Wor-Life Balance

The first splattering raindrops were whipping down from the gray sky, clouds scudding and unspooling above her. The weather both matched her mood and annoyed her; in her mind, fury mixed with anxiety in a way that made her feel almost physically sick. There had been no one thing today, but just an endless series of trivialities to bring her down; her assistant--barely worth the name--had done a shit job of the candidate research assigned to him, and had passively-aggressively blamed her for 'unclear instructions'. Her attempts to get solid work done herself had been constantly interrupted by higher-ups walking into her office and asking questions, causing her trains of thought to collapse in on themselves, and of course each of those questions had been something the person asking her could have figured out on their own. She was tired of being the outsourced brain for so many middling people, but there was no one to appeal to, no one in the organization who wasn't part of the same social circle.

Her steps hastened as the rain increased, the sudden squall making drivers honk crabbily at each other. She sped by the open-air café near his place, but still overheard a scrap of irritating conversation, the braying laugh of an idiot after a badly-told joke. Finally, she made it to the door of his small but elegant little row house before the downpour started in earnest. She fished in her purse for her key but tried the knob first, and it opened smoothly, the heavy wood swinging wide silently. She stepped in, and the door closed behind her with a firm, definitive click. Instantly, the sounds of the street were gone, not just muffled but absent, replaced with the warm tones of music--probably that Ethiopian jazz guy he'd been talking about recently. She felt the irritation of her day rebounding inside her like a small metal ball, striking little sparks of resentful thoughts: his place was so nice, so calm it was almost annoying, a perfect little construct divorced from the outside.

She heard clattering from the kitchen and slipped her shoes off before padding over the soft rug of the living room to the arched door leading into the spice-smelling kitchen. He had his head down, gazing into the depths of the saucepan with curiosity, adding small handfuls of herbs from a neatly-chopped pile on the olive-wood cutting board near the stove. She rolled her shoulders and put her laptop and purse down on the counter, a little harder than necessary.

"Rough day, I see," he said, without lifting his head, giving her another little jolt of annoyance.

"You're not even looking at me," she shot back. He brushed the herbs from his hands and turned to look at her levelly.

"You're right,' he said, "I'm sorry. But I can tell from your footsteps." The smell from the saucepan had reached her, tomatoes and spices mingling together, his shakshuka sauce. He hadn't made it for awhile, but it fit the weather perfectly.

His ready apology was also almost annoying, how quickly he could admit any fault and acknowledge it, but already her inner annoyance was being tempered by the other feelings that his presence brought. Not just his presence in himself, but this house he had, the homeyness of it, the refuge it was. The first time he'd ever brought her here, she'd been in a state of high excitement--going home from a bar with a man, especially a man so much older than her, was still something she did rarely, daringly, but as soon as she'd walked in she'd been charmed by it, the long living room with the rugs--handwoven by his grandmother, as it turned out, the disparate art on the walls, none of it really matching the other but all fitting together, like a group of friends with different life paths. There had been music that time too, Blockhead, his perennial favorite, something she'd never heard before. And there had been spice in the air, too, he'd been simmering cider.

"What if I was just walking that way to deceive you?" she asked, "Don't you think I'm capable of that?"

"More than capable," he returned, "I'm sure you could also cover up your rough day if you wanted to. I'm glad you don't."

His almost-placid response gave her a bratty spike of annoyance, but a totally different color than the annoyance she felt all day. She didn't have to watch what she said here, she could be reckless and let him deal with it.

"Maybe I'm exaggerating how rough my day is, and actually spent the time flying kites and talking about the older man I have wrapped around my finger," she said, glaring at him.

"That's not usually what I'm wrapped around," he said, "Actually, that phrase would generally apply to you more than me."

"Don't try to jump ahead in the evening," she said, "That's cheating. And I remember you giving me a really wounded look when I cheated at that dumb game you taught me, even though if I hadn't, it would have taken forever."

"You'll never know how long it'd have taken," he said, "But you were impatient that night. Tonight you're a different kind of impatient." A smile took over his face, transforming his serious visage, a chaotic impishness there.

She let out a long breath without breaking their eye contact, letting the music wash over her, feeling the difference of being in this space.. "I sometimes want to set a fire in here just to see if you'd finally freak out," she said, but there was already humor in her voice, the day's poison dissipating.

He smiled, "Would that be a test to see what I'd save first? Would you want me to rush to your aid or would that be presumptuous, interfering with your independence?" His tone was light, and he opened the fridge and brought out a chilled silver shaker as he spoke, then brought down a glass from the cupboard.

"Definitely I can get my own ass out of a fire, thanks," she said, "And you'd probably be annoyingly competent with it. I'll find something to shake you."

"Just ask me to dance," he said, pouring the pearly-green contents of the shaker into a glass, topping it with a kumquat and handing it to her, "And watch me break my neck."

She chortled, "I hadn't thought of that one. You can't dance? I'm surprised. You're not clumsy. You have good body control." That sentence--remembering just how good his control of his, and her body was at times, was the first time her libido had really flickered to life tonight, briefly breaking above the morass of stress.

He shook his head ruefully as he watched her take a sip, then a longer draught of the cocktail he'd made for her. "I could give it a good spin and say that I just get so lost in the music I can't connect it with my body, but that'd just be an excuse."

The drink was refreshing, the tastes of cucumber and mint flowing over her tongue, and she drained the rest of it, chasing the foamy drops with her tongue. She was glad to see his eyes flare a little in response to that.

"Well," he said, in his dark voice, "Speaking of spin, do you want to talk through the day, or would you like to move on more immediately?"

It was tempting to just throw herself into the next part of the evening, but she knew she wasn't there yet. This part of the night was important too, on a lot of levels. "Spin my day for me," she said, sitting down on one of the kitchen island stools, and began to recount all the petty and not-so-petty conversations and frustrations of the day. He listened without significant interruption, asking a few clarifying questions, letting her vent, pouring out another serving of the cocktail.

When she was done, he started off with a few sardonic observations about the mediocrities she had to work with and for. "One of the biggest negatives of this job is that you're basically teaching yourself," he said, "But on the other hand, that means you're not being mistaught." He offered her a few strategies for dealing with the various intrusions on her time, the attacks from below and above, starting with forgoing the idea that her useless assistant would ever be able to do a decent job that involved his brain, moving on to diversion strategies for her bosses. "These are purely transactional people, but they also have no positive memory: favors you do for them just make them think they can ask for more favors from you. Be cynical about cynical people." He freely admitted most of what he was giving her as advice was only ameliorative, ways to make things less bad.

"But most of all," he concluded, "I think you need to decide if the job is still valuable to you; you won't burn any bridges if you leave for something better. The only thing they really respect is accrued power. What they should be to you now is their connections; they are the bridge to your next job. Not by their recommendation--fuck all that, it might even hurt you. Some of their 'friends' know what idiots they are. Join in any meetings you're allowed to, socialize with their groups after hours, and find your next job. Either with other cynical, transactional assholes with more to offer, or with actual virtuous folk--the rarest of the rare."

She had been feeling that itch for a while, the "it's time to move on," but the way he put it made it seem like a more feasible path. She liked not feeling she'd be dependent on them. Something lifted from her, but a lot remained.

He took the glass from the table and put it in the sink, and washed them out briefly. His muscles moved under his shirt, and she started to be more aware of that, his body, her body, the contrasts between them. He dried his hands and moved towards her, reaching out, brushing his thumb against her bottom lip. Defiance rose in her, but submission rose with it, that touch a trigger. Still, she reached up to push his hand away, but used a green word.

"Stop that silliness," she said, "I'm not your plaything."

"Yet," he said, his voice dropping deeper, and he put his hand against her cheek, big fingers against her soft skin. She leaned into it for a second, body thrumming, and reached up to move his hand again, but this time he did not let himself be moved. She slid her hand up from his wrist to his forearm, the muscles hard as old wood. Not just strength, but old strength, strength that he'd carried with him for years, reified and manifested over decades.

His hand slipped back to her hair, gliding through it to the back of her head. He leaned in and kissed her hungrily, his lips capturing hers, tugging on it and then releasing. "How many days have you edged now?" He asked, though she was sure he knew.

"Four," she lied.

"Three," he corrected, and his hand tangled in her hair, "Trying to provoke me. I know that you know. But since you chose that lie... maybe I'll make it four."

A real flash of fear rushed through her, "You said that you'd give me release she said," a tremulous note entering her voice.

"I said if you were a good girl. You're being willfully bad. There's still plenty of time for you to be good."

She pressed her thighs together, but wasn't willing to give in quite yet. "Then there's still time to be bad for a while, too," she said, defying him even with his hand in her hair, his hazel eyes locked on hers, and the desire for what might come next so profound inside her.

He smiled again, a smile with more savagery than the one he'd shown her so far, "Sure," he said, "let's work with that."

And then he was half-lifting, half-dragging her off the stool, his arm forcing her face down onto the kitchen island, her vision suddenly full of the fine wood grain of it. He roughly pulled up her skirt, flipping it over, revealing her ass. Her arms scrabbled under her, trying to push up for a moment, but he leant into it, easily controlling her body.

"You're going to want to brace yourself," he said, but before she could make any adjustment at all, his heavy hand was smacking down onto her ass, the sound as much of a shock as the blow, a resounding, stinging smack. The pain jolted through her and she let out a formless noise. The next slap landed on the other asscheek--his fingers were spread and she could feel the outline of them after he withdrew his hand. Her arms reached desperately for the edge of the island and gripped hard.

"Smart girl," he said, and he released the pressure on her back, both of his hands grabbing handfuls of her ass, fingers stroking over the flesh he'd just reddened, thumbs delving between the soft mounds of her ass and spreading her apart. She'd chosen a brief thong that from this position concealed little, and she heard his chuckle of approval.

The next blow was a relief from anticipation; not as sharply stinging as the first too, but firm, solid, as was the next, and the next. The pain began to mount, burning, stinging, the impacts rippling through her body, snaking up her spine to that beloved, traitorous part of her brain that needed this, craved this, the lock where this was the only key.

"It's so much," she gasped out, raising her head up from the kitchen block. He took her hair in his hand again and pulled her around so she could see his face, the stormy, lustful, but controlled expression. Seeing how much this affected him gave her a swirl of emotions; a connection like no other. He reached out and stroked her face gently with his fingertips, and then slammed another spank onto her ass. "Raise it up for me a little more," he said, and when she hesitated, his fingers tightened and pulled in her hair, "Raise it, I said."

She arched her back, offering him her vulnerable ass, posed there in the kitchen like a toy, obeying his commands like a pet. She still felt defiance in her but it was drowning in this sea of pain and joy, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of sensation. He kept that firm grip in her hair, and the fingers of his free hand stroked up the back of her thighs, reaching the delicate skins just below her ass, triggering that exquisite fear again, but his fingers continued on their path to the thin fabric covering her pussy. He flicked it to the side, and slid two fingers up and down her pussylips, opening her up. The contrast between his strong, slightly roughened fingers and the slick silkiness of her pussy was a glorious feeling.

"So we already, little slut," he said, "Wet from having been bent over and spanked like the brat you are," his fingers sought her entrance, slid into her, two thick fingers pushing into her tightness, "And now such a good girl. Offering yourself for me to play with." In the silence after he spoke, she could hear the small, distinct wet sound of his fingers going deeper in her, and then she felt him curl them inside her, a beckoning motion. He sighed deeply, and she heard in that a release for him that matched what she felt, and was proud to have elicited that sound. "Your pussy is ready for Daddy already."

She had the half-hope, half-fear that he'd just haul his cock out and slam it into her, to pump into her in a rage of need until he filled her, and she would have accepted it if that was his choice but it was not. He leant over her, big body looming above her as he pulled her into position to kiss her claimingly, his tongue pushing between her lips, invading her mouth the way his fingers were invading her pussy. These moments where he made her feel so surrounded, so taken and held were intoxicating; she rose on the balls of her feet, wanting to be a perfect pet for him.

He broke the kiss and stood up straight again. "Eager for more," he said, not asked, and added a third finger in her. She gasped as it slid in, stretched, and heard him say, "Still not as thick as my cock," and marveled at the truth of that. She whimpered in need, longing to feel him press up against her so she could feel the hardness of his cock, but he stayed in his position behind, her, his hand idly controlling her head, his fingers pumping and working in her, now rolling his thumb into position to nudge and tease her clit.

"You look so fucking beautiful like this," he said, his voice an earnest growl, that unfakeable rough edge of lust in it, "Like you were made for this. Made to be Daddy's little fucktoy" He slipped his fingers from her pussy and smacked them wetly down on her ass, hard as he had before, and then pushed back into her. "No, not just made, chosen, too. You choose to be a slut for Daddy. You know you need me to bring it out of you." His hand released her hair, caressed her face, and then his fingers were at her lips. She opened her mouth obediently even before he gave any order, welcoming them in, curling her tongue around them, sucking gratefully.

"You would look so good sucking on a cock right now," he said, and for a moment her mind rejected the idea, asserted that she only wanted him, but he drove his fingers deep in her pussy and said, "I want to feel how wet you get when I share you that way." The image rose in her mind, of her between two men with his energy, serving them both, doing it to please him, to please herself. She nodded frantically with his fingers in her mouth, in her pussy, her body laid out for him.

With all the edging she'd done and the intensity of the sensations, she was dangerously close to orgasm already, her body trembling. "Oh no, not yet," he said, and slipped her fingers out, leaving her feeling bereft. He took a step back; she kept her grip on the table, having been given no other order, feeling compliance holding her in place as sure as any binding could. He walked around the island and she heard the clank of his belt buckle as he undid it, the rough rasp of fabric as he opened his pants, and then in front of her was his thick cock, his heavy balls.

He thudded it down on her forehead--she was so gratified to feel it fully hard already, hot on her skin--and she opened her mouth and extended her tongue, trying to make some sort of contact. He took his cock in hand and slid it down her face, the soft head of it moving against her cheek like a kiss before he laid it on her tongue. She wrapped her lips around the head of it, surprised as always by the girth of it, something impossible to truly remember between sessions, and looked up at him with wide eyes.

He let her suck greedily on the head of it for a while, hand mussing her hair, and then pulled his cock back. "On your knees," he ordered, and grabbed her by the arms, forcefully helping her achieve that goal. She tried to keep eye contact throughout, and was looking into his eyes when he invaded her mouth again, his thick shaft gliding across her tongue, pushing against her throat and making her gag. She steadied herself, putting her hands on his thighs, but he swatted them away, "I didn't tell you you could brace yourself," he said. She put her arms behind her, and he nodded in satisfaction, and started to fuck her mouth.

Such a simple phrase, but such a potent act, her lips and cheeks plumped out by his manhood as he worked it in and out, the masculine scent of him, the way her lips dragged on his cock as he pulled out, the way his cockhead challenged her throat, making her cough and sputter. He grabbed her hair and pulled her forward, off-balance, the sensation of falling forward on his cock raising alarm in her body continuously overridden by her desire to serve.

"You're being such a good little whore for me," he said, as she pressed her tongue up against the underside of his cock, as trails of saliva escaped her mouth. Daddy was using her, Daddy thought she was beautiful, Daddy was rocking her back and forth on his cock. This was another form of edging; she wanted it to last forever, she wanted him to cum in her mouth and flood it, she wanted him to pull out and take her pussy. She wanted whatever he wanted.

Finally he pulled his cock out, leaving her gasping, smiling, letting him show all the effort she had given, arms still obediently behind her. He pumped his cock in his hand thoughtfully and looked at her, "I love making a mess of you," he said. He reached down and put his hand around her throat and around her arm, smoothly pulling her up to her feet. He turned her around and pushed her forward, marching her into the living room, bending her over the arm of the couch, his hand never leaving her throat.