She's the Boss Ch. 04

I'd forgotten quite what it was like, to be fucked. To be royally seen to.

The desk shudders, and if such solid wood can squeal in resistance, how is that I'm holding up? God, it's at once wonderful and terrible. Like being utterly stuffed with a rod of steel that is somehow soft and silky, and doesn't actually hurt. But the vigour, the strength, the unbending firmness of the pole are suggestive of something inanimate rather than my terribly gorgeous boss's terrifically intimidating penis.

'Guh. Fuck.'

'Good boy,' Irina says, maintaining uncomfortable composure despite being halfway balls-deep inside of me. 'Mummy loves this sweet little bum, Theo. Mhm.'

She fondles my backside, squeezes, kneads the fat of my cheeks. What can I do but take it? Bent over her desk, staring at the office door, splattering my boxers -- she tore the back part, promising to reimburse me -- with a seemingly endless quantity of jism. I'm powerless here. And it's part of my contract, no matter my reservations.

The job is good. The job is good. The job is--

'Sh-it.'

I bite down, press my palms against the mahogany. Her cock is like a spear of radiant heat, throbbing so angrily, so needily. It demands that my body pleasure it. Demands that I submit to it. Demands that I blow my load again and again and again, making such an uncomfortable mess in my ripped-open boxers but I can't fucking stop.

'Mummy's good boy.' Irina exhales, drives herself into me, every hilting producing an ear-tickling thwup when her enormous balls slap against my badly-exposed buttocks. 'So deserving of--mhm--all this affection. All this wonderful naughty after-work special treatment.'

Her words are poisoned honey, some discomforting fusion of the pleasant and the perverse. I'd be insane, and a liar, to pretend as though this isn't enjoyable. As though being mounted, ridden, ploughed by my statuesque and gorgeous futanari boss, Irina Blackwell, is anything less than an experience to enjoy both in the moment and look forward to after the fact, knowing that it will be repeated time and again in my years here.

'Ugh. Jesus.'

Is it so wrong, to enjoy the act? To have gone from the man I was, a victim of my boss's sexual predations, to this current self, this one who signed a contract and agreed to this fate. Who agreed to become Irina's plaything, of sorts, and both service her cock and ride upon it. To service her and not taste her cum -- because to do so is now a carnal choice, a test of my strength of character -- and to ride her big dick to the point that she, inevitably and invariably, utterly plugs my backside with the thickest and muskiest of creampies.

I'm at her mercy. Those beautiful yet deceptively strong hands, gripping my hips, hold me steady while she pummels me. The thrusting goes from slow and steady to fast and forceful, driving more than a foot of futanari cock deep into my body, splitting my arse in the most guiltily glorious of ways.

'Such a sexy thing you--mhm--are, Theo,' Irina says, leaning atop me. Her breasts, bound as they are by a super-strength bra and behind the thin cloth of her white blouse, nonetheless have such intense weight to them where they fall against my back. 'I should probably be paying you more, shouldn't I? But then again, I do treat you so well.'

Her breath is sweet, faintly tinged by the tell-tale pine-bitterness of her characteristic Martinis. The act is vulgar and yet illicitly intimate, somehow threatening affection in these brief moments where she leans atop me and presses that overtly-endowed womanly form atop mine. That Mummy-play, such a thing of lusty perversion, nonetheless deepens the eroticism of this sordid submission.

It's unbecoming, to fall to her like this. To submit to her. Worse, to remind myself of the trade I made, the choice. That I picked work, picked my career, and in return gave away my pride.

'Ugh. Damn.'

I writhe, because how can I not? Her cock is incredible. A thing of heat and thickness, a weapon to be wielded both for bringing her pleasure and in the process forcing me to capitulate. To produce sweet sounds, whimpers and moans, a little chorus of noises that tickle her ears as she tickles mine with that sweet damp breath.

Irina kisses the back of my neck, tastes my skin with her goosebump-inducing tongue. 'I own you, don't I?' She chuckles, almost giggles, that perfect voice at odds with what it suggests. 'Years and--mhm--years of this.' Thwap go her weighty testicles, the fattest roundest pair of bollocks I can picture, as they slap against my backside. 'Years and--aah--years of enjoying one another's company. Oh, cumming again, baby? Perhaps you should be paying me, instead!'

I practically growl, deeply uncomfortable and yet awash in awesome pleasures. Irina really, really knows how to use her body. To use her words, to tickle at dirty desires and feculent fantasies that bubble up to the surface from the depths of my being.

I've got to survive. I've got to focus on the future, on the dream, on the way things have to be now so that they can be different eventually. The fleeting vision of Maddie, behaving for my sake much as I'm currently behaving for Irina, is a soothing complement to such wilfulness. The pretty blonde, in so many ways responsible for this fate, is going to have her comeuppance and put right more than one wrong.

'I-rina!'

She hilts herself in me, blowing a cock-shaped hole through my veil of thoughts. All the world is her penis, that broad length with its bulky head, a drilling impaling skewer of a thing, treating my body like some glorified cocksleeve. A means to an end, a source of pleasure, but not a person in and of myself.

I should find the thought utterly reprehensible, but surprise-surprise, I don't. The person I'm discovering through this, the true Theodore Brackley, is not who I imagined myself to be.

As my darkly delicious futanari boss ravages my backside, it's clear beyond doubt that the real reason I was so gloomy after she raped me was in fact nothing to do with the act itself and everything to do with what it unearthed. Like shifting a patio slab, finding so many creepy crawlies, when the garden otherwise seems beautiful.

'Who's your Mummy?' Irina says, lifting off of me. She squeezes my hips, fondles my bum. 'Tell me--ugh--Theo. Answer me. Who's your fucking Mummy?'

'Y-ou, Irina. You're my Mummy. Y-ou're--'

She thrusts like a beast, all of a sudden. Not gentleness, no consideration.

I'm slammed, again and again, into the desk. The wood whines, the world itself seems to creak, all the while I cum buckets and drool, completely and utterly cock-addled, her gargantuan girth hitting every spot inside of me as though she's in possession of some crude map that signposts every possible pseudo-G-spot.

'Damn--mhm--right, baby boy. Mummy's good, good--ughn--boy.'

I manage to glance back at her, to find her on the cusp of climax. Those beautiful lips strained, one at the mercy of her teeth. Blouse a mess, cleavage spilling forth, that overworked bra struggling as she pumps into me with primal potency. Sharp-featured good looks, Aphrodite-grade beauty, easily the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Tall and dominant, brilliant-eyed and vigorous in her lovemaking.

She hilts herself again, lifting my feet from the floor. I throw them about wildly on reflex as contractions ripple through her, as Irina rolls her head backwards and moans in relief. The force of her efforts, and the reverberations of her climax, drive my continual spasming all the further into the realm of self-obliteration.

'Ughn. M-ummy.'

Her cock swells in me, and those bloated balls pulsate against my smaller ones. Beyond the heat of her spooge, which comes in vast quantity, as thick as cream, I'm struck by a dirtily psychological notion.

That this beautiful woman is seeding me, that she's claiming me, that the stuff filling me up is unmistakeably hers and hers alone. This welcome sensation, of being completely loaded, my innards plugged with her richly potent semen, is something at once grotesque and divine.

'Good boy,' Irina says, gasping, sighing. 'My good, good Theo.'

Is it shameful, to love this? I don't have a romantic connection with this woman. I'm not here, going through this, because of something close to even a sex-friend situation.

She raped me, and then I signed a contract to get a better job. I signed over my body to my rapist, choosing wealth and a future over sanctity of self. And now this week alone I've sucked her cock twice, and on this Friday evening, she's ejaculating inside of my bowels. My rapist, who took me by force, who seemed to think that if anything she was doing me a favour, is now getting free use of my body because I agreed to it.

And worse, I love it. It's like nothing else. A degree of sexual bliss I've never before experienced. Something utterly and completely insane.

The opening of a drawer reels me back to reality. Something thuds atop the desk, and while Irina is still shooting, her faculties are returning. She watches me serenely, eyes afire, beautiful beyond reason. I should hate her, should be disgusted, but I'm not. Even as she licks her lips, viewing me as prey, as food for the hungry fires of her lust, I am too far gone.

'I want to be inside you for--mhm--as long as possible,' my boss says, picking up a girthy plastic plug from beside my hips. 'This is for you, baby. To keep Mummy's milk right up inside that--aah--cute little bum so that all that naughty cream doesn't make too much of a mess.'

Her glans still flares, spits. Less now, weaker, but the sheer bulk of the thing is unmistakeable, and the way it ripples heat throughout my insides is a thing of gruesome glory. Her semen, thick and musky and rich, sloshes about. If anything, given how messy this situation is, the butt plug might even be welcome.

'R-ight, Mummy.'

Her eyes shift when I say that word. That carnal title. Mummy. Her affection is venomous gold, a thing ultimately evil and yet somehow appealing. It provokes a fuzziness in the head, oxytocin of raw-dogged fucking helping things along.

Never submit. Never submit. Never submit.

But I can enjoy this. That's okay. It might even be healthy.

'Such a sweet mouth,' Irina says. 'On such a sweet boy.' She gives a gentle pat to my backside, one cheek and then the other. 'You're built for this, baby. Built to--mhm--make Mummy happy.'

'Y-es, Mummy. I...'

She cocks her head, a vicious veneer making murky her beauty. 'Oh?'

'I'm glad, Mummy. That's all. I...I'll do my job well.'

Irina chuckles. 'You will, Theo. So, so, so well.' Another pat, this one culminating in a squeeze. 'Clench down, baby. Don't let a drop spill out now.'

She winces gleefully as I grip her shaft between my cheeks, in the process wringing out of it any straggler sperm. There's a dirtily delightful schpop when the seal breaks, when at last her heavy helmet is free of me. It's so weighty that it notably thuds when it comes down against the desk, a noise both worrying and wondrous.

'Good boy,' she says. 'Let's seal up that tight little bum.'

The plastic makes me tremble, not from girth but coolness. An alien thing compared to the throbbing fire of her erection, but welcome insofar as it prevents leakage. And maybe I'm imagining it, but it feels as though there's quite a lot to leak, given how my guts slosh and shudder with copious quantities of her cum.

'Dinner tomorrow.' Irina pulls away from me, giving me one last playful pat. She sits herself down, breathy-voiced, eyes a little hooded. 'The first of many. Dress up nice, and I'll pick you up at six-thirty. Are you excited, baby?'

I steady myself, standing upright. The whole process is awkward, what with my backside wedged shut as it is. To do this in front of someone, besides, is all the worse. Her emerald eyes bore into me as I clumsily reach for my trousers, cold cum disgusting against my crotch. Grim.

'Y-eah, Mummy. Very.'

'You're a little shaky, Theo,' she says, quickly on her feet. A hand on my shoulder, squeezing softly. 'I'd be happy to give you a lift home, if you can wait a little while.'

'I'll be fine.'

I pull away from her, even though she's right. My body quakes, as if all those simultaneous orgasms are perpetuated and congealed, lengthened to the point of blissful engulfment. When I move my legs quiver, and my feet are unsteady, but I'm not going to drive just yet. I'll sit in my car if I have to, sit in the dark of the car park.

I'm not spending more time with Irina than necessary. It's bad enough as it is.

'Suit yourself, honey,' my boss says, a lilt of humour to her sultry voice. 'Six-thirty. Remember it. I don't want to be disappointed. You'd have to make it up to me.'

'Got it,' I say, reaching for the door, not looking back. 'Goodnight, Irina.'

'Goodnight, Theo.'

*

It takes the better part of half an hour to calm down.

I've never been so drained, except perhaps as on the first night, but today it's not knocked me into unconsciousness. Sex has never been so powerful before. I didn't know my body could reach such states, could leap from climax to climax to climax, but it can. And Irina's body is the ticket, the enabler of ecstasy.

I flip down the overhead mirror and look at myself. There's pride, of a sort, returning. I'm making good money, and as much as I'm degrading myself to do it, the price is right. The man in the mirror is still not me, but not in a bad sense. He's not a wretched shadow of who I was but some branching variant, twisted into another, newer shape. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to go backwards, but I can go forwards.

I will. I must.

The daydream, throughout the week, has been of Maddie. Maddie, as my assistant. My assistant, tied to a contract not dissimilar from my own, who'll suck my cock and let me fuck her and use her body just as Irina uses mine. A carrot, dangled, and slow to achieve. A work in progress, as Irina calls it. Something to look forward to but not here just yet. These things take time, after all, and particularly those that involve human factors.

I sleep easily, at least. I'm not exactly excited about the date tomorrow, but I'm not scared either. Did I call it a date? I suppose it is, though there won't be sex. I'm sure Irina will try, but she's not getting it like that. The contract is all. Two blowjobs, one bout of anal. That's it, that's her weekly ration of fucking. Nothing more.

It's bothersome, how readily I seem to embrace this new world.

The man in the mirror isn't frightful. He's not his best, sure, but he's far from his worst. Somehow, it's okay. So long as I'm doing well with my career, so long as there's a bright future ahead of me, I'm not all that concerned about the situation with Irina. I'm already tainted, after all. Already soiled. If I'm going to get all funny about prostituting myself, then it's important to remember that. To know the damage has been done.

And she is charming. Is good at doing what she does.

Irina Blackwell picks me up in a chauffeured Rolls Royce, its rear cabin extended to create some micro-lounge where we sit. She sips a Martini, as is her custom, wearing a revealing crimson dress that shows off what, ultimately, there's little point in hiding. With killer curves like hers, it's not like any amount of clothing is going to matter. Breasts that big are no less alluring and eye-catching in a blouse or a sweater, and some dirty part of me relishes the fact that they're on show.

I have to enjoy the not-so-little things, after all.

'You're quite fetching in that outfit, Theo,' Irina says, slinging an arm across my shoulders. She strokes me, warm weight of her body pressing against mine. Sweet smells, fruitiness, an acid note of Vermouth and a piney hint of gin. 'Will I get you out of it, I wonder?'

'If it's not in the contract, then no.'

She chuckles, kisses the side of my head. 'Oh, you make this so fun, honey. It's beyond attractive, this little wilfulness of yours. Blowing ten loads on my big fat cock and then having the wit to deny me outside of my own rules.'

I sigh. Sigh, because this is just so wrong. To think that I fancied this woman to such an insane degree, was so eager to leap into the bedroom with her. It could've been a beautiful thing, and instead is something sordid. Endlessly disappointing. To learn of Irina's true self, and my own as well.

Her, a depraved predator. Me, a money-minded slut.

'You'll get Maddie,' she says, speaking low, conspiratorial. A sultry voice, for a sensual woman. 'I'm already working on that little detail. We're in this together, baby.'

I nod, carrot leading me. 'Good. So long as we are.'

She spends the journey tight against my body, breathing and whispering dirty things into my ear, kissing my cheek and the side of my head. I don't hate it. It's the worst thing about it all, that I don't hate it. That somehow, I don't hate her.

To be at her side as we go into the Generous Gourmet, a three-times Michelin Star restaurant, knowing that whatever I ask for I'll receive, is insane. That she is so jaw-droppingly gorgeous, more woman than most can ever be, and that she's with me and I'm with her, imbalanced as our relationship is, is sheer lunacy.

And after settling in I talk. Answer her questions, speak about life, act as though she's not a predatory rapist. As though she doesn't have a sex contract with my name on it.

Is it just a human thing, to be able to compartmentalise like this? To separate, out of necessity, what is evil and what is not?

The woman is discomforting, but not because of what I know her to be.

Irina Blackwell is tall and resplendently attractive, her skin dusky and exotic, body insanely voluptuous with the mammoth size of her 44K breasts and the way her hips curve to suggest unmatched femininity. Her hair, dyed crimson and braided, hangs to the left tonight, asymmetrical. That characteristic makeup of hers, vaguely Egyptian around the eyes, lips bursting with ruby allure, is on-point.

And when she speaks, there's no hint of the dark nature of our bond. The jokes she tells, the stories, the questions she asks, are all bothersome in their genuineness. I actually enjoy conversing with her, dangerous as I know her to be, arrogant and entitled as she is, believing herself so fundamentally great that she had the right to rape me and that if anything our current state of affairs is some grand luxury I should be praising her for.

'You know that it's okay to speak your mind, yes?' Irina says, during a brief pause between topics. 'I'm well aware that your opinion of me isn't so great.'

'Are you a mind reader now, as well?'

She flutters her eyelashes at me, sips her Martini. The third of the evening, not including the one in the car, but if the alcohol affects her I can't possibly say. 'One doesn't require telepathy to be aware of the general low-grade rebelliousness that lines everything we do together, Theo. I appreciate that you likely hate me, and I'm glad that you do.'

Such a strange sentiment, provoking a kind of bubble of silence. Just around us, just here in our little corner seat, a round table with a candelabra upon it, the room dimly lit to create an atmosphere of romance and mystery.

'You're glad for it?'

Irina smiles, cocks her head to the side. The braid shudders, a winding length of beautiful hair. 'Don't they say that everything in this life is about sex, but sex itself is about power? It's true, you know. Sex gives me power over you, and I want that power like nothing else on Earth. I would trade all the wealth, all my possessions for that most delicious draught, but thankfully I don't have to.'

I stare at her, beyond the hungry flames of the trinity of candles. 'You already have power over me,' I say, tentatively reaching for my water. No booze. Not around her. 'The contract allows--'