Never Should Have Come

I was so angry that I barged into your office without thinking, without wondering about exactly what it was that I was doing.

I now have time to reconsider.

Your one hand is firmly holding my wrists behind my back and your other hand is twisted into my hair, keeping me still.

I can only imagine how red your cheek looks after I slapped it. Rage made me see nothing but crimson, think nothing except how I wanted to hurt you.

I don’t think you’re the one about to be hurt in this situation.

You bend me over your desk. The cold wood presses against my cheek and the hard edge pushes into my stomach.

‘Arrogant little bitch,’ you whisper against my ear, leaning over me, letting me feel every hard edge of your body.

I shouldn’t have come here. Not like this, so unprepared.

I wanted a war. You were going to give me something else entirely—that I was sure of.

Your hands rove down until you find the edge of my skirt. I just have time to think I should have worn my pants with all the buckles and zips, before you flip my skirt up, revealing my thong-clad ass to your hungry eyes and hungrier hands.

You groan and take my ass cheeks firmly in your hands, squeezing them until I squirm. You laugh wickedly and I know I’m fucked. Know I’m going to be fucked as well.

I shouldn’t have come here.

You thrust against my ass. Your jean-covered erection grinds against me, makes my hips move against the desk so that my soaked clit rubs up and down against the hard surface.

Up and down. Up and down.

I moan. I can’t help it. And you chuckle darkly, knowing how soaked my cunt is, how swollen my clit is.

You push again and liquid dribbles down the inside of my thighs.

Shit. It’s like my pussy has no sense of self-preservation.

‘You’re a little wet, aren’t you?’ you whisper against my nape, never easing off of me, continually pushing your hips against mine so that I get no reprieve.

‘More than a little,’ you taunt me again as your fingers touch my soaked inner thighs.

I feel my cheeks flush with heat, but I can’t stop the way my pussy is throbbing. I can feel from deep inside of me the way my muscles are biting down on nothing.

More liquid drips out from me, clearly showing you how turned on a little hip thrusting has made me.

‘You wouldn’t have come here, if you didn’t want this,’ you say and nip the back of my neck.

I shudder, and I wish it was from fear, disgust, even anger. But I can’t deny the wetness slowly trailing down my thighs or the way I’m grinding myself against the desk in tandem with your hips.

But I have to save face. Save dignity. Saving something of myself.

‘I came to tell you to leave me alone at work!’ I manage to say but even to me, my words sound hollow.

‘The only truth in that sentence is that you came,’ you say. ‘Remember that when you retell this story.’

I feel your hands grip my thong and yank it down to my ankles. You pull at my legs and I reluctantly step out from my soaked underwear. My cheeks burn with humiliation as I aid you in undressing me.

But that’s what you want, isn’t it?

My humiliation and my compliance.

‘You’re so wet.’

Your fingers probe my soaked folds. You slide them between my lips, graze my hard clit and gently stroke the soft wet skin of my inner thighs.

I can’t help it—I ride your fingers. I can feel my hips rolling, hear the soft squelching noises I’m making as you slide not one, not two, but three fingers deep into me. The stretch burns, burns enough for me to cry out, but not enough for me to stop the mad movement of my hips.

Fuck. I’m so fucked.

I’m nearing that place of no return. I can feel my inner muscles sucking on your fingers like they’re a fucking lollipop. I can even feel my asshole clenching and opening slightly, no doubt winking at your hungry gaze, seeming to invite you in.

The humiliation bathes my face in heat.

And then, you stop.

I cry out, losing all dignity. I have no high ground to stand on anymore.

‘You want to finish?’ you ask as though I could possibly say no.

You still have three of your fingers rammed up my cunt. I know you can feel the desperate squeeze of an aroused pussy. I know you can feel and see all my liquid arousal sliding down your hand like a pussy-scented waterfall.

How can you ask that?

‘Do you?’ you ask again when I don’t respond.

‘Y-Yes,’ I croak and feel a tear slide out.

‘Then finish yourself,’ you say and pull your fingers free.

I think you mean I must finish myself with my own hands, but you sit on your office’s leather couch and gesture at your still covered erect penis.

My face grows even warmer and you smirk.

You want me to hump you, rub my desperate wet pussy on your covered cock until I explode.

The whole act reeks of desperation and submission. Exactly what you want.

I want to say no. But my pussy vehemently disagrees.

And so, keeping my eyes fixed on the wall just above your head, I walk over to you and straddle you, my wet cunt fitting snugly against your erect penis. The jeans are a welcome roughness against my soaked folds and rock-hard clit.

You take my hips in your hands and roughly pull me down, so that I’m squashed against you. I can’t help but moan at the sensation, the denim rough against all the right places.

I look down and I can see my flushed pink folds spread out against the dark material of your jeans.

‘Wet your cunt, bitch. Soak me,’ you growl.

I move my hips, grinding myself against you. The friction is instant, and I feel myself growing wetter and wetter, managing to soak through your jeans, no doubt wetting your cock and balls.

I can’t look away as I watch my pussy lips open up, dribbling out liquid arousal. My sheath is spasming and I’m loudly gasping for breath. I can feel heat gathering in my lower belly.

I know I wouldn’t be able to stop even if you told me to stop.

I cream myself and you, unable to slow the movement of my hips.

This is so wrong.

I spread my wetness up your stomach and down my thighs, making a mess of us both. My pussy gasps and gags, gushing, drooling, flooding the crotch of your jeans.

‘Look at the mess you made, bitch,’ you say and I’m too embarrassed to look down

for too long.

I can feel the warm wetness against my pussy and thighs, even a little on my stomach.

‘Say you’re sorry,’ you say and take my chin in your hand. ‘Say you’re sorry for being such a messy slut. Say that you’re sorry you can’t control your messy, dripping cunt.’

I don’t want to say the words, but your hard hand on my chin and bruising grip make me repeat your words through reluctant lips.

‘Say you’ll make it up to me. Actually, ask me how you can make it up to me.’

I force the words out of my mouth, trying to ignore the pulsing deep inside of my cunt.

‘Work. Tomorrow. No panties,’ you say.

My jaw tightens and I want to refuse, but I know I can’t really. Mainly because you’re my boss and I could lose my job if I refuse, but also because there’s a small, depraved part of me that wants to do it.

The part connected to my pussy and its lack of self-preservation.

‘Fine,’ I mutter.

You smirk at me and roll your hips. The movement makes me moan as your erection grinds against my still throbbing pussy.

‘I’m glad you came,’ you whisper wickedly against my neck and graze my skin with your teeth.

I’m not. I really shouldn’t have come—in all senses of the word.