Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
...
The office at the intersection of Marquette & Washington was quiet after business hours. There was a quiet humming as the heating and cooling system kept the air temperature and humidity at a very comfortable level. She waited in his office, laying on her side on the carpet, which was quite plush but still a little harsh on her skin where it was bare.
She wore the tight brown wool skirt that she had worn as his assistant during the day, but without the lacy black panties down below, and only her red pushup bra up on top, a dark shadow over her alabaster skin. Her plump breasts were squeezed together as they lay on the floor, the cleavage deep and mysterious. Her leather collar was chained to a stainless steel eye-hook attached to the inside of Mr. Aragon's expansive executives desk.
He had left her a bowl of milk for sustenance, and she felt a twang of hunger. She rolled onto her knees and inched her way forward to the saucer, her thighs rubbing together and her heavy breasts pendulous even in the tight brassiere.
When she arrived at the saucer she bent down, her dark hair tumbling around the white milk. Her hot, wet tongue slipped softly out between her full red lips and lapped at the warm milk. Lap, lap, lap, she lapped up the milk little by little and she felt like purring in contentment, so she hummed to herself as she finished the last drop of delicious white liquid.
The light was fading and she saw the office lights began to flicker on in the skyscrapers across from their building.
Late workers, like me.
She giggled and lay back down on the carpet, stretching out her legs and arms as she waited for Mr. Aragon to gift her with his presence.
There wasn't any guarantee that he would. He only visited occasionally, when he wanted to use her. Sometimes he wanted her to tell him about the nights he set up for her. She loved those nights, and she loved the nights with him, but not the nights that he sent her home. Those were boring and sad and she missed him so much when she was at home.
My master, where are you tonight?
She must have fallen asleep because all of a sudden she heard the click of the door as someone entered. For a moment she felt so exposed, as her skirt had ridden up thighs and half way up her ample butt cheeks, her juicy pussy fresh and open to the night air.
She had been dreaming about his cock, her obsession, and she had been licking it, over an over, lapping it up with her tongue like the milk she had just finished on the floor, licking at the bulbous head as it grew bigger and bigger, and purple in color. Precum had oozed out of the slit at its tip, and she had lapped that up like the eager kitty that she was.
It was him, Mr. Aragon in a newly laundered three piece suit, a pink handkerchief folded just so and tucked into the breast pocket. His face was blank as he looked down on her, a five-o-clock shadow softening his sharp chin.
"Sleeping, are we?" She thought she saw a grin wash across his face, and then it was blank again.
He grunted. "Shine my shoes, slut."
She got to her knees and thrust out her ample breasts, showing off his property. "Yes, master."
With one hand he moved his expensive looking office chair over to where she was kneeling, and sat down in it with a sigh. He pulled out his gold cigarette container from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and slipped a cigarette out of it. With his other hand he flicked open his engraved silver Zippo lighter, and lit the cigarette. He puffed contentedly for a moment, and then looked down at her, gazing up at him in adoration.
"Well?" There was impatience in his voice, but also amusement.
She felt flustered, a thrust several fingers of her right hand into her soft mouth, licking them until they were well lubricated, and then reached down underneath the hem of her skirt to slowly plunge two wet fingers into her sopping cunt, already engorged and almost vibrating with need.
I am his. I am his slut. I am his cum receptacle.
