Craving My Boss

By: Tasha Fawkes


“I’m going to come,” Crystal moans, dragging the word out in a hum. My cell rings, and I debate whether or not to let her achieve a final release before picking up. Letting it go to voicemail isn’t an option, especially not when I see my fiancée’s name on the caller ID.

Crystal’s discarded panties are conveniently within reach. I grab them, ball them up tight, and stick them between those protesting, voluptuous lips of hers. She clamps down obediently, wide eyes imploring, but I need her quiet. I wrench the belt that binds her wrists, testing my improvised gag as I use my other hand to pluck my phone off the desk. Her answering squeal is muffled to my satisfaction. I slide my cock all the way in to reward her as I answer the call.

“Daniel here.”

“How’s work?” Karen Queen, mother-approved fiancée, asks, her voice sounding bored.

I eye Crystal’s pretty, splayed form beneath me and grin. She wiggles in alarm at that grin. “Oh, you know. Same as always. Chained to my desk today.”

Or at least someone is.

“I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten our dinner plans tonight.”

Her voice is disapproving, as usual, like she’s already made up her mind that I have. Which, balls-deep in Crystal, I definitely have.

“Dinner.” I don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing the question in my voice as I glance over to scan for my day planner. One of Crystal’s earlier thrashes must have sent it toppling to the floor. “Of course, I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good,” she says. “Because I don’t intend to be left alone with your mother yet again. With all the wedding planning your absences are forcing us to get done, I might as well be marrying her.”

Beneath me, Crystal makes a muffled noise—apparently, she can hear every word that Karen says on the other end. I give her restraints a warning tug, and she arches her back in cat-like pleasure as my cock brushes up against her secret inner spot.

“I haven’t forgotten, and I don’t intend to,” I tell Karen. “I’ll be there.”

God knows I don’t want to be. Maybe fucking Crystal is what’s gotten me into a domineering mood at present, but I want to tell Karen—and my mother—that I’ll be available to plan a wedding precisely when I have the time and desire to do so. Which may be never.

Instead, I find myself agreeing to meet them wherever it is we planned to meet. I mentally detach from the bland conversation with Karen and my thoughts drift, going beyond even the four walls of my office and the reality of the naked woman beneath me. Listening to myself talk to Karen is like listening to a man going through the motions of a life that he knows isn’t worth living. It’s a depressing thought, but one I’ve resigned myself to.

I don’t love Karen. Karen doesn’t love me. I don’t love Crystal. Crystal doesn’t love me. We all have requirements that need to be satisfied. Karen knows I see other women, and it doesn’t bother her so long as I keep things purely physical. Crystal knows I’m not interested in anything other than sex. It’s a perfect system. It should satisfy my need for control. Then why does it all feel so pointless?

“All right. We’ll be expecting you at seven.”

Karen signs off without a real parting word, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sure that later, we’ll pick up wherever we left off. I toss my phone down onto my desk and rein Crystal in. I remove the panties from between her teeth, and she sucks in a lungful of air.

“Everything all right?”

I glance down into those big brown eyes and debate whether or not to answer her. Then again, there’s nothing substantive I can tell her when I don’t know the answer myself.

I stick to our script. I release my grip on the belt and let her fight the restraints as much as she wants as I pound her into the desk. Soon she’s crying out once more, senseless with need, a slave to the whims of her body and a tool for my sexual release.

And for a fleeting moment, it almost does feel right.

#

“… well, I’m glad that you’re at least picking up Karen’s calls now while you’re at work,” my mother comments while she swirls cabernet in her wine glass.

I watch the ruby-red whirlpool that forms, trapped within the bowl. I wait for even a single drop to escape; to slosh out over the edge and form a hundred-dollar stain on the restaurant’s impeccable white tablecloth. It never does.

Shannon Stone is good at avoiding potentially messy situations.

My mother is young at sixty-eight, made younger by countless plastic surgeries and rejuvenating treatments that she diverts all my father’s leftover fortune toward. I don’t see the point of the practice, personally. No one is immune to the ravages of time, and my mother’s poised, petrified face is no exception.

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