by Cynthia Sax
As I trudge toward the bank of elevators, my phone buzzes. The number displayed on the screen belongs to John. I’m not completely alone. I smile, my spirits lifting.
Chapter Two
“The Mayor wants me to attend his wife’s cocktail party tomorrow,” John informs me hours later. He was truthful when he said he wouldn’t talk to his date. He has been talking to me all night. “You’re right about avoiding all talk of non-fraternization policies. The ass was caught last Tuesday sticking his cock into another big-breasted assistant. It cost him a bundle to keep those photos off the internet.”
I hear the disgust in my boss’ voice. He doesn’t believe in mixing business and pleasure, his views well known within Toronto’s social circles.
“His poor wife.” I sigh. And poor me. John will never see me as more than his assistant. I wiggle my ass into his about-to-be-returned chair.
“The man is a fool.” In the background, glasses clink and voices murmur. “What are you doing? Your voice sounds strange.”
My boss’ skills of observation are frightening. “I’m trying your chair’s massage function, sir.” Leather hands grope my back. “It’s an unusual experience.”
“It’s creepy as hell.” John laughs. “Thank the lord. This dinner is finally wrapping up.”
I move the lever in the armrest to vibrate. “Oh my God,” I moan, the chair rubbing against all of the right spots.
“Are you okay, Grant?”
“I’m fine, sir,” I lie. I’m not fine at all. I’m shamelessly aroused by my boss’ kinky chair. The leather smells of his musky cologne. I’ve heated the seat to match his body temperature. The friction against my cloth-covered pussy is divine.
“Don’t leave the office,” John instructs. “I’ll send the car for you.”
“Okay.” I’m too distracted by the good vibrations to argue. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir.” I certainly plan to.
Before he can ask me for anything else, I end the call and set my phone on his desk. He’ll be cross with me tomorrow, but this, I need now. I lean back in the chair, swiveling my hips. I need it so badly.
There’s too much fabric between my body and the chair. I hike my skirt to my waist, baring my ass. My mons is covered by a skimpy G-string, the bright pink silk already soaked with my readiness.
Once or twice, after a heated encounter with my oblivious boss, I’ve retreated to the bathroom and touched myself, bringing myself to quiet fulfillment. I’ve never masturbated in public, in my boss’ office, where anyone can catch me, where he can catch me.
John isn’t here. He’s in the lavish hotel room I reserved for him, cavorting on the luxuriously soft sheets, reaching his own satisfaction, balls deep inside a gorgeous actress.
I’m alone and unneeded. My phone is silent. The rest of the floor is dark. No one else is around. Even the cleaning lady has left for the night.
I can release my inhibitions and not worry about being caught. No one will know. I grind into the vibrating seat, branding the leather with my scent, my wetness. My boss won’t realize it’s my pussy he smells tomorrow.
I tug on the waistband of my panties, pulling the silk tight against my folds, against my clit. My neatly trimmed brown curls escape their confines. I play with myself, moving the fabric over my sensitive skin, escalating my desire.
I imagine John is behind me, holding me, manipulating my panties, my passion. He’ll be as ruthless and demanding with my body as he is with business. The flimsy ribbons crossing my hips snap and the silk falls to the floor.
I’m nude from the waist down. If a coworker, a board member or my boss enters the office, they’ll see my pussy. I prop my heels on his desk and spread my legs wide, giving my imaginary audience a better show. Cool air sweeps across my bare skin, driving my arousal upward.
I close my eyes and touch myself, skimming my fingers over my feminine folds, spreading my wetness, my heat. In my fantasies, John is the person touching me, his fingers thick and rough, calloused and scarred. I circle my clit, winding my need, my want tighter and tighter. He’d be hard for me, focused on my body.
I dip one finger into my entrance, the grip snug from sexual neglect. For three years, I’ve lusted after my boss exclusively, having no interest in any other male. I stroke in and out, in and out of my pussy, working my body, my tempo slow and steady.
The chair hums against my ass, supplementing my intimate caresses. I add a second finger, stretching myself open. The darkness intensifies John’s scent and, in my fantasy, I hear him breathing, feel him watching me. He’s here with me. I’m not alone, never alone.
John is large, a massive man. Emulating his size requires all four of my fingers. I pump my pussy, the sucking sound of wet flesh against firm skin obscenely loud. My breathing grows ragged, a tight band of emotion strapping around my chest, squeezing my lungs.
“John.” I arch my back and lift my hips, rising into each thrust of my hands. I call his name again and again as I plunge my fingers into my pussy, rub my thumbs against my clit. My juices splatter against my upper thighs, against the leather seat. I work my body faster, trembling, satisfaction fast approaching.
I grit my teeth, pushing myself farther, demanding extra, more stringent with my body than my boss would ever be. My passion builds until I can’t take one more thrust, one more second of delicious torment, my need stretched agonizingly tight.
I smack my clit with the heel of my hand. This pain breaks me, and I scream, bucking upward, my pussy clenching around my fingers, moisture flowing over my hands. The darkness bursts with light and color. Sound rushes in my ears. Ecstasy shakes my form.
The tremors gradually ease and I still, sagging against the chair, the tension drained from my shoulders, from my soul. “I needed that.” I roll my shoulders.
“We’re keeping the chair,” a familiar voice rumbles.
“Oh my God.” I open my eyes, my body temperature dropping.
“You called me John previously.” My boss gazes at me, at all of me, my body spread open to him. I straighten, lowering my feet to the carpet, removing my fingers from my pussy. “Don’t move,” he commands and I freeze, confused, mortified. He saw me.
John rounds the desk, grabs my wrists and raises my fingers. “I have to taste you.” He closes his grim lips around my index finger and sucks. The sight of my fingertip in my boss’s mouth is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. The pressure on my skin is exactly right, his mouth hot and wet. My nipples tighten to painful points, my arousal reviving.
His eyelids lower as he leisurely, thoroughly licks every finger clean, the expression on his face blissful. My boss is tasting me, my pussy juices, my skin, everything. I tremble and he tightens his grip on my hands, flicking his tongue over me.
Silence stretches. I can’t move, can’t escape, can’t retrieve my panties, the bright pink silk pooled on the carpet inches away from John’s black leather shoes. The cursed chair continues to hum, brushing against my back and ass.
John lifts my hands to his face and he breathes deeply, his nostrils flaring, his eyes as dark as the night sky. He enjoys my taste and my scent. While this thrills me, I don’t fool myself into thinking his enjoyment will change my future or ease my punishment.
“You’ve been a bad assistant, Grant.” He pulls me to my feet.
I sway, my legs unsteady. “I know I’ve been a bad assistant, Mr. Powers.” I lower my gaze to his chin, unable to see the disapproval, the disappointment reflecting in his eyes.
“You do not hang up on me. Ever,” he bluntly states, holding onto me. “I end our calls. You do not.”
“Yes, sir.” I squirm inwardly with embarrassment as I wait for him to mention my activities in his chair.
“Now, go. Get me that young pup Bass’ file.” John releases my wrists. “We have work to complete.” He sits down in his chair, the chair branded with my scent, with my wetness.
I gape at him, not moving, not speaking. Isn’t he planning on firing me, punishing me,
doing something? He saw me masturbate, heard me call his name, tasted me.
“The file now, Grant,” John barks.
I jerk, his voice cutting through all of my concerns, and I rush out of the office, looking for the file.
* * *
We work until the early hours of the morning. I sit in one of the guest chairs across from John, our laptops and the desk separating us. He assigns me task after task after task, driving me as he drives himself, ruthlessly, without stopping.
Around two a.m., I hit the exhaustion wall. One moment, I’m blinking at a spreadsheet, trying to keep my eyes in focus. The next moment, John pushes against my right shoulder, shaking me.
“What? Where? Yes, sir.” I raise my head, confused. My curls frame my face and cascade down my back, sticking to my cheeks. I always wear my hair up at work. I can’t remember loosening the tight chignon.
“Where is your overnight bag?” John’s eyes soften, his expression warm and caring.
I must be dreaming. My boss isn’t warm and caring. I rub my hands over my face and his countenance becomes businesslike once more.
“It’s under my desk, sir,” I reply. He has asked me to always have an overnight bag packed, in case there’s an emergency in another city. “Are we going somewhere?” I stagger to my feet and wander into the hallway.
“My house is closer to the office.” John follows me, locking his door behind him. “We’ll stay there tonight.”
We’ll stay there tonight. I’m sleeping over at my boss’ house. I tug on the bag, my brain remaining fuzzy.
“You’re a mess without your coffee, Grant.” John takes the bag from me and clasps my hand, pulling me along the hallway.
I stumble forward, holding onto John’s arm. His muscles ripple under my fingertips. I barely notice. My eyes feel gritty, my mouth is dry, and I’m tired, my exhaustion bone-deep. “My name is Trella.”
“I know what your name is,” he drawls, slowing his pace. I’m still dreaming. John doesn’t slow down for anyone. “Trella Patrice Grant.” He hooks his right arm around my waist, supporting some of my weight. “Who puts their middle name on their resume?”
“You asked me that during my first interview.” I tuck my body deeper into his, savoring his heat, his musky scent, his unbending strength. “And again during my second interview and once more during my third interview. You were relentless.”
“You never did give me a satisfying answer.” He presses the button for the elevator. The doors open as though they’ve been waiting for us. We enter and he chooses executive parking. “You made no sense even then with your fancy degree and your hopeless amount of debt.”
“That debt is all paid off now.” I hold up one of my index fingers.
“I know it’s all paid off.” He rests his chin on the top of my head and rubs his fingertips into my hip. “Thanks to this job. What would you have done without me?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, too sleepy to lie. I can’t imagine my life without him. “I love working with you.” I love him.
“For me,” he corrects. “You work for me. Tonight doesn’t change that.” He nuzzles into my hair, his tender actions belying his stern words.
We stand, staring at the red digital numbers, John’s muscles flattening my curves, his arm around my waist, his fingers splayed over my hip. A companionable silence stretches, broken only by our breathing.
“Are you going to fire me?” I finally ask the question I’ve been worrying about.
“No, I’m not firing you.” He sighs, his chest rising and falling against me. “But next time, lock my door. Anyone could have seen you.”
The doors open and we walk to the waiting limousine. I’m steadier, more awake, but I don’t pull away from him, relishing this rare chance to touch him, to belong, if only for a moment.
We reach the vehicle before Dave, the driver, wakes. He rushes around the hood, his flat black cap askew. He’s too slow. John opens the door for me and I climb inside, inhaling the scent of leather and man. My boss slides along the seat until his thigh presses against mine. Dave takes my bag from him and shuts the door, enclosing the space, creating a private oasis for the two of us.
The limousine moves, the outside noise muted, the tinted windows darkening our already dark surroundings. John stretches his legs out, drapes his arms over the back of the seat, and says nothing. I sit with my knees pressed together, my hands clasped in my lap, very much aware of the big man beside me.
His eyes close, his breathing levels and his body relaxes. He has put tonight’s activities out of his mind and I should be glad, ecstatic, relieved. I’m not. I’m irked that I showed him everything, my sexual self, my hidden dreams, a slice of my very soul, and he can forget all of this so easily, purging it from his memory as though nothing has happened, nothing has changed.
I take a deep breath, count to five, and exhale. “I’m tired of being alone, John.”
He opens one of his eyes. “Mr. Powers.”
“I’m not speaking to my boss. I’m speaking to you.” I lift my chin. “I’ve been alone for the past three years. I won’t be alone any longer.”
John curls a strand of my hair around one of his fingers. It’s brown, plain, unlike the golden hair he favors. “Are you threatening to quit?” His voice is scary soft.
He’s worried about losing his assistant. He doesn’t care about me as a woman. I swallow hard. “No, I’m not threatening to quit.” I turn my head toward the window and gaze at the blackness, not seeing anything other than heartbreak.
“Grant.”
I’m Grant, not Trella, never Trella. I grit my teeth. Stacie was wrong. John doesn’t want me and I was a fool to think he did. I was an idiot to love him for so long. “It was nothing, sir. I’m just tired.”
“Then sleep.” John gathers me closer to him, folding me into his hard body. “We have a lot of work tomorrow and I’ll require you to think rationally.”
I haven’t been thinking rationally around him, not since that first interview. Tomorrow, this will change. I close my eyes. Tomorrow, I’ll get over John Powers.
Chapter Three
Getting over John Powers would be easier if I didn’t wake in his bed, with his body spooning against mine. I’m wearing a camisole and boy shorts I don’t remember changing into. John sports his briefs and he’s hard, his cock pressing against my ass cheeks, one of his palms curved over my left breast.
His bedroom, and this must be his bedroom, is massive, filled with dark wood antique furniture, Tiffany lamps, a Rembrandt and other oil paintings hanging on the beige walls. The space is warm and inviting and overwhelmingly masculine, like the man holding me.
I wiggle, brushing against John, and he groans into my ear, squeezing my breast in retaliation, my nipple tightening instantly. I’m wet and ready. If he saw me as more than a convenient lay, as Trella rather than Grant, I’d take him right here, right now.
He doesn’t see me this way yet I can’t leave him in this uncomfortable state. I care too much about him. “Roll onto your back.” I turn in his arms and push on his shoulder.
He frowns, lines furrowing on his forehead. “What are you planning?”
This is John, always wanting to be informed. “I’m your assistant.” I reach under the white bed sheet, slide my hand underneath his briefs and curl my fingers around his shaft. He jerks in my palm, his body stiffening. “I’m assisting you.”
“Grant.” His voice is low and strained. “This action will have consequences.”
“I’ll accept those consequences.” He needs this. He needs me. I move between his spread legs, under the sheets, and I push his briefs downward. “And when I have my hands on your cock, I’m Trella, not Grant.” I grip his base, savoring his girth, his length. Short brown hair curls around his base. I pump him slowly, my clasp loose. “Relax and let me take care of you.” He can’t see my face, can’t see who is pleasuring him. If he wishes, he can pretend I’m someone else.
My boss doesn’t desire
this ambiguity. He needs to know who has his cock in her hands. He pulls the sheets away from us and studies me, his expression grave. I stroke him up and down, up and down, my rhythm constant and controlled.
Silence stretches and my cheeks heats. Does he want this or am I forcing him?
“Harder,” he instructs. “Faster.”
He wants this. I tighten my grip and increase my tempo. John groans, rocking into my hands, the grooves around his mouth deepening, his lips flattening. I control his satisfaction. With one squeeze of his balls, I can make him come.
I don’t want him to come, not yet. His veins pulse under my fingertips. I want to make this encounter last. I’ve waited years to touch him and I don’t know when he’ll allow me to touch him again. A dab of pre-cum forms on his tip. I graze my thumbs over him, spreading his essence. His dark skin glistens.
My tough-as-nails executive shakes and a sense of wonder, of womanly power fills me. I’m causing my powerful billionaire to lose his renowned control. He’s at my mercy, unable to resist the pull of my hands. I stroke him, watching his face as I work his cock. He gazes at me, his eyes black with need, his focus on me alone.
“Soft,” he rumbles. “Your hands are softer than I imagined.”
He has thought about my hands. My chest warms. “What else did you imagine, John?” I lick my lips and his cock bobs, his gaze moving to my mouth. “Did you imagine my tongue on you?” I lower my head and brazenly flick my tongue over his tip, tasting him.
He thrusts upward, bumping against my lips. “Yes.” John buries his fingers in my wild curls, holding me to him, not allowing any retreat. “Use that ever moving tongue on me, Trella.” He breathes my name.
I’m Trella, not the sexless Grant. I lick over his cock head, exploring his slit, skimming his rim, and I lave down his shaft, tracing his hard length. His grip on my hair intensifies and pinpricks of pain shoot over my scalp, exciting me. I play with his balls and explore his body, inhaling his musk, the manly center of him. He pushes his hips upward, silently asking for more.
