The coolness of the glass door presses against her back as I hold her there—not hard, but with a pressure that stifles any resistance in its infancy. Her breath catches, her eyes, clever and challenging, seek mine. In them glimmers that spark which has driven me through these nights for weeks.
“Have you completed all your tasks?” My voice remains calm, businesslike as in a meeting. But she knows: This is not one.
“Yes, Sir.” Her mouth forms the words with a blend of pride and submission—precisely that tone I have taught her.
I release her and walk to the desk. Behind the dark pane lies the city, a shimmering sea of lights. I sit down in my leather armchair and wait. She remains by the door, unsure if she may move.
“Come here.”
Three steps. No hesitation. She stands before the desk, hands at her sides, gaze lowered. The skirt of her black sheath dress stretches over her thighs—a fabric that traces her curves as if designed for this moment. I lean back and scrutinize her slowly: from the slender ankles in the pumps to her slightly open mouth, which seems to gasp for air.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her voice is a whisper that echoes in the silence of the room. “I’m here to submit to you.”
I nod. A game—negotiated for weeks, a balancing act of trust and power. She seeks my limits, and I seek hers. Today she will find them.
“Then show me.”
She closes her eyes, and her fingers wander to the zipper at the back of her dress. Slowly—a motion that unfolds in slow motion—she opens it. The sound of the teeth separating is loud in the silence, a metallic whisper that fuels my anticipation. She lets the dress glide over her shoulders, and it falls to her feet—a black pool on the carpet. Only lace panties and bra remain, sheer, transparent. Her body is slender, toned, her breasts firm beneath the fabric. I see the slight curve of her ribs, the delicate line of her waist.
“Continue.”
She unfastens the bra with a click and lets it drop. Her breasts are now bare, nipples hard, dark with desire. But she hesitates at the panties. I see the slight tension in her fingertips—a tremor she can barely suppress.
“I said continue.” My voice turns a shade colder, a hint of steel.
She pushes the fabric over her hips and steps out. Now she stands completely naked before me, hands again at her sides. The glow of the desk lamp paints shadows on her skin—the hollow of her neck, the curve of her hips. I let her stand there as I rise and come around the desk. I circle her like a predator its prey. She trembles, but not from cold. The goosebumps on her arms come from my gaze, from the weight of my attention.
“You chose the wrong wording today at noon.” My fingers glide over her shoulder, down her back—a touch that is both tender and demanding. “In the meeting. You corrected me.”
She swallows audibly. The Adam’s apple in her slender throat moves. “You made a mistake, Sir. It was my duty.”
“Your duty.” I laugh softly, a sound that fades in the silence. “And now? What is your duty now?”
I press her forward, over the edge of the desk. Her hands splay on the polished wood surface, which she cleans with devotion every day. Her breasts press against the wood, the hard tips leaving moist traces. I step behind her and place one hand on her hip, the other on her neck—a gesture that combines possession and guidance.
“Your duty is to obey. To open yourself. To give yourself.”
I feel her arousal as I stroke my fingers over her inner thighs. She is wet—has been for a while. A proof of her desire that she cannot hide. That excites me more than any word she has ever spoken.
“Have you missed lying like this?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her voice is brittle, barely more than a breath.
I withdraw my hand and open my pants. My cock is hard, throbbing, the tip glistening with the moisture that has already gathered. I glide it over her wet slit and see how she arches her back, tenses against my pressure—but I do not penetrate. Not yet. I let her wait, let the tension build until her hips involuntarily thrust toward me.
“Turn around.”
She obeys immediately and sits on the edge of the desk. Her legs dangle, her opening facing me. I remain standing, let her wait—an eternity of seconds. Her eyes are dark, pupils dilated. She bites her lower lip, a sign of her impatience.
“I want you to look at me while I come into you.”
I step between her thighs and push her legs apart. She opens willingly—her wet opening glistens in the light of the desk lamp, a wet mirror of her desire. I guide my cock to her, rub the head against her clit, slowly, in circles, until she begins to pant.
“Please, Sir.”
“Please what?”
“Please take me.”
I thrust in. In one hard, flowing motion, I slide into her. She gasps—a sound between pain and pleasure—her fingers claw into the edge of the desk, knuckles white. I stay inside for a moment, feel her warmth, the tightness that envelops me like a fist of velvet.
Then I begin to take her. No gentle love play—hard, steady thrusts that make the desk creak. Each thrust drives her deeper into surrender. Her head falls back, her breasts bob in rhythm, the nipples drawing white arcs in the air. I lean forward and suck on one nipple, bite gently until she cries out.
“Yes, Sir!”
I straighten up and grip her shoulders, pressing her deeper into the seat. My pace quickens, the rhythm relentless. Her voice grows shriller—she is close. I feel her muscles contract around me, like a wave rising up.
“Come for me.”
She obeys. Her body tenses—a scream stifled in a moan. Her moisture runs down my thighs, a warm stream. But I am not finished yet. I wait until her trembling subsides, and then I thrust further, deeper.
“Again.”
Her eyes widen—surprise, but she nods. I grip her hips and change the angle, seeking the spot that erases her. And I find it—a place that makes her groan.
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