Submission Clause

I didn’t come to work today intending to seduce my boss, but it seems the universe had other plans. The prospectus I was supposed to prepare for our CEO had suddenly vanished from my computer.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… no, no, no, no, no!” I muttered under my breath. “This can’t be happening. This cannot be fucking happening.”

I’d taken this job as an administrative assistant because… well, any port in a storm. Up until a few months ago, I was a teacher—living with my parents at thirty-three years old. Yeah, no. I had to have some dignity. So, the moment I landed this job, I quit teaching without a second thought. No regrets. My salary doubled, and while I’d traded three hundred hormone-riddled, emotionally unstable teenagers for thirty hormone-riddled, emotionally unstable middle-aged men, I’d take this chaos over that any day. I had my own place. I paid all my own bills. Life was good.

Until now.

Until I fucked up so badly that this mistake wasn’t just going to cost me my job—it was going to take down other people with it. And that was guilt I just couldn’t live with.

So yeah. I had two master’s degrees, and I was about to throw myself onto the sword of “forgive me because I’m pretty.” Flirting my way out of this mess wasn’t my proudest moment, but the way I saw it, the worst that could happen was he’d flirt back, I’d set feminism back a couple of decades, and he’d agree to reschedule the meeting. Then I’d spend all night putting the presentation back together.

I glanced down, popped open a button on my blouse, and pulled my hair loose from its messy bun. Chestnut waves tumbled over my shoulders, and I was grateful I’d already done my makeup this morning. Since we were the only two in the office this early, at least if this plan crashed and burned—and he tore into me—I wouldn’t have an audience to witness my humiliation.

Peeking into Mr. V’s office, I took a steadying breath. I rarely said his full name—it always felt like a tongue twister.

Dorian Vasilakis.

Proud. Ruthless. A complete asshole to everyone, myself included. But I’d have to be blind not to admit he wasn’t hard on the eyes. Tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of man who filled out a suit like it had been custom-made for him—because, let’s be real, it probably was. Dark olive skin. Black hair, always slicked back. And those hands.

The only part of him I really got to see up close. Large, strong, constantly crushing something in his palm—whether it was crumpled paper or one of the stress balls he kept in a bowl on his desk. Sitting just outside his office every day, I’d lost count of how many times I’d heard the sheer force of his fingers striking his keyboard. I was honestly surprised I hadn’t had to replace the damn thing yet.

And now, I was about to walk into that office and risk his wrath—armed with nothing but a deep breath, a half-open blouse, and a prayer.

“Elena, you know how much I love when you just linger in my doorway.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Today is not the day to test my patience. We have a lot to do before the pitch this afternoon. Spit it out.”

I took a deep breath. “Well… about that pitch…”

His hands stilled, and he turned his dark brown eyes on me. “What? Did they cancel? Reschedule?”

Without meaning to, I swallowed hard and dropped my gaze. I couldn’t even look at him. I hated disappointing him. Another deep breath.

“Elena…” His voice sharpened. “Spit. It. Out.” Each word was slow, deliberate, laced with a venom he’d never directed at me before.

I bit my lip and decided to just rip the bandage off. My cowardice was only making this worse.

“They didn’t reschedule, but… we might need to. Because… I lost the prospectus.”

The confession rushed out of me at a mile a minute, and I could only hope he caught all of it because I didn’t think I had the strength to say it again.

Silence.

I was still staring at the carpet. Nothing. No reaction.

I risked looking up—and instantly regretted it.

His eyes had narrowed, and the look he gave me sliced me in half.

I was so getting fired today.

Tears prickled at my eyes. And despite my earlier thoughts of manipulating him, I really didn’t want him to see me cry.

I clung to the doorframe, like it could somehow anchor me, keep me from being swept away by the storm that was about to hit. Because that’s exactly what he looked like—flashes of fury in his eyes, like lightning on the horizon, the sky turning darker by the second.

And I deserved it. I deserved the fury. Any excuse I had considered offering had long since died on my tongue.

His lips finally parted, and I half expected a thunderclap, lightning to strike me dead center.

I flinched.

That tiny movement only made it worse.

He rose from his chair, his voice tense but controlled. Too controlled.

“Get in this office. Now.”

Any rational person would run from the storm of the century. But here I was, being summoned into the eye of it.

And for some reason, my feet obeyed.

I let go of the frame and stepped fully into view. His gaze flickered downward, tracking the movement. I followed the trajectory of his eyes—until I saw exactly what had caught his attention.

My cleavage.

Staring right back at him.

Oh. Right. I’d unbuttoned my blouse.

I’d completely forgotten about that. And suddenly, whatever storm I had expected before? Yeah. Now it was on fire.

The next five minutes of yelling were excruciating—somehow made even worse by the fact that I stood there with my blouse open and my hair tousled.

Honestly, what the fuck was I thinking?

At least if I’d kept my damn shirt buttoned, I could have pretended to look professional. But no—no—in my desperate attempt to avoid consequences, I had tossed that shield aside.

And then he said it.

“And your shirt… why today, of all days, would your shirt be—”

He cut himself off mid-sentence, as if some realization had just dawned on him.

My internal monologue went into overdrive. No, no, no, no. No. Keep yelling at me. Don’t dwell on my cleavage. Don’t think about what I failed to do. Don’t make another failure obvious.

His hands, which had been animated in reprimand just moments ago, pressed against the desk as he leaned forward, his gaze locking onto me—intense, unrelenting, like he was staring straight into my soul.

I avoided his eyes. Stared at anything else. Anything. The floor. The wall. The air vent. The door… so close. I could walk out right now, quit, grab my purse and my cold coffee, and never have to relive this humiliating moment again.

So why was I still rooted to this spot?

Then, I heard a laugh.

Odd.

I double-checked—no, it hadn’t come from me.

I tore my teary eyes away from the door and looked at Mr. V. He was still staring at me—but now he was smiling.

Make no mistake, this wasn’t a comforting smile. Not by a long shot. The corners of his lips pulled back, exposing his teeth, but the storm still raged in his eyes. The darkness and the smile… they didn’t belong together.

I wanted him to start yelling again—because right now, it looked like he might eat me.

“Stand up.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.

“Did I fucking stutter? Stand up.”

My lips parted slightly, but I didn’t hesitate. I stood, fully expecting to be escorted out of the building—until he said…

“Close the door and come right back to this same spot.”

My eyebrows knitted together in confusion, but maybe this was progress. I scurried to the door and gently closed it.

I had just turned to walk back when he added, “Lock it.”

Well, maybe this wasn’t progress after all…

Returning to the chair with far less enthusiasm, I stood exactly where he’d instructed.

“Finish unbuttoning your shirt.”

I recoiled, despite having earlier resigned myself to using my body as a last-ditch effort to keep my job. Instinctively, one hand clutched my shirt closed. And then it happened—something I saw, something I felt, yet even now, it still seems surreal.

His expression twisted—annoyance flickering across his face. The smile disappeared. Slowly, deliberately, he moved to his left, stepped around the desk, and approached me with a kind of savage determination. One of his broad, beastly hands swatted mine away from my shirt, and in my stupor, I didn’t resist. I only watched as his hands gripped the fabric.

Time seemed to slow. I followed every movement, saw the gradual tensing of muscle and tendon. As he reached for me, his sleeves pulled back, revealing dark hairs escaping from the cuffs—a detail that only deepened the image forming in my mind. A brute. A man of the wilderness, where laws and norms held little meaning, where consequence was a distant notion.

The strength in those hands, in the arms they extended from, could break me. I could have screamed. I could have stopped this. There were at least ten moments where I could have said, No.

But I didn’t. And I don’t know why.

His hands jerked down and away. My blouse never stood a chance against his brute force. He could have left it hanging from me in tattered ruins—but he didn’t stop there. He yanked it off my shoulders, dragged it down my arms, and flung it carelessly into the corner behind him.

The office air prickled against my skin. Not unbearably cold, but suddenly sharp and inescapable now that I stood there, nearly half-naked. I may have been freezing, or frightened, or ashamed—maybe all three—but I can’t even remember deciding to wrap my arms around myself.

What I do remember is the moment I moved to hug my own body—a sharp sting cracking across my right hand.

He had slapped it away.

“Now you want to be modest?”

The smile had returned. And the chill I felt had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

“Your fuck-up has left a multi-million dollar deal hanging by a thread.” His voice was calm, almost amused. “You walked into my office looking sorry, but with your tits front and center, thinking—what, exactly?”

I trembled. I didn’t want to answer that.

I felt his gaze roam over me, assessing. I kept mine locked on the floor, focusing on the shine of his polished leather shoes. His feet shifted. A slow, deliberate step to my left. Then another. He moved closer, stopping just beside my shoulder.

“Answer me.”

His voice was lower now, closer, the command curling against my ear.

I bit my lip to keep it from trembling.

He exhaled sharply, then turned, stepping in front of me again. Waiting. Expecting an answer I was too ashamed to give.

Silence stretched between us.

Finally, he moved to my right, pacing a short distance before stopping in front of me once more.

“Fine. You don’t want to talk? Then I’ll answer.” His tone darkened. “And if you don’t like what I have to say? Well… you had your chance.”

He stepped in. Close. Too close.

His fingers hooked beneath the strap of my bra, tugging it down, exposing more of my shoulder.

“I’d bet my entire company you’ve done this before.” His voice was quiet, but the weight of his words pressed against me. “You’ve fucked around at work. And because you’re pretty, people have let you get away with it.”

My breath caught. I wanted to deny it, but my jaw refused to move. All I could do was shake my head.

“Oh? Did I get that wrong?” His head tilted slightly, studying me. “Did I misread the way you trade on your sex?”

His hand lifted, fingers skimming over the exposed curve of my breast, tracing lightly until they met the lace of my bra. He followed the fabric toward my arm, up to the strap biting into my shoulder.

“You’ve fucked a coworker before.”

Not a question. A accusation and a verdict.

My stillness should have been answer enough. But then came the heat. I felt it creeping up my skin—embarrassment, yes. But something else, something far more familiar. Desire. As much as I wanted to deny it, the memories surfaced anyway.

The varsity coach.

And then, the science teacher.

Mr. V laughed softly, darkly. “Oooh… you did.”

“Say it. Out loud. Tell me what you did.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. I couldn’t. I couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t admit that I had been out of control. That if I hadn’t left that job, it was only a matter of time before I fucked the wrong person and got myself fired.

A heavy sigh. Then, the slow glide of his fingers over my skin as he slipped the other strap from my shoulder. I realized too late—he had moved to my left again. My eyes fluttered open, suddenly intent on keeping track of him.

“You seem to think I’m asking questions.” His voice was low, measured. “That you have the option not to give me what I want.”

A pause. Then, his next words sent a chill down my spine.

“I do have one question for you.”

He shifted, his body closer than before.

“Do I scare you?”

My body knew the answer before my lips could form the words. But telling him—admitting that having him this close after he had torn my shirt off was as terrifying as it was intoxicating—felt… complicated.

I parted my lips, preparing to respond.

But before I could, he kicked the chair behind me away.

It wasn’t some flimsy office chair. It was solid wood, with leather cushions and metal rivets. And yet, it flew across the room, crashing against the wall with an impact that rattled the framed certificates hanging beside it.

The sudden, effortless violence snapped me out of my haze of shame and humiliation. That was his point. He wanted me to see just how much raw power he possessed.

Message received.

Instinct took over. My body screamed at me to move, to get away. My feet shifted—

I didn’t make it far.

Anticipating my escape, his hand shot out, closing around my throat.

A strangled gasp left me, half a breath away from a full scream. His fingers tightened, not enough to cut off air but enough to make it clear—I wasn’t going anywhere.

He pulled me toward him. I stumbled, off balance, and before I could right myself, he wrenched me backward. The edge of the desk slammed into the backs of my thighs. I yelped, hands flying up in a desperate attempt to pry his fingers off my neck. My nails raked at his wrist, his shirt, his jacket—anything to loosen his grip.

My eyes, wide and panicked, finally met his for the first time since he had stripped me of my blouse.

And what I saw there chilled me.

He wasn’t angry. He was smiling.

A slow, cruel stretch of his lips. Not a smirk. Not amusement. But something far more dangerous. He liked this. He liked my struggle. My powerlessness.

And in that moment, I knew.

He’s a sadistic bastard and I am completely fucked.

His grip flexed, fingers pressing into my pulse as he tilted his head. Instead of contemplating self-preservation like a normal person, I wondered if he could feel my heart racing through those same fingers.

“Do you understand now?” His voice was calm. Almost conversational. “Do you see what door you opened here?”

His free hand traced a path up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair at the base of my skull until he closed his hand into a fist, pulling my head back sharply and arching my body against him. He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek as he whispered:

“The fresh fucking hell I am going to unleash on you for fucking me over today…I really don’t think you’re ever going to be the same.”

His hand released my throat and I immediately inhaled as much air as I could.

He took half a step back, and in the same calm tone, he addressed me by name for what would be the last time that day.

“Elena, I’m serious. I plan to make you suffer if you stay. You can quit right now and walk away. But if you stay, I’m going to use you. I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to let other people use you and hurt you. This is your one and only chance to leave…no one in this building will lift a finger to help you and at the end of the day, I might fire you anyway if this mess doesn’t get sorted out. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I listened to him giving me an out, literally offering to let me go and also…let me go. He warned me that he wouldn’t hold back, that I should expect pain and humiliation. That I shouldn’t expect anyone to help me. He needed to know I understood, that everything up until this moment has been just a taste of the intimidation and hurt he’s capable of.

I think he’s the one who doesn’t understand.

Not only do I want this…

I deserve it.

I think about the outfits I’ve worn to the office—the pencil skirts hugging every curve, the form-fitting dresses that clung just a little too well. The blouses that dipped low, revealing just enough décolletage to belong more at a cocktail party than a Monday morning staff meeting. Even today, my choice of clothing is inappropriate—something straight out of Mad Men. A sheer, billowy white blouse, the buttons starting far too low, teasing more than concealing. The black polka dots do little to hide what’s underneath—my black lace balconette bra, its delicate details visible beneath the thin fabric. And he hasn’t even seen the sheer panties under the black skirt. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s at least imagined it, the outline of my underwear being plainly visible under the fabric. What do I really leave to the imagination?

For fuck’s sake, literally—every single day, I’ve been calling attention to myself, one way or another. And for what? To get fucked.

Did I sabotage the presentation on purpose?

Did I lose it… just so I could put myself in this position?

I swallowed hard, an act all the more visible because he was still pulling my head back.

“Mr. Visalkis,” I started, my voice sounding small and uneven. “I did fuck my coworkers at my last job. I think I’ve fucked a coworker at every job I’ve ever had. I don’t know why, I can’t seem to stop myself. This was the first job I’ve had where I thought I wouldn’t…but it seems like I can’t help it.”

I saw him nod. That was my submission and he accepted it.

His grip in my hair tightened.

“And what does that make you?” He asked the question as if he already had his answer.

“I…I don’t know.”

He leaned in close again, pressing his body against mine.

“Your body was made for fucking,” he hissed in my ear.

The heavy hand resting on my thigh began to slide down towards the hem of my skirt. I wasn’t able to see his motions but I felt the forceful tug. The skirt resisted him at first. The fabric being as tight as it was, I could barely pick my pen off the floor when I’d dropped it. The tug that followed was more than a tug and I heard the fabric rip at the seam behind my thighs. He yanked again. More fabric surrendered and I could almost imagine the threads still holding the skirt together snapping individually, an image that increasingly mirrored my self-control.

My clothes were my choice. They broadcast my sexuality, hiding and revealing what I wanted people to see. And here he was, stripping me of it piece by piece.

“Do you deny it?” He pulled at the skirt again and more fabric gave way. I couldn’t imagine there was much of the seam left. “Do you deny this body was made to give pleasure to others? That you feel the most complete when there is a cock inside you? A mouth on your nipple…or your clit?”

He pulled again and my freshly bared ass was met by the cold, hard surface of the desk. The only piece still secured was around my waist and then I’d be at his mercy in nothing but my bra, panties, and heels.

My anticipation was met with stillness. He held the fabric tightly and it struck me that he was waiting for me to answer him. These weren’t rhetorical questions. He wanted answers but I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to like them.

“I don’t deny it.”

I watched his eyes narrow, studying my face expectantly.

“My body was made for fucking…” I paused, then added, “And to be fucked.”

He waited for more.

“I am happiest when I’m being fucked, thinking about being fucked, and fucking myself. Man, woman, it doesn’t matter. I just want someone to use my body and tell me how good I feel.”

I couldn’t believe the words I was hearing were pouring from my own mouth but once I started I couldn’t stop.

“I love being thrown onto my hands and knees and fucked like a bitch. I love having a fist in my hair and being face fucked until they explode down my throat or paint my tits with their cum. My ass—”

A tear escaped my right eye before I began to sob.

I wasn’t crying because I was sad or angry. No. It was because this was the first time I’d said any of this out loud to another human being, despite having said this to myself for years. And in some twisted way, it felt like I was unburdening myself to someone who understood and could take me further than even I knew I wanted to go.

He twisted his fist in my hair, bringing my attention back to the moment.

“Finish telling me about your ass.”

I winced at the fresh pain in my scalp but attempted to compose myself. After a breath and sniffle, I finished with, “My ass…is yours. Everything. All of it. My whole body. To do with as you see fit.”

The smile on his face broadened at hearing those words.

“You’ve finally managed to do something right today. Now answer the last question. What…does…that…make…you?”

I bite my lip. This was it—the moment of no return. Whatever he, or anyone else, called me after this wouldn’t matter, because I said it first. Claimed it. Owned it. There’s power in that, even if it comes at a cost. Because the truth is, I’ve always known. Deep down, for as long as I can remember… I’ve known exactly what I am.

“A slut.” The words were barely audible, even to me.

“LOUDER,” he shouted.

“A SLUT!” I matched his volume immediately.

“And?”

“And a whore,” I added, my voice much stronger this time.

“And?”

“And a cock-worshiping, cum-hungry bitch in heat.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. With what looked like barely any effort on his part, the skirt was finally torn free from my body and in my addled mind, I likened the tearing of my clothes to the shedding of a chrysalis.

“Yes, you are,” he said, tossing the skirt into the corner with my blouse. “And if you aren’t now, by the end of today you will be.”

The free hand rested lightly on my neck and then traced a line downward from my collar bone, between my breasts, down my belly, all the way to the top of my panties. A moan escaped me at feeling his touch so close to my pussy that had already begun to pulse during my little confession. His smile turned into a light chuckle. The free hand ascended quickly, my chin pinched between the thumb and four fingers, forcing me to look at him.

“Your only purpose today is to be used. Your mouth, pussy, and ass are going to be cum receptacles for me and anyone else I choose. Your name is princess fleshlight, because that is what your body is, a living, breathing fleshlight…but I’ll call you princess for short sometimes. Nod if you understand.”

I didn’t hesitate and nodded as much as his hands would let me.

He paused and studied my face, searching it for any sign of defiance. A part of him wants me fight, refuse, and defy…if only to justify more punishment.

And I, the dirty little slut, princess fleshlight, will oblige.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he added.

He released my chin and the hand immediately dropped to the beautiful black lace across my chest.

I look up. We locked eyes.

He cocked his head, lips curving into that wicked smile.

“You won’t be needing these.”

The sudden force of his grip sent a sharp jolt through me. The straps snapped instantly, the lace biting into my skin before giving way. The band around my torso resisted at first, tugging me one way even as the fist still tangled in my hair pulled me in the other.

The tearing of fabric filled the silence, a slow, merciless unraveling.

And it didn’t stop there.

Finally, he released my hair—only to turn me around and push me forward, bending me over the desk.

So much happened in that one motion.

The sound of ripping filled my ears. The ruined panties were tossed onto the desk in front of me, a silent message.

Nothing will be hidden from me.

And there I was. Bent over his desk in nothing but pair of high heeled shoes, my bare breasts crushed against the cold hard wood. As much as I was tempted to look behind me, I stared straight ahead. Papers all around me, the monitor and keyboard just inches from my face…so many details I just couldn’t be bothered with because I knew what was coming next. Because behind me stood a man who made no secret of what he wanted to do, of what he planned to do.

“Let’s see what the rest of my playground looks like.”

He kicked one of my feet to the side and then the other and for the first time, I was completely exposed to him. Visually, I focused on nothing but every sound and sensation behind me triggered a response. His hands came to my hips and it occurred to me that in this whole time, he had not once touched a breast, nipple, or ass cheek. He’d never moved towards my pussy or my asshole despite that both were completely at his mercy at the moment. And for some reason, this made me upset.

I wanted him to touch me and I wanted that touch to be unforgiving.

I wiggled my hips and only in that movement did I realize exactly how close he was. The lips of my pussy grazed the fabric of his dark blue suit. He’d positioned himself right between my legs.

My wiggle was unappreciated and his fingertips curled tightly, digging his nails into my hips. I inhaled sharply at the delicious sensation of pain and had expected him to let go when I stopped wiggling.

He didn’t.

“Let me explain something to you,” he started, digging his fingers in just a micrometer more. “You’re mine. You’re not leaving this office unless you want to walk out buck naked in front of every employee. You’re lucky I don’t have a collar and a leash or you’d be tethered to a bolt in the wall or my desk the rest of the day.”

The image sent ripples of goose flesh across my arms and shoulders.

“And yes,’ he continued. “You’re cute…but you’re not that cute. I fuck you when I want to fuck you. Wiggling your ass or any other attempts at seducing will only get you punished. Tell me you understand.”

I nodded.

Fresh flashes of pain hit me where his fingers gripped my flesh even harder.

“You don’t nod when I’ve told you to tell me you understand. You say, Yes, Master. Now, tell me you understand.”

“YES…”, the sound of my voice was more shrill than I would have liked, my mind still adjusting to his sadistic correction of errors. I cleared my throat and made another attempt.

“Yes, Master, I understand.”

His fingers released and despite maintaining he would not show me any kindness, I noticed his fingers briefly massaged the skin he’d just pierced with his nailed. Or maybe I imagined it because it was quickly followed by a quick swat to one cheek and a highly seductive, “There a good slut.”

The hands slid away and I could no longer feel him touching me. My gaze remained fixed ahead, my own choice, so whatever he was doing behind me…I gave myself no clue. I do love torturing myself.

“Bring those hands back to your ass. Spread yourself and show me the holes that belong to me. And be quick…your coworkers should be arriving soon.”

Fuck. Fuck me. What was I doing? If someone walked into his office during the day, would I hide in his private bathroom until they left? Or would he force me to be seen? My ears attempted to hone into any sound they could hear outside the office. Maybe if I could stay quiet, so one would ever know…

THWAACK.

The pain that currently radiated from where his hand had come to meet my right ass cheek was vivid and left me breathless. I chose not the breath because if I exhaled, it would have been a scream heard at least three floors up and down.

“Hesitation is punished.” He voice was flat and cold. He was not amused. “I told you to do something. I don’t repeat myself. If you make me repeat myself, I will parade you around the cubicles outside while you crawl on your hands and knees. Tell me you understand.”

“Yes, Master. I understand,” I offered through gritted teeth, still acclimating to the impact of his hand. My hands left the desk, my arms extending downward towards my hips to grab a handful of flesh on either side and do as I was told.

“My holes, Master.”

He cleared his throat. “Who’s holes, princess?”

I took a deep breath and corrected myself.

“I’m sorry, Master. Your holes, Master.”

“Mm-hmm…better.”

It seemed like an eternity, standing like that. I got the impression that he was going to pretend I wasn’t there a lot today. I suppose we’ll see how that plan works for the both of us. I don’t do too well with being ignored.

I heard the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle coming undone, followed by the slow, deliberate descent of a zipper.

My pussy responded in almost Pavlovian fashion.

The sound of spit reached my ears—a sharp, knowing gesture that sent a shiver down my spine. His free hand found my hip, firm and possessive, followed by the sound of spit again. This time, I felt it land on me. The wet warmth of his saliva briefly branded me before cooling in the conditioned air of his office. There was no way to ignore the slow, arduous trailing of his spit towards my slit just before the head of his cock spread it to the entrance of my ridiculously soaked and throbbing pussy. Another pause. Another breath. And then the slow, deliberate press of his body against mine, the tension between us reaching its peak.

I felt his hand abandon my hip, his palm sliding up along my spine, settling at the back of my neck, pressing me down with just enough force to remind me exactly who was in control. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, anticipation coiling tight in my stomach. My cheek rested against the desk’s cool surface, and in the faint reflection of glass beyond us, I caught a glimpse—just a fragment—of the scene unfolding behind me. It was only a partial reflection but in it, I caught just the top of my body and…Master leaning over me.

Pressure divided my labia and this was followed by the weight of his upper body pinning my face, neck, and cheek under him. I gasped at being filled with so little warning.

But he had warned me.

Outside, the office stirred to life. Footsteps. Distant voices. People arriving for the day, oblivious—or perhaps not—to the unspoken battle of wills happening just behind this closed door.

His other hand found my right hip, nails once again digging into my skin. Evidently content with his cock head inside me, the rest was a simple matter of thrusting until he was buried inside me, balls deep.

His grip tightened, the pressure unyielding, grounding me in the moment. I clenched my fists, nails biting into the desk’s polished surface as he moved against me with purpose, every shift of his body a calculated display of dominance. He said nothing at first, just a low grunt of satisfaction, his control absolute. I suppressed a scream. He pulled me back just as he thrust himself forward, filling me even more than I had previously thought possible.

And he continued to punish me with it.

He slammed himself against me, repeatedly and said nothing. Just grunted. His grip around my neck was secure, however, and he was able to hold me in place for each successive thrust. The pain was gradually turning into pleasure and my stifled moans began to match his grunting, the rhythmic slapping of his skin against mine.

Without missing a beat, he leaned forward, adding to the pressure against my back and someone forcing me to take him even deeper. And my body, the wanton little bitch it is, accommodated him…not that he cared.

“This is what you were made for.” Each word punctuated with its own thrust.

“Yes, Master,” I panted in return. I didn’t want the others in the office to hear but he didn’t seem to care. If anyone walked past his office door, they would hear the fucking and the grunting…

“Good. Because this won’t be the last time you get bent over and taken with zero warning today.” His pace quickening, as if the realization that he’d have me for his free use all day was accelerating his orgasm.

It was then it dawned on me, my own realization…that he’d be cumming inside me, others would be cumming inside me. No barriers, not a thought of what might happen 9 days down the line, much less 9 months. Pure primal lust, a need fulfilled. That alone triggered every breeding fantasy I’d ever had. Despite him not caring if I came or not, I felt my pussy contracting. Gripping and milking his cock with every fiber of its slick being.

His grip on my hip and neck acted as a harness and he used it to pull me back onto him as he slammed his cock into me. As much as I could, I looked back and caught him scanning the scene before him, drinking in just how much of a whore I could make myself for the right person. For him.

I didn’t think it was possible but I could feel his cock getting stiffer and his pace picked up speed. The grip on my neck tightened, the fingertips digging as much into my skin there as they had into my hip.

His grunting became panting which shifted into moaning and I matched his with mine. I arched my back and tried to take more of him just as the hand on my neck snatched a handful of hair and pulled my chest and head off the desk by just a few inches.

“Fuck me, I am going to ruin you today and you don’t even know it. This…pussy…is…mine!”

The last thrust stayed planted inside me and I felt his cock pulsing with my own body. He pushed my head back toward the desk and held me down until the throbbing subsided.

“Every last drop…” He almost slurred those words and I couldn’t resist smiling.

I sighed, catching my own breath and waiting for him to slide out of me. I couldn’t hear the usual office commotion in the office outside. It all had gone eerily quiet. Those fuckers knew what was happening but at least for now they didn’t know it was me.

And I could confidently say Mr. V was wrong about one thing.

He said he was going to ruin me and I didn’t know it.

Not only did I know it.

I wanted more.