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.
