She's the Boss Ch. 03

She leans back in her big seat, resting her arms on the sides. 'But today...pull out the big load I've made especially for you, and mark yourself with it. Your face tells me you're not ready to appreciate my generosity just yet.'

What makes me happiest, as I hobble forwards and take her veiny broad weapon in both of my hands, is that some part of me still rejects this. Given the choice, there's not a hint of doubt. My superior? No. Twisted and wrong your mind might be, but you're not better than I am. Oh, you are a smoke-show of a creature, but your words are toxic.

I don't get off on the same weird animalistic hierarchy.

And...there's another hope, as well.

Even as Irina grunts, and I shut my eyes, and she utterly paints my face in the heaviest load I think she's ever released -- and this one is particularly sticky and thick, and it stinks muskier than ever -- I'm struck by a beam of light from the heavens.

What if she gets bored? What if I never submit the way she wants?

She'd have done better to force it all. She'd have done better to demand obedience.

Instead she expects me to choose. Hah!

I'm actually smiling beneath the mass of gooey heat, the semi-liquid mess that forms gruesome clumps in my hair and pools up in the indents of my eyes and splatters my lips. I'm actually smiling.

And it's so easy to ignore the fact that, despite myself, it feels good to be receiving such an immensely potent ejaculation upon my face.

It's easy to ignore that because there's hope.

*

When Irina is done and softening, I scoop the muck from my eyes and meet her gaze.

She playfully nibbles on the tip of a finger, grinning around the act. That my boss didn't get her way seems to have had no impact on her appreciation for the result, and I suppose in a sense she had enough of a victory. It's hard to not enjoy the afterglow of an orgasm, even if it wasn't the ideal you envisioned.

'The bathroom is on the right as you enter,' Irina says. 'You didn't disappoint, baby-boy.'

I nod, mouth thickly smattered in her seed. My boss makes room for me to rise, and gives my backside a firm squeeze as I pass on by.

Out of sight of her, back turned, I can smile and nurture the hope that now has bright embers in my soul. Yet my giddiness falters upon viewing myself in the mirror of her private bathroom.

What a mess. But more than that.

That perverse, lusty, depraved submissive in me says, in no uncertain terms: what if she's right? What if she's superior?

I stare at the cum-marked man in the mirror, all white with ropes and knots, all splattered and smothered in the absolute densest sperm I've ever witnessed. Irina has managed to outdo herself, and all it took was the self-restraint of not wanking for a day.

How? How is she so virile? How is her body this sexually potent?

And even when I'm all cleaned up, it's so easy to picture that mask of (futa) man-milk.

'Such a shame to see you without me on your face,' Irina says, as I pass back through her office. Has her smirk grown smugger? 'See you tomorrow, Theo. You're such a good boy.'

I go to my office and collect my things, and that smirk, and that mirror-image, are burned into my thoughts. Can I still smell her? Did I miss any? I lick my lips -- thoroughly cleaned -- and part of me wonders if that hyper-concentrated load is superior to the ones I've tasted before. The ones I vaguely, uncomfortably, found myself enjoying.

The embers falter a little. I shouldn't be having these thoughts. I shouldn't be having them at all. I should have such a clear path to victory.

All I have to do is not want what only she can offer.

All I have to do is not want to submit.

Why does that seem so...daunting?