NOTES:
I always welcome comments and suggestions on where to take the story. Please feel free to let me know what you think and any suggestions.
ALL PERSONS ARE AT LEAST EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD.
*****
"Beg me to fuck this cunt. Beg me to take it raw and fuck your slut hole!" he coated his cock with my juices, rubbing the swollen head slowly against my clit, driving me wild.
"Yes! Fuck! Please fuck me, Sir. Fuck my pussy. Fuck my little slut hole. I want it. I need it so bad!" I moaned, pushing back urgently.
How did I get here?' you wonder?
How did I get to be on all fours on the floor of the office of one of the richest men in my town, about to take the biggest cock I'd seen in my life (not that I'd seen many) as the alternative to serving jail time?
So glad you asked...
*****Three weeks ago*****
I knew they were hiring at the local booze and boobs joint on the outskirts of town
I also knew that my curvy 36-24-34 tight body would get me hired in an instant.
But I just wanted something different for myself, for a life where I wasn't sneered at, told 'like mother, like daughter' any more.
So I stuck it out, taking cleaning jobs in the rich white neighbourhoods to help pay for books and my living costs at the local university.
It was hard work, but nothing I wasn't used to. Well, apart from the groping hands of the husbands, and very frequently their starved thin, little repressed wives.
I was getting confused by the feelings this attention gave me.
I was at first quite shocked by how many couples seemed so eager to cheat on their spouse, but that emotion wore off quickly as the months went by. I always made my excuses, slid out of the groping hands with a smile and made sure I did my cleaning rotas with Eileen, the very curvy, matronly woman who owned the company. She loved to oversee work in the big houses personally.
But when I started working at the Millar home, of Millar Trucking & Logistics Corp Ltd, those usual feelings didn't happen.
Instead of the anger and humiliation making me feel abused and hurt, Mr Millar's attentions left me feeling flushed, aching and twitching.
Maybe it was his six foot four, 230 pound bulky muscled frame.
Or maybe it was the fact that he had such an air of command. His face was harsh, unyielding, often looking like a barely leashed, handsome Mark Ruffalo type Hulk as he strode out to his chauffeur driven car each morning.
After a month of his playing grab ass, rubbing against me and holding my slim body to the wall while he shoved his hand down my blouse to tweak my hard nipples as my 'punishment' for 'making him hard as a fuckin' bar of iron', I tried to do the right thing.
I threatened to tell his wife and also quit the job, contract be damned.
But he had just growled "Don't you ever try to leave. I'll fuckin' tie you to my bed if you threaten that again." as he shoved my body against the refrigerator in their large kitchen.
The cook and rest of the hired catering staff moved around us as if we were furniture.
All of them well trained to even look up from their preparations for the brunch his wife, Joan Millar was hosting that afternoon.
Mr Millar had leaned in and sucked on the soft skin high on my neck.
Like a wolf, marking his territory.
A dull bruise quickly rose from his ministrations.
A hickey.
The jackass had given me a hickey.
Mr Millar strolled out of the kitchen snarling over his shoulder, "Yeah. You go right ahead and talk to Joan. Explain that to her."
The next day, my pulse racing, but my heart also breaking at the upcoming loss, I tried to tell Mrs Millar.
She didn't believe me.
Slapped my face so hard - for lying - and then had me searched by the security as I burst into tears, grabbed by backpack, fled down the driveway and tried to leave.
Well.
Fuck me.
Surprise, surprise.
They found a set of her diamond earrings plus five thousand dollars in my backpack and marched me straight back up to the house, into the day lounge where she stood, drunkenly mixing herself another gin and tonic.
No tonic - as usual.
Mrs Millar had refused to deal with the issue, insisting her husband 'handles these sorts of things'.
She'd staggered out, helped upstairs by kind Eileen who urged her to go lie down and 'rest her eyes'.
So it was left to Mr Millar left to decide my fate.
I had been taken into the town in the back of the car of the plodding security guard who marched me straight into the Millar TLC offices.
After a short wait we'd been shown into the large office.
Mr Millar stood, his back to us, looking at busy Main Street below.
Mr Millar had been very understanding, explaining the jewellery must have fallen into my bag when I was cleaning and the money was probably for paying for online orders, shopping and other errands. He was sure Mrs Millar would confirm this when she woke up.
The security guard protested furiously, making Mr Millar say as he clapped him hard on the shoulder, then turned him to lead him out of the office,
"Well, OK then. If Joanie doesn't confirm this, and this young lady IS found to have stolen property and money, then the police will be called, OK?"
Glaring at my rebellious but relieved face as he left, the departing security guard sauntered out, the door swinging even wider as he walked away.
I stood there stunned.
The money and jewels meant nothing to these people.
I know 'cos I'd found those 5 carat diamond earrings covered in dust and lint, on the floor behind the headboard in the guest room.
Now the money, that I was surprised about.
That was equal to five months of pay.
And I had no idea how it got into my backpack.
I took one look at the smirk on Mr Millar's face and my eyes widened.
I slowly understood.
He knew I needed the job.
He also knew I couldn't afford to have a record.
He had me over a barrel.