Unsatiated with Dad's Best Friend: Taboo Romance

by Ami Snow

  I wet my lips, lowering my eyes as my fingers loosened their grip. The remaining papers slipped out of my grasp, the floating papers fanning askew on the carpet. I smacked my forehead, crouching down to my knees in my inappropriately short pencil skirt.

  “Sorry, guys – I can be so clumsy sometimes,” I flashed them a thumbs-up, “Carry on.”

  I glimpsed back behind my shoulder, angling my hips upwards. A cool breeze tickled against the curves of my cheeks, faintly peeking out from the hem of my hip-hugging skirt. Mr. Crawford struggled to keep his eyes forward, casting fleeting, yearning glances in my direction. My chest swelled, relishing in the wake of his stirring lust. The slit between my panties pulsed, moistening with my warm secretions.

  I gathered the papers and seated myself on a chair pushed up against the wall, feigning a bout of note-taking as I retrieved a pen clipped onto my chest pocket. I could barely suppress the smile on my lips, my cheeks glowing at Mr. Crawford's continuous glimpses. Nearly choking on my own spit, I gasped, his hand slipping under the table, out of view, stroking the mounting prominence on the crotch of his dress pants.

  I gingerly flicked open the top buttons of my blouse, a small smile playing on my lips. A jolt of excitement fizzed through my body, watching him squirm from four feet away. He wiped away a dribble of sweat running down his left temple, his eyes focusing on the teasing shadow of my naturally plump cleavage.

  “Mr. Crawford? What are your views on the fall line-up?”

  Mr. Crawford tugged at the knot of his tie, clearing his throat audibly. He turned back to his peers, the corners of his tight-lipped mouth twitching. The creases on his forehead deepened as he reclined in his chair, prodding at his temples with his fingers.

  “Sorry, fellas. I'm feeling a bit under the weather today – must be the bad shrimp I had last night. I apologize profusely but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to postpone the meeting – Friday, perhaps.”

  The presenter nodded, his face falling, “Of course. Thank you for your time, Mr. Crawford – we look forward to seeing you again on Friday.”

  I stood from my chair, flattening the rumples of my skirt as the men filed out of the conference room. Mr. Crawford cocked his head to the side, smirking as I sauntered towards him. He seized my wrist, slowly wringing it to an unnatural angle.

  “You're a naughty little distraction, aren't you?” Mr. Crawford hissed into my ear, tightening his grasp as I squealed, “You like acting like a little whore when I'm in the middle of business?”

  “I'm – I'm sorry,” I gasped, his grip loosening around my wrist, “I won't – it won't happen again –”

  Mr. Crawford snickered, his dark laughter filling me with an inexplicable sense of wonder and terror.

  “I didn't say I didn't enjoy it. Now go to my office and wait for me. That's a fucking order.”

  Chapter Six –

  I paced around in Mr. Crawford's office, aggressively chewing on the dangling skin around my shortened fingernails as I awaited his return. I exhaled indignantly, seating myself back down on the armchair opposite his desk. The modern, non-numerical clock perched on his wall informed me that I'd been waiting for more than twenty minutes now. Where the hell was he? Had I gone too far? I've been here barely a month – what am I even really doing here? I buried my head in my arms, groaning. My restless legs curled up against the chair's, finding strange solace in the cool wood against my skin.

  The door swung open behind me. Mr. Crawford strutted inside the room, a shiny, silver briefcase in his hands. The door creaked shut behind him as he wordlessly set his briefcase atop his desk.

  “Mr. Crawford – what's –”

  He unlocked the case, my mouth dropping open as I surveyed its contents. On the left was a row of strange-looking whips and scourges of multiple sizes, fashioned out of what looked like leather, rubber, and silicone, wedged into the special-made molds of the inner black lining. The right side of the briefcase flaunted multicolored candles of variously burned states and extra long wicks, along with bottles of pricey-looking, fragrant oils and substances, and finally, a gleaming pair of handcuffs. Speechless, I stared wide-eyed at Mr. Crawford, who was now crossing over to the ab bench in the corner of his office, situated next to his state-of-the-art treadmill.

  There was a loud clang as Mr. Crawford fiddled with the handles of his fully-cushioned exercise bench, the leg rests elevating upright, the reclining bench sloping downwards. I blinked in confusion at the tweaked contraption, my gargling breath arrested in my throat as he lunged towards me and grabbed hold of my wrists. He dragged me towards the mechanism, positioning me over the leather cushion. Sweat licked the creases of my underarms as he forced my wrists together and slammed them over my head, cuffing them against the leg rests.

  My feet were hooked against the foundations of the bench, my thighs quivering turbulently as he wrenched down my skirt, along with my racy panties, wresting my vibrating, fleshy cheeks apart with his icy fingers. I could feel scarlet tinging my cheeks as he caught sight of the pulsing slit between my legs. I wondered if he could tell what a virgin cunt looked like. My hips writhed in circles as I jutted my jiggling cheeks towards him.

  “Mr. Crawford – please, I can't –” I stuttered, smacking my lips, “I need you to take me – but please, be gentle –”

  “Gentle?” He snorted, raising his eyebrows, “You're being punished – wait, Cleo, you're not a virgin, are you?”

  I shivered, his body pressing down against me from behind, my cheeks depressing into the rugged, cushioned surface. He traced the back of his knuckle against my cheek, whispering, “Are you, Cleo?”

  “Y – yes,” I gulped, my kissing thighs now coated with a sheen of my juices.

  “And you want me to fuck you? Is that what you want?”

  “Yes – please, sir –”

  “No.”

  My skin crawled, his definitive words resonating in my ears. Beads of sweat squeezed out of my palms.

  I squeaked, “Sir?”

  “You're being punished, little whore. I'm not in the giving mood, but you will entertain me.”

  Before I could ponder the possibilities of his frighteningly enticing words, he smacked me hard across my left cheek. I glanced backwards, my bottom lip quivering at the smarting, ruddy spot sprouting across my flesh. He backhanded my right cheek, his stunning, clean-cut features clouding over, replaced with a haunting grimace, absorbing every bounce of my cheeks. I yelped, my lips cracking in their dryness.

  Mr. Crawford reached into his pocket and produced a navy-blue handkerchief, balling it up in his fist. Tears sprang into my eyes as he shoved the suffocating fabric into my mouth. My nostrils stretched, breathing heavily out my nose. The sound of a cap unscrewing filled my ears. I turned my neck hesitantly, my eyes rounding in anticipation as he slowly approached me, an orange bottle in his hands. He drizzled a hearty amount of jasmine-scented massage oil onto my stinging cheeks. A trail of perspiration glistened in my cleavage as I relaxed into the cushion, his fingers slathering the slippery oil into every crease and wrinkle. I moaned, the roving fingernails perforating into my flesh surprisingly sharp.

  My eyes popped open, smeared mascara tracking down my burning face. I craned my neck hesitantly, following the sound of a clicking lighter. He was now hovering over me, a thick, twisted candle about ten inches long suspended over my glossy, greasy cheeks. He set the dangling wick aflame, a hint of strawberries dancing in the air. My mouth was growing sore. I was salivating from the sides of my lips, my convulsing, pleasured shrieks lost in the drenched, balled up fabric. My back arched, my legs squirming underneath me with every brief, almost addictive, sweltering heat that came with every wax bullet that kissed my flesh.

  I gasped, a chill running down my wrists at the alarmingly florid patches of my skin, forming around the globs of ruby-tinted wax dotting my terribly aching cheeks. I wasn't sure what it was – maybe it was the burst of color, the explosion of vitality surging within me, perhaps, even the agonizing, yet ta
ntalizing pain inflicted upon me, but I wanted more. Whatever it was, I needed more.

  Mr. Crawford uncuffed me, bright red rings circling my tender wrists. I dropped to the floor, burrowing my fingers into the fibers of his plush carpeting. My mouth gaped open further, sputtering on the handkerchief as he unbuckled his belt, his pants dropping to his knees. I watched as he removed his veined, throbbing pole from his black boxers. The room around me blurred as he began stroking the length of his shaft. He picked out the largest whip from his briefcase and forced the handle into my fingers.

  “Spank yourself, you little whore. I wanna see how sorry you really are.”

  He yanked the handkerchief out of my mouth, his nebulous grin broadening. I squeaked, my heart pounding in my ears as I raised the large, menacing whip over me with trembling arms. I cracked it lightly against my left cheek, the fringes bouncing gently off my flesh.

  “Harder,” Mr. Crawford barked, his eyes flashing.

  I flung the whip against my flesh with all the might I could muster, a splitting screech trilling out of my lips. Gasping with my tongue probing my cheek, I sucked in my lips from the burning sensation. I glanced towards Mr. Crawford, biting my lip. His fingers were wrapped around his cock, jerking the length of his shaft violently, a clear, filmy liquid oozing out his reddish, glistening tip. The lust-riddled look in his eyes was slightly maddening, and it made me squirm. There was nothing I wanted more than to watch his tip erupt with his milky emissions. With a mischievous twinkle in my eye, I hefted the whip over me and flogged myself repeatedly, my quavering kneecaps scraping against the carpet, almost unbearable.

  Mr. Crawford bolted across the room and clenched a fistful of my hair. My lips parted instinctively, the tip of his throbbing pole shoving into my mouth. His beautiful blue eyes softened as he emptied his load between my lips, his creamy, faintly tart discharge trickling down my throat. I gasped as he pulled himself out of my mouth. He brushed the back of his fingers against my cheek, stroking ever so gently. I kissed his fingertips, gazing dreamily into his eyes. I knew exactly what I had to do.

  Chapter Seven –

  “So, are we ready to apologize?”

  I scrunched up my nose, slowly counting to ten under my breath as Mathias stormed into my living room. Cracking my neck from side to side, I rose from my sofa, folding my arms against my chest. Mathias tossed his helmet onto the cushion next to me, missing me by inches, and pocketed his copy of my house keys. My stomach twisted, despising every bit of the dreadfully smug, self-congratulating look etched across his darkly handsome features. I clucked my tongue. What a damn waste.

  The complacent smile on his face began to flounder, a hypocritical sense of satisfaction stirring within me. His eyes fell to the princess cut, solitaire engagement ring in the center of my coffee table. He growled, snatching the band from the table, shaking his fist in my face.

  “What the fuck is the meaning of this?”

  I slowly retreated, narrowing my eyes, drumming my newly-adorned fingers on my crossed arms. He squinted towards the metal band cuffed around my ring finger, his hanging jaw cementing his growing confusion as he eyeballed the tiny, circular hoop dangling from the band.

  “What the fuck is that?” Mathias snarled, drops of his spit spraying across my cheeks.

  “It's none of your fucking business, that's what,” I snapped, standing my ground, “We're over, Mathias.”

  Mathias snorted, his brows knitting dangerously as he paced around my living room, his heels scuffing my hardwood floor. His chest fluctuated as he purposefully trampled across my faux polar bear-skin rug, sullying the lush, parchment-white fur with his filthy boots.

  “My point, exactly,” I sighed, rolling my eyes, “Please, if you will, get the hell off my carpet. And watch my floors – that's oakwood for pete's sake. I swear, every time you come around here, my house decreases in value.”

  “Hey, you – just – shut the fuck up for a minute.”

  “You kiss your mother with that filthy Christian mouth?”

  Mathias lunged towards me, wrapping his fingers desperately around my arms. My shoulders stiffened defensively, wriggling out of his grasp. I glared at him, seething.

  “Don't touch me, Mathias.”

  He dropped the angst in his voice, his tone eerily compliant, “Please, Cleo – just tell me why –”

  “Why?” I repeated, aghast, “I'm sick of the abuse, Mathias –”

  “I never fucking hit you –”

  “No,” I agreed, sighing exasperatedly. I rubbed my temples, continuing, “No, you haven't. All those names all these years, after I've begged you to stop on countless occasions. You have absolutely no respect for me, Mathias. And your godforsaken need to control every little part of me is just unhealthy, not to mention, terrifying.”

  “Control? I don't know what you're –”

  “The spyware you installed on my laptop? The tracker you downloaded on my cellphone? How about something a little more recent to freshen up your memory – getting my keys duplicated – all of these were done without my permission. Are we seeing a pattern here or do I have to spell it out to a damn cop?”

  Mathias breathed heavily through his mouth, still frenziedly stampeding all over my living room.

  “You either need to get your shit together, or please, get the hell out of my living room,” I warned, my rage intensifying. I uttered coldly, “You don't scare me, Mathias. You never have.”

  Mathias stopped, his heaving chest gradually relaxing. He unknotted his thick, heavily-arched brows, this time, approaching me with cautious, deliberate steps. My shoulders weakened as Mathias snaked his strong, strapping arms around my waist, holding me close to him. He tilted his head and leaned towards me, pressing his lips softly against mine, his fuzzy beard tickling my chin. He pulled away, his watery eyes glistering with remorse.

  “Please, Cleo, I love you,” Mathias pleaded, his chin quivering, “Don't do this to me, baby. I need you in my life, I swear I'm gonna be a changed man, just give me one more chance. That's all I'm asking for.”

  I cringed, his pleading words all too familiar. In fact, it was starting to sound like a tired, old script. I looked into his imploring, sad brown eyes, and for a fleeting moment, my knees weakened. Happy, laughing memories of us snuggled on my sofa, smearing whipped cream on each other's noses; our one, peaceful fishing trip out at Lake Tahoe; snatching the trophy at a couple's bowling night in a seedy bowling alley, reeled in my mind like a cheesy clip show. I frowned, the jubilant memories short-lived. The verbal abuse, constant degradation, lack of respect and tolerance, topped with the forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, hit me all at once like a tumbling pile of bricks.

  “No,” I declared firmly, squirming out of his arms, “I'm sorry, Mathias. I'd like to keep things civil, as we'll still be seeing each other at Church –”

  “You stupid bitch –”

  “There you go again,” I sighed mockingly, pointing towards my front door, “Well, off you go.”

  “You can't make me –”

  “No, but I'm pretty sure Matthew would,” I grinned, shrugging, “He's parked outside the door. You really think I wouldn't bring reinforcements? I'm a strong woman, but I'm definitely not stupid.”

  The color drained from his cheeks as he pulled apart my curtains, glancing out my window.

  “And you can keep your keys, by the way. Matthew's coming in to help me change the locks when you leave.”

  Mathias blinked at me, furious, his incredulous eyes bugging out of its sockets.

  “Screw you, Cleo.”

  “You had your chance. No thanks,” I said simply, cackling to myself, my front door rattling in its frame.

  Epilogue –

  Mr. Crawford's office door squeaked to a close behind me. He glanced up from his desktop screen. He flashed me a cool, sexy smirk, stroking his flaxen stubble pensively at the sight of me, undoubtedly consumed with his perpetually brooding, twisted thoughts. I brushed my fingers lightly against my c
oral-kissed cheeks, the metal band around my fingers shimmering under the radiant white lights of his office.

  He simpered playfully, remarking, “You gotta be careful showing that ring off around in the office. We've got over a thousand employees – there's bound to be someone to recognize it.”

  I winked, returning a tittering smile, shrugging, “Well, just as long as they never find out who it's from.”

  “We don't want anyone else laying a single finger on you now, do we? You know how crazy angry I get when I see the creeps at the office eyeing that delicious fucking ass of yours.”

  “No, of course not,” I pouted, sashaying towards him seductively with exaggerated sways of my hips, “You're the only one I want, Mr. Crawford. I promise.”

  “Good. That's exactly what I wanna hear.”

  His eyes widened as I edged across his desk, slowly pulling my skirt up over my waist. He grunted as I revealed my rounded, swollen cheeks, my flesh slightly tainted with faint, purplish bruises. I grabbed hold of his two forefingers, pressing them against the sheer, sodden material of my pantyhose, my warm juices seeping out from the pulsing space between my legs.

  I turned, smiling as I leaned against his desk. Slowly, I carefully unbuttoned my blouse, my milky, pendulous breasts spilling out freely. I moaned as Mr. Crawford caught each of my spheres with the warmth of his large, mannish palms, tweaking my erect, tawny nipples.