Can I Blame Him?

Can I blame him?

...standing 6 foot 2, every interaction with him places you at a disadvantage. Your head tilted up at him as he speaks, your line of sight directly obscured by a hulking mass of muscle. His silky dark skin almost fades into the sun as his shadow looms over you, an almost implied threat with every movement.

Can I blame him?

With the body of a gladiator but a smile as warm as the sun, his eyes acknowledging you at that moment, picking you out of the crowd and telling you you are worthy of his attention... you're enough, you are wanted.

Can I blame him?

Can I blame them?

Little mistakes at first, texts at odd times in the night, the smell of perfume I don't own on his clothing... scattered underwear in my bed that I don't remember buying.

I fuck him, I give him everything I have. Every fantasy, every fleeting whim. I've blown him in public bathrooms, at restaurant tables, in my childhood bedroom during a family wake. He's fucked me at public work events, cum dripping from my ass, down my leg as I accept awards for Women in Business.

This man has used my body in more ways than I've ever let any man even fantasize about without consequence...and don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, I'm not. I knew what I was getting into. He is the dream, the goal, the kinda man you restructure your entire life for so his needs are accommodated. To keep a man like that, you make sacrifices, otherwise, he'll find someone else who can do more, so you have to do it all before he gets the chance

Can you blame him?

Even on the first night, he was forward with me about what he wanted. I was on the brink of merging my company with the one he worked under, he was the closer, I'd heard talk from my colleagues that he was who they sent when the "ball busters", the women who'd risen to notable seats of power were being a 'nuisance'.

He 'puts us in our place'.

My first thoughts were "will this place ever change?...Am I going to be fighting these fucking man-children for the rest of my life?"

...but then I met him, his calm demeanor putting me at an imbalance, every action, every word, seemingly calculated. I laughed at his jokes, shared personal...intimate information, drank too much of the wine he'd presumptuously/unnervingly brought me in celebration of a deal we were clearly at odds on... but shame on me I guess.

By the end of the night, I was sitting on his lap, my head writhing on his shoulder, dizzy with a myriad of contradicting thoughts and emotions, while I begged this man, this fucking stranger to let me cum. His hand shoved right into my skirt, playing with the most intimate part of me, cupping it and rubbing it like it was his, like it's always been his.

A resounding "NO" was his only response.

The percentage of the company I owned by the end of the merger was 60 to 40 against me. I remember sitting there, staring at my shaky signature on every page of that contract, acknowledging what I'd done and yet not quite grasping it.

They said that it was best, that I should take a more 'supplementary' role, let the big guys take the reins, run the company the way it should be. My fucking company, built with my own fucking hands, run it the way it fucking should? The only reason they wanted the fucking thing is because I built it. They'd give me a pay raise, and decrease my workload so I can make time for "FAMILY" the sexist fucking...

For a week all I could think about was him. Anger directed towards him turning into disappointment directed towards me, loneliness as I cling onto the best moments of that night, and then inevitably horniness as I crave every aspect of him, circling right back to anger at the very fact that he exists.

Abruptly he started coming back to my office for 'visits'. He timed it so beautifully, a day earlier and I would have stabbed him in the neck with a pen, but no, I'd reached a certain acceptance. As my personality and history dictates, I'd decided to look for the best in a fucked situation, it's who I was, it's what I do. I'm the one who fights.

At that moment it's almost as though he knew, he knew I was at the brink, I'd found a new challenge, and in the face of those, my best side always rose to the occasion...but he knew, so he came to remind me... remind me of my place.

Standing right next to my desk, his cock swaying flaccid from his suit pants, waiting... waiting to be serviced.

An hour later I'd be bent over my desk, trying but woefully failing to muffle screams of agonizing pleasure as he used my body, half of my mind anxious at the fact that my employees could hear me, my reputation, hard-earned, meaningless in a matter of minutes as he told the office with no words that I was what they all suspected I was, that I was every single stereotype they had spent years unlearning. I was just another dumb girl naturally out of her depth.

Over time though it became something else entirely. He started coming every Friday, I was now being referred to in lounge areas as the 'TGIF booty call'. Consistently he would come to my office, and have his way. On my desk, on the floor, banging at the door, at the windows in front of the cleaners. I kept thinking about how I'd given this guy a fucking all-access pass, moaning under him as he took something that so many men in my youth only dreamed of. Why? Why was I letting this happen? Why was I starting to look forward to it? My career crumbled before me and here I was dripping a combination of our juices onto my thousand-dollar office carpet.

I tried to avoid him for a couple of weeks and immediately regretted it. He'd waited patiently for me, very drastically upping the ante, taking my anal virginity with my office door open, my very knowing secretary typing at her desk and putting on a very poor performance of nonchalance, her eyes flicking up and back down every few seconds as my ass was stretched and used for the first time, my hands desperately spreading my cheeks for him, my mouth wide open in abject pain and indescribable pleasure at the sheer vulgarity of knowing that this is a moment I would never forget, never live down.

She wouldn't keep her mouth shut. Veronica wasn't the trustworthy type. She was a girl, an intern doing her dues with her bitch boss...and lord knows I've had my bitchy moments. No, Veronica did her job, no more, no less, she wasn't a friend, there was no solidarity between women, that shit only happens in movies.

Every woman for her fucking self, you can't afford to be merciful, not with the odds we face. Shit even my colleagues stopped picking up my calls the moment the stories spread far enough. No Veronica would use this, she'd probably taken pictures, probably sent them to a few friends, probably sent them to her male coworkers for good measure, to make sure they're immortalized.

No. This is who I am now. A flesh light for this...this brute, this vile, patronizing, manipulative, selfish, muscular, well endowed, very well endowed, beautiful man.

Can I blame him?

I stopped being the center of every conversation after a couple of months.

We were officially dating by then, Fridays had turned into weekends together in his apartment, not a stitch of clothing on my body for two days as he stuck himself repeatedly into every hole I had to offer him.

It all happened much faster than I expected, he was setting up very professional dates through Veronica, tasking her to order me flowers, and random gifts throughout the day. She always had this smile on her face, like she knew something I didn't, and it always ended up being something else he had done without informing me.

She was the first clue of a shifting narrative that he was weaving around us. He the romantic and I completely swept off my feet...and wasn't I? Now, when he came over for his visits I started to notice the lingering eyes from the employees that I hadn't noticed when I viewed what we had as one-sided, me a victim of his unbreakable will, his unquenchable lust, he was wanted. His stride through the cubicles almost silencing the place, women swooning at his sides almost dramatically, men reassessing their social-hierarchal standing...yet, by all accounts he'd chosen me...why?

We started to talk as much as we fucked, he'd look for excuses to do this, buying out restaurants, stadiums, so all we could hear was the entertainment and our voices.

He told me about his home, growing up in the countryside of a third-world country. Earning the first of a myriad of scholarships, the first time he saw his country's capital city, the shift in pace, how claustrophobic he felt walking those packed streets looking up at towering buildings for the first time but never letting the fear take over him. He told me he buried the shock of it all because of his number one fear... his only fear was the possibility that they were right, that he was worthless, that he was not 'meant' to be where he was. He knew that the only way that would ever be true was if he started to believe it, so he never even acknowledged the fear.

I couldn't find the words to tell him that I felt the same way, that I had an intimate relationship with that fear of mediocrity because he kindled it in my heart every time he... *sigh*

I married him. He asked me and I said yes.

Can I fucking Blame him? This fucking Adonis.

On my wedding night, I waded through a mixture of my family and his, and an overwhelming majority of coworkers. Here to celebrate my 'retirement'. He didn't want me to work, he told me it would be against his culture, 'a wife is meant to take care of a home'.

As of the signing of the marriage contract he now owns 100 percent of my company... That voice in the back of my head tells me it's not that simple, we're co-partners. I'm his wife, my opinion matters, my best interests are his best interests, it's fine, it's fine.

But...

I'm looking through the crowd trying to find him. My coworkers give me the same smile Veronica gives me daily these days like there's a joke I'm not in on, and it's so sad that I'm the only one who doesn't get it cause it's all about me.

Veronica was rapidly promoted to my old position. A shift that made no fucking sense, a shift that I tried to fight for, but has no basis in logic, a conversation that he had no interest in having, it was 'not my concern', I should focus on the child, my child. That's who I am now, a baby factory, a breeder... fuck I've become my mother.

I feel my 5-month old move inside of me, as restless as I am, ignoring my old friends, my old subordinates on this, a day meant to be filled with joy, all I can feel is anxiety.

In the back of the room, my husband and my former secretary are fucking on top of one of the guest tables. She is on all fours, her cocktail dress bunched up at her waist while my husband, standing behind her rams his cock in and out of her very wet cunt. The other side of her silenced by another partner of the company, employees very casually forming a human wall around them to hide their actions without pulling attention towards themselves, their eyes all faced anywhere but towards me.

My husband notices my presence and says simply.

"I'll be right with you my love. I'm just teaching the new girl the same lesson we taught you."

Can I blame him? Or am I the instigator of my downfall?

Like a good wife I turn and walk towards my seat, waiting for my husband to conclude his business.