She’s flusteredme.
April:
Okay
I’ll go in the morning, then
You'd better be serious about that “good job”
Me:
Good girl. I am.
Go to one of the places I mentioned. They’ll measure you and get you something that fits properly.
Get a few sets, they won’t last long.
Whatever she responds with is lost to the storm in my head. I don’t know how to respond to her anymore. I can’t stop staring at the goddamn image.
I let myself spiral this time. The flirting between us is light and easy, but it’s so far over the line when it comes to HR policies that I don’t quite know what to do with it. It’s inappropriate. It’s sogood.
My hands are moving before I even realize what I’m doing. My belt buckles undone, my slacks pushed down my hips, my cock straining and dripping precum in my hand.
I stare at the image, at the way her blonde hair cascades over her shoulder, at the pink flush on her cheeks, like she was both embarrassed and turned on by taking it.Because I asked her to.That thought alone makes my cock twitch and another bead of clear fluid drips down from the head.
That cheap, red set barely contains her body in the photo. It strains against the curves I’ve only gotten a taste of, and I’m still destroyed by it. I can’t even imagine how much it’ll drive me insane when she’s in something that fits her properly. Umm, and that arm wrapped around her stomach…God, it tells me everything I need to know. She’s insecure. I want to fix it.
This is wrong. I know that. So very wrong. She’s my employee. I’m sitting here in my penthouse, getting myself off to a photo she sent me just to please me. I don’t trust myself with this much pent-up need for her. I’vetouchedher with no regard for my own pleasure and felt her tremble around my fingers. She was so wet for me, I could draw those pretty little moans and gasps from her without so much as brushing my clothed cock against her body. I need release. I need it like I need air, because if I see her tomorrow morning after getting this image andhaven’tcum to it, I’ll rip her clothes off right there in my office, and it’ll go a hell of a lot further than just using my fingers.
My thumb spreads the bead of precum over the tip, and I stroke slowly, my eyes fixed on the screen. I imagine her here instead of in her apartment. The fairy lights replaced by the city lights outside my bedroom, casting soft light and little shadowsacross her skin. That cheap set would look even cheaper against my far too expensive sheets, and I’d tear it off her slowly, piece by piece.
Her arm wouldn’t be wrapped around her stomach if she were with me. I’d hold her hands above her head and make her look at me while I explored every inch of her body. I’d watch that pretty little blush deepen as I catalogued her reactions to more than just my fingers and learned exactly which positions make her gasp, which ones make her squirm.
My strokes quicken; my grip tightens. I hate this. I hate that I need this release and can’t just wait until this weekend. I’m so goddamn desperate for her that I’m already losing control before I’ve had the chance to take her properly.
In my mind, she’s on her knees, sitting on the ground in front of me, staring up at me with those big green eyes dark with desire. Her lips part as I place my hand in her hair. I want to praise her and tell her how good she is. I want to tell her to stick out her tongue and watch her obey, just because I asked, just because she wants to please me. She said I was allergic to giving her praise. She doesn’t know just how badly I want to.
My hips buck into my hand, and I close my eyes, letting the image of her burn behind my eyelids. She’d look so good beneath me, anywhere, any position. Spread out on the bed, or on her knees, or under my mouth. The fantasy of her on my bed with her ass in the air and her head in the sheets makes my stomach muscles clench hard, my cock twitching, my spine tingling.
I want to make her come over and over and over until she’s begging for mercy.
I want to watch herfacethis time.
I want to feel every little ripple I’d felt around my fingers, but around my cock instead.
This is pathetic. I’m a grown man, a CEO, and I’m stroking myself to a photo like some teenager who’s never touched awoman before. But I can’t stop. I need this. I need the release like I need air.
My strokes become erratic, my breathing ragged, sharp little grunts spilling from my lips. My eyes lock on that picture again, and I’m close. The sound of her voice saying my name fills my head and I imagine feeling her painted nails dig into my back as I pound into her ruthlessly. In my imagination, that cheap set is shredded, littering the sheets in pieces, and she’s completely bare, completely mine, warm and soft with little bruises littering her skin from where I’d grip her too hard.
I shouldn’t.
Ican’t.
I can.
I come with a startled groan, spilling over my hand, my shirt, my slacks. For a moment, I just sit there, panting raggedly, the phone still in my other hand, her image still on the screen.
The self-loathing crashes down on me like a meteor. I should delete it. I should call this whole thing off. I should maintain some semblance of professional decorum so the board doesn’t tear me to shreds for it. Instead, I save the image to a hidden folder on my phone. My thumb hovers over the delete button, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
