Chapter 186 My Boss Fucks Me Senseless
SARAH
I lay on my back in our king-sized bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin at first but now sticky with sweat. Alex, my husband of four years, was above me, thrusting in that mechanical way he always did—quick, shallow pumps that barely registered. I was wet, like always; my body responded the second he kissed me, slick heat building between my folds until I was dripping onto the mattress. But he never took his time, never explored, just chased his own finish.
He grunted once, twice, then pulled out, spilling his cum across my stomach in hot, thin ropes. He rolled off me with a sigh, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand to wipe himself clean. "You're wet," he said, voice flat, not even looking at me. "But you don't do anything. Just lie there like a fucking corpse. No movement, no noise. It's like I'm doing all the work."
The words stung, familiar but no less sharp. I propped myself on my elbows, forcing a weak smile. "I was trying. It felt good, I just..."
He snorted, already reaching for the remote to flip on the TV. "Yeah, sure. Watch some porn or something. Get ideas. I even bought you that dildo last Christmas—use it. Learn how to fuck like a real woman instead of making me feel like I'm humping a pillow."
Humiliation burned in my chest. The dildo was still in its box under the sink, untouched because every time I thought about it, his voice echoed: frigid, boring. I slid out of bed without a word, my thighs slick with my own arousal that he'd ignored. The bathroom door shut behind me, and I turned the shower on hot, stepping under the spray to let the water drown out everything.
Tears came fast, mixing with the steam. I leaned against the tiled wall, hand trailing down my stomach. My fingers found my clit, swollen and sensitive, and I circled it slowly at first. Why can't he see how much I want it? I thought, pressing harder. I'm always so ready, so wet for him. But the image in my mind shifted. Not Alex. Damien Blackwood—my new boss. I'd started as his executive assistant last week, and already his face haunted me. Those sharp gray eyes, the way his tailored suit hugged his broad shoulders, his deep voice barking orders that made my knees weak.
I dipped two fingers inside myself, gasping at how easily they slid in. My pussy clenched around them, hot and greedy. I imagined Damien pushing me against his office door, his hand around my throat—not hurting, just holding me there while he whispered, You're mine now. His cock—God, I bet it was thick, veined, the kind that stretched you until you screamed. I pumped faster, thumb grinding my clit, water cascading over my tits as my nipples hardened. My breaths came in short pants, hips rocking against my hand. The orgasm hit sudden and hard—my walls fluttering, slick gushing over my fingers as I bit my forearm to muffle the moan. I slid down the wall, legs trembling, still twitching with aftershocks.
By morning, the resolve had set in. I dressed carefully for work—a fitted pencil skirt that hugged my ass, a blouse that dipped just low enough to show a hint of cleavage. If Alex wouldn't see me, maybe someone else would.
The office tower loomed downtown, all glass and steel. Blackwood Enterprises occupied the top five floors, and Damien's suite was on the penthouse level. I rode the elevator up, heart thumping. The doors opened to the sleek lobby—marble floors, modern art on the walls, the faint scent of expensive coffee from the break room.
My desk was right outside his office, a glass wall separating us so I could see him whenever he wanted. He was already in, pacing while on a call, his dark hair perfectly styled, suit jacket off to reveal a crisp white shirt stretched over his chest. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist; I could make out the lines of muscle when he moved. His voice carried through the glass—commanding, clipped. "No, that's unacceptable. Fix it by end of day or find another job."
He hung up and glanced out, eyes locking on mine for a split second. A shiver ran down my spine. I busied myself with emails, but my thighs pressed together under the desk, that familiar ache building. By lunch, I was soaked—panties clinging to my pussy lips every time I shifted in my chair. His stare during our morning briefing had been intense, like he was assessing more than my note-taking. Does he know how wet he makes me? I wondered, crossing my legs to ease the throb.
The day dragged. Meetings where he leaned over my shoulder to point at reports, his cologne—something spicy and masculine—filling my lungs. His hand brushed mine once when handing back a file, and I swear my clit pulsed. I ate lunch at my desk, barely tasting the salad, mind replaying fantasies of him yanking me into the supply closet, hiking up my skirt, and fingering me until I begged.
By 7 p.m., the floor was empty. Everyone had gone home, but I stayed to finish a stack of reports Damien had dumped on me that afternoon. His office light was still on; I could hear him typing. The quiet amplified everything—the hum of the AC, my own breathing. I stood to stretch, glancing through the glass. He was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded with veins. Heat flooded between my legs.
I slipped into the executive bathroom down the hall—private, with a full mirror and a lock. My reflection stared back: cheeks flushed, nipples poking through my bra. I hiked my skirt up, shoved my panties aside, and leaned against the sink. My fingers found my clit immediately—swollen, slick. I rubbed in tight circles, eyes closing as I pictured Damien.
In my head, he burst in, locked the door, and bent me over his desk. His hand wrapped around my throat from behind—firm, controlling—while his other yanked my panties down. "You've been thinking about this all day," he'd growl, fingers teasing my entrance. Then his cock—thick, heavy, the head pushing against me before sliding in deep, stretching me wide. I'd moan loud, hips pushing back, his thrusts hard and possessive, calling me his good little slut.