Unwilling but Able

Have you ever found yourself in a situation, where on the one hand: you hate what you're doing, you hate yourself for doing it, you hate that you have to do it and you hate that you were unable to do the right thing, to swallow your medicine, to take the punishment you deserve and resist the temptation to evade it by the most shameful means... but on the other hand, you love what you're doing, you love the forbidden thrill, the wickedly illicit pleasure of it, and you want more of it, more, ever so much more...

That's exactly how I felt, split and torn asunder by both guilt and lust, as I fucked my boss, fucked her long and hard, fed my gorging cock in and out of her incredibly, astonishingly slick tight cunt -- ostensibly, doing it only to keep my job, to keep from being fired for a fairly serious misdeed but also, doing it also because I wanted it... needed it... didn't really need an excuse to do it...

Let's set the scene. I'm in law, interning at a big city firm, freshly graduated after five long hard years at university. I'm married to a lovely lady: she's the bread-winner, we're the same age but she graduated a couple years before me with a degree in Commerce, and now she's got a big-ticket job with an investment group and she brings in the big bucks. She supported us through my last hectic years of Uni, and as a reward for our hard work she bought us a really big house; of course, then the arse fell out of the markets and her commissions died out, and we're struggling to make ends meet on a home that's worth less than the amount we owe on it. Life has been stressful, putting us in a position where we need to work to avoid losing everything.

So what do I do? I jeopardise my employment.

I'm clever like that. I have a knack for getting myself in trouble, for doing what I know I shouldn't do and getting caught at the worst, most excruciatingly inopportune moment.

See, while I love my wife and everything, I wanted more. I'm into erotica, and pornography, and she's not -- most vociferously not. So I get my kicks when she's not around, often at work when I'm alone; my research duties can keep me back for long hours, and when they don't, I usually stay back anyway to "indulge" myself, locked in front of an ancient computer in a dark little cubicle at the end of a dim and dusty hall in the archival basement of our building, where people rarely venture and I'm free to read erotic tales, view pictures of naked ladies, and masturbate away to my heart's content.

I had been doing this for months, carefully at first, paranoid as hell: changing my screen and putting my cock away at the slightest sound from outside my dank little hidey-hole. But days would pass, nothing would happen, I would go entire evenings without even hearing anyone much less seeing anyone, and I grew bolder. I would spend extended sessions with my pants round my ankles and my cock in my hand; I would take pictures of myself, and share them with my circle of like-minded friends from Literotica; I even grew bold enough to obtain a webcam, and share online masturbation sessions with people from all the world over.

Time went past, and my fear of getting busted dwindled. Nobody knew I was there. Nobody knew what I was up to. Every computer throughout the firm had stern log-in warnings of terminated employment should I use the equipment for exactly these purposes, but the weeks kept passing and no retribution came. I assumed the long lectures that "IT is watching you, we keep a record of every website you visit and we do check it...", I took them to be empty warnings and I webcammed, downloaded and posted material of the most highly pornographic nature, at will and without fear.

Late one night, it was approaching midnight on a Friday, and I knew I would be safe. The firm always emptied on Friday night. It was "drinks night"; anybody and everybody would be at the bar across the street, celebrating big cases won and hard work done. Everybody except me: I had the webcam on, a very good lady friend from Literotica was on the other end of the connection, typing sexy things to inspire me as I stood naked, utterly naked, with a long pulsating erection and my hands all over it, the webcam rolling as I pulled and pounded and thrashed my orgasm to the brink, building and building and building...

...and then the door behind me whipped open.

My heart stopped. It literally seized for a moment, as the reality began to sink in; painfully aware that I was naked, that my cock was exposed, as exposed as can be, I couldn't help but turn to face the intruder...

...to find it was my section boss, a senior and very stern lawyer by the name of Valerie Turnbull. She was an emasculating, overbearing, ball-busting case winner who demanded of us interns the quickest retrieval of the most obscure legal trivia from the archives, and she'd tear bloody strips off us for every hour we dared to keep her waiting. 'No-Vadge Valerie' we called her, along with 'turn-Bulldyke', 'Valkyrie Valerie', 'Val the Impaler'; she was a man-hating man-eating bitch on ice, she knew we all thought it, and she was ruthless in using her reputation to get ahead and beat down everyone around her.

And now, with her eyes wide open in shock and surprise, No-Vadge Valerie was staring right at my cock. Staring right at the twitching, throbbing head, where a single drop of pre-come dangled precariously, before it dripped helplessly to the floor.

I awaited my doom, struck dumb with fear, and the seconds ticked past. Presently, Valerie started breathing again, and her eyes crawled away from my cock and up my body, taking in my toned abs and broad hairy chest and strong shoulders... and as she found my eyes, her own eyes narrowed.

"I might have known," she sneered.

I didn't say anything. What would anyone say, in that position? 'Take a seat, No-Vadge -- I'll be with you in a minute'? Oh, if only I'd said that... hell, I was in trouble anyway, why not have a laugh as my world crashed down around me?

But I said nothing, as my heart pounded double-time to compensate for its earlier pause, and I waited helplessly with my cock staring at the ceiling as she composed her thoughts...

"I might have known," she said again. "I'd got the email from IT just this morning: congratulations, Jeremy. It appears you are the most prolific abuser of the firm's anti-porn IT policies we have ever had the misfortune of employing."

'Oh dear,' I thought. Seemed as though they were keeping tabs on my internet usage after all...

"Six hours a day," she read out, from a piece of paper in her hand. "An average of six hours a day, visiting illicit websites. Downloading illicit material. Uploading illicit material. Good heavens, boy -- is that a webcam?" she frowned incredulously, spotting the computer behind me.

I chose not to answer, invoking the classic right-to-silence act.

"So even as I was on my way down here, to FIRE you," she crowed, most spitefully, "you were filming yourself with your cock in your hand, putting on a live show? Using the firm's resources, to aid and abet your icky little perversion??"

I stood silent; all the while, though I'd thought it would shrivel good and quick, my cock had in fact stayed long and firm and hard, pointing up at me almost accusingly: 'it was him!' I could almost hear it cry. 'He done it! Kill him, spare me! I'm just the cock, not the brains!'

"Jeremy: I was looking forward to firing you," she sneered, the utmost definition of vindictive. "I was really, really looking forward to firing you. I've had the shittiest week. I lost a major case; two juicy new cases were passed over me to some useless male bastard in a contemptible continuance of your fucking male oligarchy; I've got my period," she added, extra-spitefully, as though she sought to wound me with the information, "and everything and everyone has been shitting me like nothing else. And then I get this email, and I think: 'Jeremy, you slimy little perv, I'm gunna fire you so hard you'll wish you'd never been born,'" she said, almost spitting it at me, such was the power of her venom.

"But then..." she went on, and her eyes fell straight to my cock: still gorging, in fact a little bigger than its norm, as though it sought to get me ever further into trouble. "Then I saw that big, fat, enormous cock of yours..."

And though I scarcely believed my own eyes, I realised her hand was on her crotch. Not in her pants -- boyish suit pants, she was one of those 'don't think me a lady' ladies and never would she ever wear a skirt -- but definitely, unmistakably, she was rubbing herself through her pants, her fingers had landed right on her spot; and as my eyes flicked back to her face, I still could scarcely believe to see that she was biting her lip, looking wistful, wanton: more feminine than I had ever seen 'No-Vadge Valerie' ever look, as she stared at my cock and drank it in.

She realised I had nothing to say to that, such was the depth and breadth of my shock, so she spoke onwards: "I think your friend, on the other end of that webcam, would appreciate if you finished the show," she told me, with a heated huskiness in her voice that nearly knocked me off my feet. "And I think... I think I would appreciate that too."

'Whaaaaat??' cried my inner voice. I could scarcely believe it: No-Vadge Valerie, instead of firing me... wanted me to pound out an orgasm? To wank myself, as she watched?

To my credit -- or at least, what little remaining credit I may be due -- upon finally finding my voice, the first words to leave my lips was: "But... Ms Turnbull: I'm married..."

She smirked at that, most unkindly. "Shoulda thought of that before you racked up seven hundred hours of internet-porn on company time," she pointed out. "Now you have a choice: do exactly as I say and exactly what I want, or I will fire you, and I will also level all manner of sexual harassment claims against you."

She managed to make the decision easy for me: my hand fell almost automatically to my cock, striking up a good rhythm in no time.

"Good boy..." she purred, and her lips curled back to bare her teeth with malicious pleasure. "That's the way..."

And so began the most incredible show of my life. I stood before her, utterly naked; I set myself back slightly on my feet, thrusting my pelvis out provocatively as I wanked, and wanked, and wanked. She soon ordered me to move slightly, setting my position just so, in a fashion I at first didn't understand... until I realised, she was positioning me for the benefit of the camera. She made me stand at a distance and an angle such that the camera could see me, could see my hand flicking up and down on my own cock -- and also, making sure that I stood so the camera could see her too. So that my friend on the other end of the line could see, that I had been busted, and I was being made to do what my boss wanted me to do.

And as she watched me -- as she watched me thrust my cock out at her, my balls tucked high and tight and smooth, my cock almost bursting out of itself with the incredible forbidden pleasure of it all -- she put on a show for me too.

At first she touched herself again, through her pants, not letting me see anything near as much of her as she saw of me: making sure I knew who was in control here, who was playing for whose viewing pleasure. But as time passed, as my orgasm built and built but wouldn't spill, her own pleasure grew; as though she couldn't quite help herself, she had to have more, and she loosened her pants to slip her hand in, to touch herself more freely, more intimately.

As she did so, I took her in, and realised to my surprise that she was actually a rather attractive woman. She had always dressed harshly and severely, with no form or fit to her clothes, advertising nothing; but as she unbuttoned her jacket so as to run a hand up her side and occasionally across her breasts, I saw she was actually fairly slim and trim in figure, with a pair of breasts nicely sized and nicely proportioned. With her permanent scowl she had always looked old, mid-to-late forties, but with her features softening as she gradually gave herself to her own mounting pleasure I realised she was much younger than we had all assumed: early thirties, I would guess, not really that much older than myself, and passably pretty. Far more feminine than I had ever thought her.

But though she was letting some of her private, personal self show, though she was giving of herself far more than anyone had ever had cause to suspect, in terms of femininity, of sexuality, of the sort of fire and passion we had never thought 'No-Vadge Valerie' capable: she still held the upper hand. Soon enough her pants became a hindrance, and so she reefed them down -- but instead of that being the engaging, exposing, levelling experience one might assume, she managed to use it to her advantage. With her pants and knickers around her ankles, her earlier claim of suffering through a period proved true: a very large sanitary pad was right there, right in the crotch of her panties, there was no missing it and she didn't even bother to hide it.

In fact, she took delight in it: "Yeah..." she growled at me, guttural, aggressive, as she saw that I had seen it, I had seen the pad and it had given me pause. "Look at it," she ordered me. "Look at it. That's right: that's my pad. That's right. It disgusts you, doesn't it?" she accused.

Well... it didn't exactly turn me on. I had never before been exposed to that sort of thing; the ladies in my life being possessed of enough discretion, to keep matters of feminine hygiene to themselves. But Valerie... not only did she put it on display, she was almost using this item of fragile femininity as a weapon, as a tool to strike against me: a man, a symbol of the male oppression she obviously felt she had striven against all her life -- the 'male oligarchy', she had called it.

"Yeah..." she moaned, eyes closed, revelling in the power she held over me: that she was able to rub my face in the frailty of her womanhood, as it were, that she was able to put her menses right in front of me and I was helpless to avoid it. "Yeah..." and now her voice was higher, more flighty, and I realised her fingers were deep inside her...

"Yeah!" she growled, and all of a sudden her fingers were out: she was pointing them at me, and even in the dim light of the little cubicle I couldn't help but see they held a few bloodied flecks, just a hint of menstrual flow on her fingers. "Look at that!" she cried, triumphantly. "Look at that, bitch! Look at that!"

I was coming to the brink. I was getting ready to blow. Now I'm not a freak, don't think that the blood on her fingers -- her menstrual flow, that most personal and intimate of womanly things -- please don't think that turned me on; it was in fact something of a turn-off, but despite that, there was something else.

The blood on her fingers meant something. It embodied the power that she was holding over me; it enforced in my mind, reminded me of the way she made me do what I was doing; it was the fact that I was her bitch, I was helpless, I was totally and utterly at the whims of her fancy, her mercy...

It was the combination of those things, that all amounted to a strange, almost shameful turn-on. The fact that she was showing me her bloody fingers, that she could use them as a weapon against me and there was nothing I could do: it was pushing me to the brink.

"Yes!" she cried now, and I could tell she was as close as I to the ultimate release. "Yes!!" she cried again, as she smeared her own bloody show between her fingers and thumb; my heart faltered as she stepped towards me, even as the fingers of her other hand worked with merciless power and speed at her own nether-regions.

"You hate it, don't you?" she grinned at me, through gritted teeth. "You hate that this woman, 'No-Vadge Valerie' has you where she wants you. Don't you? Don't you??" she nearly hollered.

I couldn't give her a verbal answer -- but a quivering gasp escaped my lips. It seemed to spur her on, and she suddenly changed tack.

"Oh, no, you don't hate it..." she realised. "You love it. You love it! You're such a bitch, Jeremy... you are such a little bitch!!"

And nothing more was said. She was right in my face now, she could say no more, and we raced each other to the end. My hands were a blur on my cock; her fingers worked and worked at her, at the vagina we interns secretly whispered she didn't even have, and she freed one hand to tear open her shirt and reef her bra over her head, spilling a pair of fine, very fine breasts before me; and her orgasm crept up on her, she gasped and moaned and groaned, finally sounding and looking feminine, looking beautiful, sexy, so like a woman...

...and as her orgasm came, as she gave herself to it and rode it over the edge, she grabbed one of my hands and thrust it forcefully into her mound, making me touch her, making me feel her slick running juices intermingled with the thicker, foreign but unmistakable texture of her monthly flows...

...and on touching her, on feeling that, on feeling with my own fingers her most personal of places and her most personal issue, I came. My cock spurted hard and I came on her, my jizz hit her on her bared stomach...

...and she nearly howled at the sight of it, and hungrily, greedily, to my utter shock and disbelief, she fell to her knees and she swallowed the full length of my gorging cock and she drank me, she drank me up, she cradled my cock and my balls preciously in my hands and she slurped and sucked it out of me, gobbling every drop as though it was a precious nectar that she daren't spill.

I was so shocked that I came anew. I tipped my head back and roared out a second orgasm; as I kept on coming with a new, vivid fire, I beheld her with disbelief as she kneeled at my feet in the ultimate submissive pose, sucking up every drop of my cum as though she was the bitch and I was the master, her eyes flicking up at me from time to time, as though seeking my approval, as though desiring my love and acceptance of her sudden accommodating mode.

Presently we were done; my orgasm was gone, I was sucked dry, and I heaved with shock and disbelief as I fought to regain my breath. She rose to her feet, standing before me...

...and she was back. 'No-Vadge Valerie' had returned. Her customary defiance and strength and hatred of all mankind was back in her eyes, and she beheld me proudly, without an ounce of shame or humility at her submissive turn; revelling instead, in her victory over me, and perhaps secretly in showing somebody that she was more than a ball-buster; that she could be attractive, and feminine, warm and giving and accommodating, not a ball-buster but a Woman: strong, proud and beautiful.

As though she could read my thoughts: "Don't you dare tell a fucking soul," she instructed, in a spine-chilling whisper.

I nodded, in dumb acquiescence.

She gathered her clothes, and redressed quickly. I started to do the same but she barked an order to desist, making it clear she would keep me naked for as long as she desired.

"Now then," she added, when she was ready to make her leave; she flicked her hair through her hands, smoothing it out as though nothing more than a gust of breeze had knocked it out of place. "If you want to keep your pathetic job, you'll do exactly as I say, when I say, and as I please. If not: you'll hit the streets, and when I'm done dragging your name through the mud you'll be as unemployable as the guy who shot Kennedy."

"Lee Harvey Oswald?" I supplied, the over-eager fact-supplier in me piping up.

"Shut up!" she snapped. "Do you understand me? If you cross me, I will destroy you," she told me. "And that is a fucking promise."

The awful reality of my situation was hitting home now; funny, how much easier it is to think of those you love when your cock isn't hard any more. "Please," I said, softly, with as much quiet dignity as I could salvage. "My wife... we have a mortgage... if I lose my job we'll lose our house, we'll both be ruined..."