It all started innocently enough, just another day at the office. Little did I know that this day would change my life forever. I work in a small office, just me and my boss, Ms. Reynolds. She's a beautiful woman, tall and curvy with long, flowing brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Her body is a work of art, with full breasts, a tiny waist, and an ass that could bring a man to his knees. I've always been attracted to her, but I never thought anything would come of it. After all, she's my boss and I'm just her lowly assistant.
But on this particular day, something was different. Ms. Reynolds seemed more flirtatious than usual, finding any excuse to touch me or get close to me. At first, I thought I was just imagining things, but as the day went on, her advances became more obvious. She would brush against me as she walked by, her hand lingering on my shoulder a little too long, and she would give me that look, that look that told me she wanted me.
I tried to focus on my work, but it was impossible with her teasing me like this. I could feel myself getting harder with each touch, and I knew that she could see the effect she was having on me. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I stood up from my desk and walked over to hers.
"Is there something you need, Mr. Johnson?" she asked innocently, but I could see the desire in her eyes.
"I think we both know what I need," I replied confidently.
She smiled and stood up, walking over to the door and locking it. Then she turned to face me, her eyes burning with lust.
"Come here," she commanded in a low voice.
I walked over to her slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. She reached out and grabbed me, pulling me towards her and crashing her lips onto mine. Her kiss was passionate and full of fire, and I kissed her back with just as much intensity. Our tongues danced together as our hands explored each other's bodies, and I could feel the heat between us growing with each passing second.
She pulled away from me, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Take off your clothes," she ordered.
I quickly stripped down to my boxers, my cock straining against the fabric. She licked her lips as she looked me up and down, a hungry look in her eyes.
"Good boy," she purred. "Now, get on your knees."
I did as I was told, sinking down to the floor in front of her. She stood over me, looking down at me with a dominant smirk on her face.
"Open your mouth," she commanded.
I opened my mouth and she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, revealing her perfect breasts encased in a lacy black bra. She let the blouse fall to the floor and then unzipped her skirt, letting it pool around her feet. She stood before me in just her bra and panties, a goddess in the flesh.
"Touch yourself," she said, her voice dripping with desire.
I reached down and gripped my cock through my boxers, stroking myself slowly. She watched me intently, a look of pure lust on her face.
"Good boy," she moaned. "Now, take it out."
I quickly pulled down my boxers, my cock springing free. She licked her lips again as she looked at me, her eyes filled with hunger.
"Stroke it for me," she said softly.
I wrapped my hand around my shaft and began to stroke myself, moaning at the pleasure coursing through me. She watched me intently, her eyes never leaving my cock.
"Faster," she commanded.
I picked up the pace, pumping my hand up and down my length. I could feel myself getting closer to the edge, my balls tightening with each stroke.
"Stop," she said suddenly.
I froze, my hand still wrapped around my cock. She knelt down in front of me and gently pushed my hand away.
"This is mine," she said possessively. "No one else gets to touch it but me."
She gripped my cock in her hand and slowly began to stroke me, her touch sending shivers down my spine. I moaned as she worked me, her hand moving up and down my shaft with expert precision.
"You like that, don't you?" she purred. "You like it when I touch you."
I could only nod in response, the pleasure overwhelming my senses. She continued to stroke me, her pace quickening with each passing second. I could feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge, the familiar heat building in the pit of my stomach.
"I'm going to make you cum," she said, her voice dripping with lust. "And when you do, you're going to shoot your hot load all over my tits."
The thought of cumming on her perfect tits was enough to send me over the edge. I felt the pressure building inside me, and then I was cumming, shooting rope after rope of hot cum onto her waiting breasts. She moaned as she felt the warm liquid cover her skin, and she continued to stroke me through my orgasm, milking every last drop from me.
I collapsed onto the floor, completely spent. She sat back on her heels and admired her handiwork, a satisfied smile on her face. She leaned down and licked a drop of cum from her breast, savoring the taste.
"Mmm, delicious," she purred. "But we're not done yet, not by a long shot."
To be continued...
She rose to her feet, my seed glistening on her skin like dew on morning petals, and I remained on my knees, still trembling from the aftershocks of my release. The air in the office was thick with the scent of sex and her perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and musk that clung to the back of my throat. I watched her, mesmerized, as she walked to her desk with a slow, deliberate sway of her hips, the creamy evidence of my surrender tracing delicate paths down the curve of her abdomen.
From a drawer, she produced a silk scarf, deep crimson, and began to dab at her skin, not wiping me away but rather anointing herself, marking her territory with my essence. Each movement was a ritual, a silent declaration of ownership that made my spent cock twitch with renewed interest against my thigh.
"Stand up," she instructed, her voice a low thrum that vibrated through the floorboards and into my bones. "I want to look at you."
I pushed myself up, my legs feeling like water, and stood before her, naked and exposed. Her eyes, those piercing blue pools, raked over me from head to toe, missing nothing. She took a step closer, the silk scarf dangling from her fingers.
"You have a beautiful body, Mr. Johnson," she murmured, her gaze lingering on the muscle of my chest, the flat plane of my stomach. "Strong. Obedient. A canvas I've only just begun to paint on."
She reached out and traced a line from my collarbone down to my hip with the tip of the scarf. The silk was cool and whisper-soft against my overheated skin, a stark contrast to the fire she had stoked in me. Her touch was proprietary, a curator assessing her most prized possession.
"Turn around."
I complied, presenting my back to her. I felt the scarf trail down my spine, a faint, teasing pressure that made me shiver. Her free hand came to rest on my shoulder, her nails—perfectly manicured, a shade of red that matched the scarf—digging in just enough to claim, to remind me of her control.
"I've watched you for so long," she confessed, her breath warm against my back. "Sitting at your little desk, trying so hard to focus on spreadsheets and emails. I could see the want in your eyes every time I walked by. I could smell your arousal. It drove me wild."
Her words were a key, unlocking a deeper layer of submission. She had known. All this time, she had known the effect she had on me, and she had been playing a long, patient game.
She guided me to turn back around to face her. The hunger in her eyes had not abated; if anything, it had intensified, sharpened by my submission. She dropped the soiled scarf to the floor and placed both hands on my chest, pushing me backward until the backs of my knees hit the plush leather of the client chair.
"Sit."
I sank into the chair, the cool leather a shock against my bare skin. She didn't join me. Instead, she stood over me, a magnificent, cum-smeared queen, and hooked her thumbs into the sides of her black lace panties. She slowly, torturously, drew them down her long legs, stepping out of them with the grace of a panther. She was now completely naked, and the sight stole the air from my lungs. Her body was even more breathtaking without the confines of lace and silk. Her breasts were full and high, tipped with dusky nipples that were pebbled hard. The thatch of dark hair at the junction of her thighs was neatly trimmed, a tempting shadow.
"My turn," she said, her voice husky.
She didn't climb onto my lap. She turned and, with a fluid motion, lowered herself onto the edge of her massive oak desk, right beside her computer monitor. She leaned back on her hands, spreading her legs wide, offering me a view that was both an invitation and a command.
"Come here. Taste me."
I was out of the chair and on my knees before her in an instant, drawn to her center like a compass needle to north. The scent of her was overwhelming here, rich and musky and uniquely hers, a primal perfume that bypassed all reason and went straight to the animal core of my brain. I could see the glistening evidence of her own arousal, the slick folds begging for my attention.
I looked up at her, seeking one final confirmation, one final order.
Her eyes were dark with need. "Don't make me ask twice."
That was all the permission I needed. I leaned forward and buried my face in her heat.
A low, guttural moan tore from her throat as my tongue found her center. She was impossibly wet, her flavor an intoxicating blend of sweetness and salt that I knew I would crave for the rest of my days. I worshiped her with my mouth, licking and sucking with a fervor I didn't know I possessed. I traced the shape of her with my tongue, learning her geography, finding the swollen bud of her clit and circling it with relentless precision.
Her hands flew to my head, her fingers tangling in my hair, not guiding me, but holding on for dear life as her hips began to rock against my face. Her moans grew louder, filling the silent office, a symphony of raw pleasure that I was conducting with my mouth.
"Yes… right there… oh god, don't stop," she chanted, her voice breaking on the words.
I doubled my efforts, slipping two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot I knew would make her scream. Her inner muscles clenched around my fingers, a silken, vice-like grip. Her back arched off the desk, a beautiful, taut bowstring of pleasure.
"I'm going to come," she gasped, her thighs tightening around my ears. "I'm going to come all over your face."
Her words were the final catalyst. Her body seized, and a wave of contractions gripped my fingers as she cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound of ecstasy that seemed to shake the very walls. I drank her in, lapping at her essence as she shuddered through her orgasm, my own arousal a painful, throbbing ache between my legs.
When the last tremors subsided, she went limp, her hands falling from my head to brace herself against the desk. Her chest was heaving, her skin flushed a beautiful rosy pink. I rested my forehead against her inner thigh, breathing in her scent, my own body humming with a desperate need for release.
After a moment, she pushed herself up. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, sated, but a new, dangerous glint had appeared within them. She slid off the desk, her legs slightly unsteady, and looked down at me. My face was wet with her.
"You're very good at that," she said, her voice rough around the edges. She reached down and cupped my chin, her thumb stroking my cheek. "But a good boy deserves a reward, doesn't he?"
She laid me on that couch and climbed on to me pretty wildly. Her pussy teasing my dick, constantly rubbing her pussy to my dick. "Do u wanna fuck me?" she said moaning. "Yes, mommy" to which I replied. Her body was completely mesmerising when she was on to me, Curvy back, thick ass and perfect tighten tits. She grabbed my dick and tried to slipped in her juicy wet pussy. Oh god it was so warm, then she ride my dick. I was getting more horny and horny, looking at her tits bouncing. I grabbed them tightly and fucked her right away.
After riding, we changed to missionary. Sliding my dick all the way down and smacking her ass until i see it red. "OHH DO IT, JOHNSON. DON'T YOU DARE TO STOP" she moaned. I increased my speed and made her pussy all drenched.
She jerked me off, taking all the cum in her mouth and her tits. We cuddled for a while after the session.
"Look at you," she said, her blue eyes searching mine. "Completely mine."
She led me to the small, private bathroom connected to her office. The lights were bright, clinical, a stark contrast to the shadowy intimacy of the main room. She turned on the shower, waiting for the water to steam before guiding me under the spray.
We stood together under the hot water, and she washed me with a surprising gentleness, her hands smoothing soap over my back, my chest, between my legs, cleansing away the evidence of our encounter. It was an act of care that felt more intimate than anything that had come before. She shampooed my hair, her fingers massaging my scalp, and I leaned into her touch, boneless and pliant.
When I was clean, she turned her attention to herself, and I watched, mesmerized, as the water sluiced over her body, tracing the curves I had worshipped with my mouth and hands. I took the soap from her and returned the favor, washing her slowly, reverently, learning the landscape of her body without the frantic urgency of lust. The steam filled the small room, wrapping us in a private cloud.
We dried each other with thick, white towels from the heated rack. The ordinary act felt profoundly intimate. Back in the office, she retrieved our clothes from where they lay discarded on the floor. She handed me my boxers and trousers, her fingers brushing against mine.
We dressed in silence, the rustle of fabric loud in the quiet room. I fastened my shirt, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. She was already dressed, looking every bit the powerful executive again, though her hair was still damp and there was a softness around her eyes that hadn't been there before.
She walked to her desk and surveyed the mess—the cum drying on the wood, the discarded crimson scarf, the bottle of massage oil. A slow, possessive smile touched her lips. She picked up a pen from her holder and came to stand before me.
"Tomorrow," she said, her voice back to its business-like tone, though her eyes still smoldered, "I have a meeting with the board at nine. The quarterly reports need to be finalized and on my desk by eight."
I nodded, my throat tight. "Yes, Ms. Reynolds."
She reached out and undid the top button of my shirt. With the pen, she wrote something on the skin over my heart. I looked down. It was a single letter: 'R'.
"A reminder," she
said, her voice low and resonant in the quiet room. "Of who you belong to when you're in this building. When you're anywhere."
The ink was cool against my skin, a temporary brand that felt more permanent than any tattoo. I could feel the weight of her gaze as I rebuttoned my shirt, the cotton now covering her mark, hiding our secret right over my pounding heart.
She turned and walked to the window, looking out at the city lights glittering like scattered diamonds against the velvet night. "The car will be waiting downstairs," she said without turning around. "I'll see you at eight. Don't be late."
It was a dismissal, clean and precise. Yet the air between us still crackled with what had transpired, with what she had written on my skin. I collected my jacket, my fingers lingering on the leather of her chair where she had sat, where she had come apart beneath my mouth.
"Goodnight, Ms. Reynolds," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
She didn't turn, but I saw her reflection in the glass—a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. "Goodnight, Mr. Johnson."
The walk to the elevator felt like crossing a border between two countries. The plush carpet of the executive floor, the muted lighting, the expensive art on the walls—it was all the same physical space I'd walked through countless times, but now it was charged with a new meaning, a new electricity. The air itself seemed different, thicker, carrying the ghost of her scent, of our sweat, of the oil she had smoothed over my skin.
The elevator doors slid shut, and in the sterile, mirrored box, I was alone with the man she had unmade and remade. My reflection showed the same suit, the same tie, the same face. But the eyes were different—darker, deeper, with a new knowledge swimming in their depths. I touched the place on my chest where her initial lay hidden, feeling the slight raise of the ink through the fabric.
The lobby was deserted except for the night security guard, who nodded politely as I passed. "Working late, Mr. Johnson?"
"Just finishing up," I said, and the words felt like a lie of monumental proportions.
The black town car was indeed waiting at the curb, just as she'd said it would be. The driver held the door open for me. "Home, sir?"
I almost said yes. The word was on my tongue. But the feel of the pen on my skin, the memory of her body moving over mine, the taste of her still faintly on my lips—it had rewired something fundamental. Home was not my sterile apartment with its view of a different part of the city. Home was the scent of jasmine and sex in a power office forty-two floors up.
"Just drive for a while," I heard myself say, sinking into the butter-soft leather seat. "Anywhere."
As the car pulled away from the curb, gliding silently through the nearly empty streets, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. The physical sensations began to return in waves—the pleasant, deep ache in my muscles, the ghost of fullness, the tender places where her nails had dug into my hips. I replayed every moment, from the first taste of her to the final, claiming stroke of her pen. The professionalism, the control I had worn like a second skin for years, had been systematically dismantled. She hadn't just fucked me; she had revealed me to myself. The quiet, intense man who carried himself with such control did, indeed, belong to her.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting a message from a colleague or a late-night email alert. The screen glowed in the dark interior of the car.
It was from her. A single line.
*The reports. My desk. 8 a.m. And wear a lighter colored shirt.*
A laugh, rough and surprised, escaped me. The driver's eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror, then quickly back to the road. Of course. She knew the dark grey shirt I'd buttoned up would hide her mark. She wanted to see it. She wanted the faint shadow of the 'R' to be visible through the cotton, a secret she could glance at during the board meeting, a reminder of the man bent over her desk while she discussed quarterly earnings.
I typed a single character in reply: *R.*
The response was immediate. *Good boy.*
I put the phone away and watched the city slide past the window. The world had not changed. The skyscrapers still stood, the traffic lights still cycled through their colors, people in apartments were sleeping or watching television, utterly unaware that my entire universe had just been realigned on its axis. I was still the same man with the same job, the same responsibilities. And yet, I was now also something else entirely: hers.
The car turned onto the bridge, the lights of the city reflected on the dark water below, shivering and breaking apart before reforming. I knew, with a certainty that felt as deep and absolute as the fullness I had felt moments ago, that nothing would ever be the same. The reports would be on her desk at eight. I would wear a light blue shirt. And underneath it, her initial would rest over my heart, a promise and a possession, as I sat across from her in the boardroom and tried to remember how to be just Mr. Johnson.