in charge.”
I nodded, boneless, owned.
Completely his. |
