Your heart is thumping, the adrenalin and anticipation beginning to be usurped by arousal. This whole scenario has an element of the surreal, and yet you stay fixed to this spot. He stirs behind you, moving close enough for his cologne to caress your senses, even if his hands are yet to.
You look down and regard your hands, the pale skin a sharp contrast to the dark mahogany of his desk. This makes no rational sense. He steps beside you, and you feel his breath on your neck. The skin there tingles slightly, and your breath catches.
You could turn to him right now and tell him this is harassment. You could slap his face; you're not some weak, vapid, spineless conquest waiting for some strong man to sweep you away. So walk away. Do it. Just turn and sweep past him and out of the office without looking back...
But you stay perfectly still, your mouth becoming dry and your breathing short. He remains as close to your body as possible without actually touching you.
"Time to see if you are able to play by the rules Miss." Each word slides as sound and warm air over the nape of your neck and your earlobe. This time you're unable to suppress a low moan.
His fingertips connect with your skin just above the back of your knee, but just below the lace at the top of your stocking. You have never worn stay-up stockings to a place of employment in your life. Though nor have you chosen to be standing in an employer's office, your legs apart and your body screaming to be touched.
"I would be ever so disappointed if you aren't willing to play..." The finger tips creep with torturous deliberateness upwards. They disappear beneath the hem of your skirt. The skin where he touches you feels hot, glowing. Your body is tense, and you feel like a bow pulled taught. The fingers wend higher, reaching the top third of your thigh, and the tension reaches a zenith. His fingers meet the wetness that has escaped from your swollen pussy, and his breath hisses out. Your head drops forward as he slides his fingers over the scented nectar that you are unable to stop from seeping down your inner thighs. Your cheeks flush with the knowledge that the effect he has on your body is now undeniable.
The original request had been as absurd as it was intoxicating.
"You can, of course, choose not to be a part of this game," he'd said. You were standing before this very desk. The mild attraction to your new boss had steadily grown to idle fantasy and finally blossomed into somewhat of an obsession. Some element of mystery and hidden danger that have fuelled elaborate and delicious mental scenarios involving elements of eroticism hereto unfamiliar to you.
Then came the first touch. It was completely unnecessary; a firm hand on the small of your back. You stiffened at the touch, the invasion of personal space quickly overridden by the realisation that HE was touching you.
"If you want to leave now, I'll understand. But if you stay, you'll be agreeing to my first rule." You regarded him with both interest and contempt. Rules? This is a place of business, not some private playground, some sick pervert personal boudoir. Even if he is the boss. Even if you can feel the flush of excitement creeping over your chest and neck.
"What rule would that be...Sir?"
"You will not wear underwear in the office. I reserve the right to check at any time, in any situation, and will punish accordingly if the rule is broken."
Stunned. Your mouth had hung open in disbelief, even as the concept crystallised in your head. It began to slot in with some of the unbidden and intoxicating fantasies that had been pushing you to so many back-arching orgasms.
Slowly, your mouth closed, and, breathing quickly, you gave him a short sharp nod. Barely believing what you'd just agreed to, you had turned to head back to your desk.
His cough was barely audible.
You turned to regard him.
"Sir?"
He said not a word, just regarded you with a slightly infuriating, patient stare. After a moment his eyes dipped to your waist, and you realised his meaning. You felt outrage rising in you, even as heat flooded your pussy. You moved back to the middle of the office, standing in front of his desk. This was a moment of truth. You knew this was outrageous and that you should walk away. But you could feel the moisture beginning to creep between your lips.
I'll just get this done, you thought, and process all this later. Reaching up under your skirt, you grabbed the edge of your lacy shorts. Once again, there was a clearing of his throat.
"Slowly, Miss. I want to enjoy this. In fact, turn around."
Mortified, you realised he'd be able to see just how aroused you already were if you bend over in front of him. But, you'd come too far to turn back now. You turned your back to the desk. Very slowly, you began to hitch the skirt up, revealing the red silk and lace boy shorts you'd selected that day. Parting your legs slightly, you grabbed the underwear and slid them down your legs. You felt the material come away from the slickness at the apex of your thighs, and the air of his office slipped over your shiny lips. Dropping the underwear to your ankles, you stepped out of them. It feels indescribably sexy.
"Leave them on my desk Miss, and return to your desk. We'll talk more in the near future."
You dropped the red material in front of him, the streak of darkness clearly visible. To compound your discomfort, he reached across the desk and picked up the underwear. Moving it to his face, you once again stared unbelieving as he inhales your scent. But your cheeks flushed further when you heard an appreciative sound deep in his throat and he smiled at you.
Rushing back to your desk you'd stumbled past a co-worker, mumbling an apology before landing in your seat. For the rest of the day you had stared blankly at the computer screen, head filled with images so naughty they had shocked you, and an ache in your pussy.
Your head returns to the present. Sir has summoned you to his office personally, arriving at your desk without warning.
"Miss, would you join me in my office for a moment?" he says before stepping aside to let you walk in front of him. Now you're about to pass the first test of Sir's first rule. As his fingertips brush the outer lips of your dripping pussy, the tension is released. Your knees buckle, but before you fall, a firm hand reaches around your waist, holding you up. The action also causes you to lean forward over his desk. Your palms remain where they are, but your cheek now rests on the cool, dark wood. Sir's other hand remains on the skin of your inner thigh. The hand that held you up now rests between your shoulder blades. It doesn't hold you there, but the intention is clear. Your head swims with how turned on you are.
His fingers return to your outer lips, spreading the wetness over them very gently and deliberately. The cry that escapes your lips is an uncontrolled exclamation.
"Shhhhhh, Miss. We don't want co-workers knowing what a naughty girl you are."
The dirtiness of his words only serves to heighten your arousal. To push the point, he lightly traps your clit between two fingers and you whimper, knees buckling again.
"But you are, aren't you Miss?"
He begins to slowly and carefully manipulate your clit in small circles, applying just enough pressure to amp your arousal, but with nothing like the urgency you would be using were your own fingers tracing the same path.
The hand moves from between your shoulder blades. His fingers snake through your hair, and gathering it expertly into a bunch, he pulls. You gasp as your head is pulled back, until your ear is alongside his lips.
"Aren't you, Miss?" he whispers. You whimper at the clashing of pleasure and dominance. This earns a shaper pull of your hair with a simultaneous change of tempo across your clit.
"Yes Sir," he whispers.
"Yes Sir," The words are almost a cry. The desire to comply in the hope of the release you crave has overridden any objection to this shocking turn of events. He seems to know just how to creep your pleasure enough to make your hips grind back towards his fingers.
His hand holds your hair firmly, effectively holding you in place exactly where he wants you. Between your legs, his finger continues to flick back and forth across your clit, but the other fingers have begun to trace small circles over the opening of your pussy, teasing you deliciously. Each time the fingers sweep over the slippery labia, you will him to slide a finger into you. Finally, he pauses over your entrance and you let out a lustful cry. Immediately you receive a sharp pull on your hair.
"Shhhhhh, Miss. I will not tell you again to be quiet." You let out a whimper and try to move your hips to manoeuvre his finger inside your aching pussy. He applies just a small amount of pressure, which refers to your throbbing clitoris, but refuses to penetrate you.
Again, you cry out.
The smack is not loud, but sharp and unexpected. A glancing blow, you can feel the blood rushing to the cheek of your behind. His hand immediately covers the smacked area, serving to dissipate and spread the sudden rush of pain.
"You will need to be disciplined I see. Good... I like that."
A part of your brain once again registers defiance and outrage at his words, but before the protest forms at your lips, the tip of his finger parts you and slides inside you. The defiant part of your mind is overruled by carnal desire. You stifle the cry this time, but the growl resonates in your throat and chest.
"I'm going to finger fuck you for a little while. I'm going to finger this sweet, wet pussy of yours, then I'm going to stop and you'll go back to your desk and continue working."
Talking dirty. In your fantasy it happens often, but the reality is far hotter than you ever realised. No one has ever described what they intend to do to you, much less in such blunt and obscene language. It only compounds the excitement that is collecting in your belly.
The first finger is joined by a second, and he rotates them so they slide deliciously over your G-spot. Once again your knees buckle. He doesn't rush his movement, rather takes up a luxurious, steading fucking motion. His other hand leaves your hair, and replaces his other fingers on your erect clit. Your fingers claw at the smooth wood of the desk as tendrils of pleasure snake forth from your core and wrap around every nerve ending. Your breathing is ragged and desperate, all thought of objection and outrage now gone. There is nothing but this exquisite pleasure.
He stops.
Your wrath is offset by being prone across the desk with your lubrication sliding down your thighs. But he is already returning to his seat on the other side of the desk. Panting, you stare unbelieving at him.
He lifts his fingers to his nose and inhales your scent.
"You should know that yours is a truly beautiful scent. Please return to your desk, and enjoy the rest of your day."
You are incensed as much as is possible in your current position. He is reading and flicking through reports in front of him as though you are not even there. But you are. Your skirt is pushed up over your hips, and your arse cheek is red and glowing from the smack. Your shirt is rumpled, your breathing ragged and your arousal raging. On unsteady legs you straighten, and attempt to compose yourself. You have never been so acutely aware of your body. The air moving over the cooling slickness on your thighs, the throbbing of your clitoris. Even your nipples feel painfully erect. You can clearly smell the scent of your pussy, and feel certain that others in the office will as well.
