Two weeks. That's all it took. Fourteen days ago, I walked into this place in a £6 Primark blouse and called the CEO a security guard because I was a sheltered, awkward white girl who hadn't really been out in the world.
Now? Now I walk past reception and people stand. My wardrobe is a blur of soft leathers, structured silks, heels that say don't speak unless you're sure, and lingerie that costs more than my rent. I wear perfumes whose name I can't pronounce. A man's name on my lips opens doors faster than any keycard.
Mr Duncan would like that signed before lunch.
Mr Duncan said this doesn't leave the building.
Mr Duncan needs you to speak plainly or not at all.
This morning, I reach the office early. I do that now. At Uni I used to wake up at 8:30 and be on the tube by 8:45, out of breath, unwashed, messy ponytail and loungewear hiding my shame. Now my body wakes me at 6:30am so that I can prepare. Hair straightened and tied back into a perfect ponytail. Moisturised head to toe. Makeup perfect. My office shoes are polished until they shine. No scuffs. No wear. If I'm going to be his instrument, then I have to be like he is. Perfect. Precise.
My friends have noticed. They say, Ruby, you look so professional now, or Ruby, you've really turned your style around. They don't realise what I'm wearing costs more than they earn in a month. They don't see me throwing out another pair of silk stockings because I've ruined the knees from dropping onto the carpet too quickly, lips parted, cunt dripping.
I feel powerful. Out there, anyway. In his office... he reminds me that all of this can all be taken away.
The truth is, Mr Duncan barely speaks to me. He doesn't need to. He watches. He nods. Sometimes he smiles - just barely, like he doesn't want to spoil my appetite - And every time he does, I eat it up hungrily. I never know when he's watching, but when he sees me? God, I get so wet.
Sometimes he congratulates me in his way. A hand on my shoulder. A raised eyebrow when I shut someone down in a meeting. One time, he brushed a speck of lint off my sleeve and said, simply, "That was handled well." I came that night with three fingers in my cunt and my face pressed to the bedsheets like he'd ordered it.
But here's the thing...
He hasn't fucked me. Not once. Every evening, I return to his office. The routine is unspoken now. Doors locked. Dress peeled away. Heels stay on. I kneel, I serve, I swallow every drop. It's not just my duty, it's my pleasure. To relieve his stress. I imagine him shooting it down my throat like I'm his personal fleshlight. His cock is so big, so black, and I ache to feel it harden in my dumb little mouth.
But he only ever uses my mouth. He doesn't touch my pussy. Doesn't let me cum. Doesn't fuck me.
It is driving.
Me.
Insane.
I sit at my desk during the day, crossing and uncrossing my legs like a nurse with a vibrator under her uniform. I nod through calls and presentations while my cunt throbs like it's missing something. When I sit on a chair next to him in a meeting, I worry I'll leave a damp patch.
At home, I've started fantasising about his body. Not just his cock - his hands. Thick and veined and strong. Pressing into me. Stretching me. Filling me until I forget what words are. When I cum, I instinctively babble his name.
"Yes, Mr. Duncan!"
"Thank you, Mr Duncan!"
"Anything you want, Mr. Duncan!"
I wonder if this is the point. If he's training me without saying so. Keeping me hungry. Keeping me his. Because if he ever does fuck me - really fuck me, like I want - I don't know that I'd ever stop.
The day was interminable, as ever. I carried out his orders. I managed his calendar. I reminded everyone I spoke to that as far as they're concerned, my words are his words. My shoes made me taller than most of the men around here, and all of the women. Secretly, I think they love being bossed around by me. By a powerful bitch in designer wear. I bet they go home and touch themselves to the thought of my heels on their chest, hating themselves for being so turned on by this bitch who didn't even work here a month ago.
They don't know this is all an act that ends at 6pm every day, when I turn into that same desperate, panting girl whose confidence gets stripped away with the clothes.
He was already sitting when I stepped into the office. Jacket off. Tie loosened. Shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. The door clicked shut behind me. I didn't speak. He didn't ask. I just knelt.
As I said, it had become automatic. My knees hit the soft carpet, my shoulders pulled back, my back straight--not out of obedience anymore, but devotion. He looked at me like he always did. Calm. Silent. Like I was a perfect machine running exactly as programmed.
But I wasn't. I was begging. Not with words - with my eyes.
I undid his belt slowly, precisely, like I was unwrapping a fragile gift. His cock was already hard - thick, dark, beautiful - and my cunt clenched just from seeing it. From knowing what was coming. And what wasn't. Because despite everything - my good work, my perfect outfits, my expert mouth - he still, still, still hadn't fucked me.
This evening, as I took his beautiful black penis into my mouth, I promised myself one thing: today I'm going to make him want it as much as I do.
I wrapped my lips around his shaft with a moan, deep and needy, like I was trying to sing into his cock. Took him slow at first, eyes on his, then deeper. I gagged, letting it happen, so he could see that I wasn't holding back. Let my throat stretch, let the spit spill down my chin. I was drooling, moaning, swallowing him like it was the last thing I'd ever get to taste.
And then I went further.
I slipped my fingers between my thighs. Not to cum. Just to show him. Just to offer. I pushed the soaked lace aside, slid two fingers inside, shallow, slow, showing him how wet I was. How desperate. I wiped my juices on him, slick and hot, as I whimpered. He didn't say anything, just groaned appreciatively.
I kept sucking. Harder now. Throat aching. Eyes streaming. Fingers still inside me, not chasing anything - just begging. Inside my mind. Please. Please, Mr Duncan. Fuck me. Use me. Break me. My hands slick, my mouth full, my soul cracked wide open like a gift.
As he got closer, he grabbed my hair. Hard. Fisted it at the base of my skull and began to fuck my face. Slow. Controlled. Brutal. My nose pressed to his abdomen, my eyes rolled back, my makeup destroyed. Spit and juices snorted out of me as I let him take everything. My fingers rubbing my clit furiously, toes curling, eyes rolling back.
Come on, you bastard, I thought, you can have me. Why won't you have me?
I thought about him throwing me across his desk, pinning my neck against it, then forcing himself into me... into my cunt. Into my ass. And telling me what a dirty slut I was for wanting it like this. A stupid slut. A dumb little white girl desperate to get fucked by a big... black...
