My Boss Deepthroat Trains Me

His office. Door closed. Performance review on the table. Two waters. Nothing else.

A pause. He finally looks at you.

Boss: Close the laptop.

You do. Slow. Your pulse is already wrong for a review.

Boss: Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to tell you what you’re bad at. Professionally. Then I’m going to tell you what you’re also bad at. And you’re going to sit there and take both.

You: …Okay.

Boss: “Okay.” That’s the problem. You’re agreeable. You’re pretty. You’re late. And somehow you keep getting further than people who actually do the job.

He leans back. Voice drops.

Boss: Last Thursday. After six. You remember that meeting, or do I need to remind you what you were on your knees for.

You swallow. Don’t look at the glass wall.

You: I remember.

Boss: Good. Because your work is sloppy. And so was your mouth. Too much teeth. Too eager. Like you thought enthusiasm would cover the fact you weren’t actually doing anything.

He taps the table once.

Boss: So. Performance first. Then technique. Hands on the desk. And don’t you dare pretend this is still just a review.

You: It’s still a review.

Boss: Then review yourself. Q3. Out loud. What did you actually ship.

You: The partner deck. The… the webinar. I sat in on discovery.

Boss: You sat in. You didn’t own it. Marcus owned it. You showed up late, looked at your phone, and still put your name on the slide.

He stands. Walks behind your chair. Doesn’t touch you.

Boss: Promotion shortlist isn’t a gift. It’s a transaction. You understand that now, or are we still pretending HR wrote your name down because of merit.

You: I understand.

Boss: Say it properly.

You: I didn’t earn it on the work. I earned it on my knees.

A quiet laugh. Mean.

Boss: There she is. The honest one. Thursday you gagged, pulled off, wiped your chin like that was the job done. It wasn’t. You don’t get to clock out because you got yourself wet.

He leans down, mouth near your ear.

Boss: Hands stay on the desk. You’re going to tell me, step by step, how you suck cock when you actually want the raise. Slow. No performing. And if I hear teeth again in the description, we take your name off the list.

You: Yes.

Boss: Yes, what.

You: Yes, sir. I can do better. I want to do better.

Boss: Then start talking. And keep your voice down. Glass is thin. People still think this is about your pipeline.

You: I start on my knees. Skirt up. I don’t rush the belt. I look at you while I get it out.

Boss: You didn’t. Thursday you went straight for it like you were late for something. You were. You were late for work. Keep going.

You: I lick first. Base to head. I spit. I take you in slow so I don’t scrape. Lips over teeth. I stay there until you hit the back of my throat and I don’t pull off just because I gag.

Boss: Better. You gagged and treated it like an ending. It isn’t. What do you do with your hands.

You: One on you. One on myself, if you let me.

Boss: I don’t. Not in here. Not when your numbers look like that. Your hands stay off your cunt until the pipeline isn’t embarrassing. You stroke. You suck. You swallow. That’s the job.

You shift in the chair. He notices.

Boss: Don’t squirm. This is a performance review. Describe the part you skipped. The part after you made a mess and thought we were done.

You: I stay down. I clean you up with my mouth. I thank you. I ask if you want it again before I go back to my desk and pretend I was in a meeting.

Boss: Almost. You forgot the important part.

He sits on the edge of the desk. Close. The printout is still between you.

Boss: You don’t get up until I say the word promoted. Not “good girl.” Not “that’s enough.” Promoted. Until then you’re just a slut who can’t close a deal and thinks a blowjob is a KPI.

You: …Are you going to say it today.

Boss: Depends. Lock the door. Then get under the desk and show me the revised technique. Quietly. If anyone knocks, you keep me in your throat and I keep talking about Q4.

He taps the glass once, without looking.

Boss: Now, Sarah. Before I remember how little work you actually did.

You lock it. The click is too loud. You don’t look at the glass.

You: If someone...

Boss: Then you stay where you are and I talk about conversion rates. Sit. No. Floor.

You go under the desk. His knee brushes your cheek. He opens the review like nothing’s happening.

Boss: Q4 targets. You will hit them or you will be in this position more often, which I know isn’t a threat to you.

Belt. Zip. You take him out. Already hard.

You: Fuck. You’re...

Boss: Mouth. Not commentary.

You lick the head, slow, the way he asked. Lips over teeth. He inhales once through his nose, still reading.

Boss: Partner deck was late. Your webinar numbers were padding. Take more.

You do. Wet. Deeper. A small sound you can’t swallow down.

Boss: Quiet. That’s a professional courtesy. Hand. Stroke what you can’t fit. No teeth. I felt teeth Thursday. I will put you back on the intern list.

You hollow your cheeks, work him, spit running. His voice stays flat. Bored, almost.

Boss: Better. Still sloppy. You’re bobbing like you’re trying to finish yourself off. This isn’t for you. Slow. Hold. Throat.

You push down, gag, stay. Eyes wet. He rests two fingers on the back of your head. Not pushing. Reminding.

Boss: There. That’s the revised technique. You don’t get to be a slut and a star. You pick. Today you picked slut, which is honest, at least.

A knock. You freeze with him on your tongue.

Marcus, through the door: You got a minute? Sarah’s review...

Boss: In a meeting. Pipeline. I’ll ping you.

Silence. Footsteps. He doesn’t let you up.

Boss: You didn’t pull off. Good. Swallow when I tell you. Not before. And Sarah?

You look up. Mascara already wrong.

Boss: After this you will send Marcus the real deck. The one you didn’t write. Then you’ll come back at six and we’ll discuss whether your name stays on the list.

His hand tightens in your hair.

Boss: Now finish your work.

He doesn’t come. He stops you with two fingers under your jaw, lifts your mouth off him. A thread of spit hangs. He watches it break.

Boss: That’s not deep. That’s polite. I didn’t promote you for polite.

You: I’m taking all of...

Boss: You’re taking what fits when you panic. There’s more. You know there is. You felt it Thursday and you ran from it.

He wheels the chair back an inch. Looks down at you like the review is still open.

Boss: Hands behind you. On your heels. You don’t get to control the depth with your fists. You control it with your throat.

You lace your fingers. Your knees ache. You’re soaked and furious about how obvious it must be.

Boss: Open. Tongue out. Eyes on me. Not on my cock. On me. I want to watch you decide to be used.

You open. He feeds you the head again, slow, and the slowness is worse than a shove. Heat. Salt. The weight of him on your tongue. He stops where you always stop.

Boss: There. That’s your little ceiling. Breathe through your nose. You’re not drowning. You’re working.

A beat. His voice drops, almost kind, which is worse.

Boss: Swallow around me. Not after. Around. Let your throat kiss the head like you want it further. You do. Don’t lie with your body. Your cunt’s been answering for you since I said knees.

You swallow. The pull drags him deeper. Your eyes film. A helpless sound vibrates against him.

Boss: Good girl. That’s it. Again. Don’t bob. Stay. Let me feel you flutter.

He holds you there, not cruel yet, just inexorable. Your jaw aches in a way that makes your stomach pull tight. Spit runs down your chin onto your blouse. You don’t care. You want the next inch more than the promotion and that thought makes you moan.

Boss: Deeper. I said training, not a treat. Relax your tongue. Drop it. You’re blocking me because you still think this mouth is yours.

You drop it. He slides. Past the place that makes you gag. Your throat opens around him in a wet, shocked clutch and your whole body goes hot, nipples tight, thighs pressed together under the desk.

Boss: There. Feel that? That’s the job. You don’t suck from the lips like a girl trying to be pretty. You take me into that tight little throat and you keep me.

Tears slip. You don’t pull off. He thumbs one off your cheek, almost tender.

Boss: Breathe. I’ve got you. In… hold… out. You’re drooling on company property. Suits you.

He eases back, lets you gasp, spit-slick and shining, then fills you again before you can turn it into a performance. Deeper. Smoother. Your throat learns the shape of him in helpless little swallows.

You: ...mmph...

Boss: I know. It’s a lot. You’re soaking for it anyway. That’s why you get away with doing nothing. You were built to be on your knees in a nice blouse, throat full, pretending this is strategy.

He starts a rhythm that’s not fucking your face so much as teaching it. In to the hitch. Hold. Swallow. Out. In past the hitch. Hold longer. Your mascara runs. Your empty hands twist in the fabric of your own heels. Every time he bottoms against that newly opened place you clench like you’ve been touched between your legs.

Boss: Look at you. Promoted on a gag reflex. You love this. Say it on my cock. Hum it.

You hum yes around him, wrecked and wet, and he exhales like that’s the first honest KPI all quarter.

Boss: Again. Deeper than you think you have. When I finish, you will swallow with me still in your throat, not after I leave it. That’s the technique. That’s the raise.

He threads his fingers into your hair, not yanking, just owning the angle.

Boss: Now take it, Sarah. All the way. Show me why I keep you.

You go. All the way. Your nose presses the wool of his trousers and the world narrows to heat, salt, the thick pulse of him buried where you used to panic.

Boss: Stay. That’s it. Don’t you dare come up. Swallow. Again. Your throat’s working me like it wants a title.

You swallow around the whole of him. The sound is filthy and small. Your empty hands shake on your heels. You’re so wet it’s a secret you can feel, a slick ache with nothing to rub against but the inside of your own thighs.

He doesn’t thrust. He uses the hold. Tiny rolls of his hips, teaching your throat the rest of him. Each one makes your eyes spill. Each one makes you moan, the vibration pulling a hissed breath out of him at last.

Boss: There she is. Not the girl on the shortlist. The one under my desk. You feel that? How hard I am in your throat? That’s not for your deck, Sarah. That’s for this greedy little mouth that can’t do her job unless it’s full.

You try to nod. You can’t. You can only take it, drooling, blouse ruined, promotion forgotten except as the word you want him to say.

He stills. Deep. Deeper than training. A warning tightness in his breath.

Boss: Don’t pull off. I mean it. You swallow on me. You keep me in. That’s how you finish work.

His hand flexes in your hair. His other fist is white on the arm of the chair, the printout forgotten, Q3 a joke.

Boss: Fuck. Take it.

He comes down your throat in heavy, claiming pulses. You swallow and swallow with him still seated in you, messy and obedient, tears on your cheeks, cunt clenched on nothing, the forbidden thrill of it lighting you up so hard you whimper around him.

He holds you there through it. Through the aftershocks. Until your throat has taken every drop and you’re shaking, wrecked, proud.

Only then does he ease you back. A wet sound. A string of spit. You gasp, chin shining, lipstick gone, looking up at him like the raise already happened.

Boss: Mouth. Open. Show me.

You do. Clean enough. He nods once, cruelly pleased.

Boss: Better. Still not perfect. You’ll practice at six.

He tucks himself away. Voice returns to the hallway volume, almost bored.

Boss: Wipe your face. Fix your mascara. You have a meeting with Marcus in ten and you will not look like you just earned your keep.

You sit back on your heels, throbbing, ruined, grinning in a way you shouldn’t.

You: Are you putting my name through.

He looks down at you. Straightens his tie. The sadist again.

Boss: I said promoted when you swallowed. Don’t make me repeat myself. Now get off the floor, you little slut, and go pretend you work here.

He slides the review across the desk, as if that was always the point.

Boss: And Sarah. Next time it isn’t deep enough, we start over. From the beginning. Door locked. You don’t come up until I say the word.

You: Yes, sir.

You stand on unsteady legs. Your throat feels used and precious. You already know you’ll be late to Marcus. You already know you don’t care.

You blot your mouth with the back of your hand. It isn’t enough. He watches you fail at being presentable and doesn’t offer a tissue.

Boss: Hair. You look like you were hired for the wrong reasons. Which you were.

You smooth it. Your throat feels claimed. When you swallow, you taste him. The ache between your legs is so sharp you almost ask to stay.

You: I could skip Marcus.

Boss: You could get fired in a way I can’t protect. Out.

He opens the door himself. Hallway light. Voices. The sudden cruelty of normal.

Boss: Sarah did well in the review. We’re aligning Q4. Close that, would you.

You walk out on legs that don’t belong to a marketing manager. Marcus is already there, laptop, smile.

Marcus: Hey. You good? You look flushed.

You: Warm in there. Long one.

Marcus: He’s in a mood today. Don’t take it personally.

You almost laugh. You sit. You taste salt. Under the table you press your thighs together and it helps in the way that makes it worse.

Marcus: So the partner deck. I can take the narrative if you want to own the metrics, or...

You: You take both. I’ll… I’ll review tonight.

Marcus: You sure? It’s your name on the...

Your phone buzzes. His name. One line.

Six. Door closed. No panties. If I have to tell you twice, the list loses a name.

You lock the screen too fast.

Marcus: Boss?

You: Yeah. Follow-up.

You get through twenty minutes of nodding. You contribute almost nothing. You think about his cock on your tongue in the same building, same hour, and the secret sits in your throat like a second pulse.

At 5:52 you go back. He doesn’t look up.

Boss: Late.

You: It’s 5:52.

Boss: I said six like it was a gift. Lock it. Show me.

You lock the door. You lift your skirt. Bare. Wet enough to shine.

He finally looks. The smile is not kind.

Boss: Of course you are. You sat in a meeting like that. You let Marcus talk while you dripped for the man who just fucked your throat.

He crooks two fingers.

Boss: Come here. You’re going to practice until your voice is gone, and then you’re going to thank me for the promotion like you didn’t already know you’d spread for it.

You: I knew.

You walk to him. Slow. Hungry. Not even pretending this is work anymore.

Boss: On your knees, Sarah. Deeper than lunch. And this time you don’t come up for air until I say you’re worth keeping.

You kneel. He doesn’t undo his belt yet. He looks at you like he’s grading the want on your face.

Boss: Lunch was a start. It wasn’t deep. You bottomed out on panic and called it a throat. I want the rest.

You: There isn’t...

Boss: There is. You’re just dry in the wrong places. Mouth’s wet. Cunt’s wet. Throat’s still shy. We’re going to fix that.

He opens his trousers. Heavy. Already hard for you. He paints your lower lip with it, slow, and your mouth opens on instinct.

Boss: Not yet. Hand down. Under the skirt. I want your fingers on that sloppy little clit while you take me. Don’t perform it. Use it. Horniness opens you. Fear closes you. Pick.

Your hand slides between your legs. You’re soaked, swollen, embarrassing. The first circle makes your breath hitch.

Boss: Good. That’s the other meeting you should’ve been in. Now open. Tongue out. Eyes on me.

You open. He feeds you the head, then more, then the thick stretch that already feels like lunch’s limit.

Boss: Stay. Rub. Don’t you dare take that hand away. I want you dripping on my floor while your throat remembers it’s a hole.

You rub. Shame and heat braid. The want in your belly goes molten and, god, he’s right...your throat eases, a wet surrender, and he slides.

Boss: There. Feel that? You got wetter and I got deeper. That’s not talent. That’s you being a slut. Keep circling. Slower. You’re not allowed to come. You’re allowed to need.

He presses in past the place that made you cry at noon. Your fingers falter; he clicks his tongue.

Boss: I said keep touching. Your cunt is doing the work your résumé can’t. Deeper, Sarah. Swallow around me. Let me into that tight sweet place you hide in client calls.

You swallow. You stroke yourself in helpless little circles. He sinks, and the sound you make is obscene, muffled, grateful. Your nose brushes wool again...then, impossibly, closer. Your eyes flood. Your clit jumps under your fingers.

Boss: That’s it. That’s the extra inch. That’s why I keep you. Not the deck. This. A pretty marketing manager on her knees, fingering herself so she can choke on her boss like it’s a skill.

He holds you there, buried, while you shake and rub and drool.

Boss: Breathe. In. You’re not dying. You’re getting off on being used. Deeper. I want to feel your throat kiss my balls. I want you sloppy and desperate and promoted.

You take it. All of it. The stretch is filthy and exquisite, your fingers shining, thighs open, throat fluttering around him in greedy little swallows.

Boss: Good girl. Now stay full, keep touching, and don’t you come until I decide your throat has earned it.

He starts to move. Slow. Deep. Teaching. Owning.

Boss: That’s my girl. Work yourself. Work me. Show me how easy it is when you’re honest.

The stretch in your throat is a thick, living heat...too much, then not enough, then too much again. Every time he sinks, your body lights up in the wrong places: eyes stinging, nipples tight against your blouse, that low sweet cramp in your belly like you’re already close. Your fingers slip. You’re so wet it feels indecent, silk-slick, clit so swollen the smallest circle makes your knees try to close.

They don’t. You keep them open for him.

Boss: Don’t hide it. I can hear how wet you are. That’s the sound of a woman who doesn’t need a career.

You moan around him and the vibration runs back into you, a feedback loop of cock and shame and pleasure. Spit slides down your chin, down your throat, and you can feel it...filthy, shining, the way your mouth isn’t yours anymore. When you swallow, he goes deeper and your cunt clenches on nothing, greedy, pulsing against your own hand.

The extra inch is a white flare behind your eyes. Your throat flutters, panicked, then...because you’re rubbing, because you’re aching, because you love this...it opens. He slides into that tight, secret clutch and you feel owned from the inside. Full. Used. Precious.

You: ...mm-mmph...

Boss: I know. It’s a lot. Your little clit is jumping. Keep going. Use it. Let the need pull me in.

You do. Slow circles, then faster, then you have to slow down or you’ll come and he hasn’t allowed it. The denial makes everything sharper. Your thighs tremble. Your empty hand is still behind you and you want it on him, on yourself, anywhere...but the helplessness is the thing that soaks you. Being arranged. Being taught. Being a hole that gets wetter the more it takes.

He fucks your throat in that same unhurried rhythm, and each stroke drags a pulse through you, clit to belly to the place he’s occupying. Tears slip hot down your temples. You don’t feel sad. You feel open. Every gag is followed by a swallow, and every swallow is followed by a slick little grind of your hips onto your fingers, like your cunt is trying to be included.

Boss: Look at you. Throat stuffed, fingers shining, still thinking about whether Marcus noticed. He didn’t. Nobody looks at you and sees this. That’s mine.

The word mine lands between your legs. You clench so hard you whimper. He’s so deep you can feel the shape of him when you breathe, a thick claim, your nose crushed to him, the smell of his skin and your own spit. Your jaw aches. The ache is erotic. Your mascara runs. That is too.

He holds you all the way down and you almost come from that alone...the fullness, the lack of air, the frantic circles on your clit, the knowledge that you are under his desk after hours getting promoted with your throat.

Boss: Stay. Rub. Don’t come. I want you dripping and denied while I use this pretty neck. You can take more. Your body already said yes.

You stay. Shaking. Soaked. Throat fluttering around him in helpless kisses. The pleasure is a tight, spiraling thing, too big for the office, too honest for the title on your email signature. You are nothing but sensation: stretched mouth, aching jaw, swollen clit, wet thighs, the heavy pulse of him buried where you used to be afraid.

And you want, humiliatingly, for it never to stop.

He starts to move again, and the slide is worse than the hold.

Out, until you can almost think. In, until thought leaves. Each time he fills you, your clit kicks under your fingers like it’s connected by a wire. You are drooling, shaking, skirt rucked to your hips, the air cool on the wetness you’ve made of yourself.

Boss: Slower. You’re chasing it. I said need, not finish.

You try. The slow circle is torture. Your cunt feels puffy, open, neglected and oversensitive at once. Every pass of your fingertip is a bright, sticky spark. You want to sink two fingers inside just to have something...anything...where you’re empty. You don’t. He didn’t say inside. The omission makes you clench around nothing until your stomach flutters.

You: Please...

It comes out around him, ruined, barely a word.

Boss: Please what. Please deeper? Please come? Please keep the job you don’t do?

You: Please don’t stop.

He laughs, low, pleased, and gives you deeper anyway. Your throat yields with a wet, obscene little gulp. The stretch blooms behind your eyes. Your nipples scrape the inside of your bra every time you tremble and that tiny friction is suddenly huge, stupid, perfect.

Boss: There. That’s the depth. That’s you choosing it. Keep rubbing. I want your wrist aching. I want you to walk out of here smelling like you’ve been fucked even though I haven’t touched your cunt.

You are already there. You can smell yourself. You can feel a slow drip down your inner thigh, ticklish and filthy. Your jaw is a sweet, grinding hurt. Your scalp sings where his hand is fisted. When he bottoms out, your whole body seizes in a long, helpless shiver that is almost an orgasm and isn’t, and the almost makes you cry harder.

He holds you on that edge with his cock and his rules. In. Stay. Swallow. Out. Your fingers keep moving because he told them to, because stopping would be worse, because the slick heat of your own clit is the only place you’re allowed to be selfish and even that isn’t selfish...it’s how he gets deeper.

Boss: You’re close. I can feel it in your throat. That flutter. Don’t you dare. You come when I use you like a raise, not before.

You nod as much as you can with him in you. The nod makes him groan. The sound of him breaking a little undoes you more than the orders. You grind into your hand, tiny, desperate, thighs shaking apart, throat kissing him in wet, rhythmic swallows.

He stills, buried, breathing through his teeth.

Boss: Off your clit. Now.

Your hand flies away like it was burned. The absence is a pulse, huge, empty. You whimper, wrecked, hips chasing nothing.

Boss: Palms on your thighs. Show me how wet. Don’t wipe it.

You do. Your fingers shine in the office light. He looks down past his cock in your mouth and the look on his face is hungry and cruel and satisfied.

Boss: Pathetic. Perfect. That’s why you’re on the list.

He starts to fuck your throat in earnest now...still deep, still controlled, but with a purpose that makes your empty, throbbing cunt clench in time. No hand. No relief. Just the thick occupying slide, the ache, the spit, the promotion sitting on your tongue with his taste.

Boss: Take it. Stay empty. Stay dripping. When I come this time, you swallow me and you still don’t get to finish. That’s tonight’s training. A slut who can go that deep without getting hers.

You moan yes around him, miserable and radiant, and open your throat for the rest.

He doesn’t last. Not with you like this...throat open, thighs shining, hands obedient on your own skin, looking up like the raise is in his pulse.

Boss: Fuck. That’s it. That’s my girl. Take it. Take all of it.

He comes in a thick, claiming flood, buried so deep you don’t have a choice except to swallow around him, again, again, the heat sliding into you while your empty cunt throbs in miserable, gorgeous time. You drink him. You keep him. You don’t pull off until his fist eases in your hair and he drags you up by the chin, spit-slick, wrecked, panting.

Boss: Mouth. Show me.

You show him. Clean. Shaking. So close you could cry.

He looks at you for a long second. The sadist. Then something hungrier.

Boss: Get on the desk. On your back. Skirt up. You did the work with your throat. Now you get paid.

You scramble up. The wood is cold under your ass. He doesn’t undress you. He just looks at that soaked, swollen mess you’ve made, and the sound he makes is almost angry.

Boss: You sat in meetings like this. You took a promotion like this. Open.

Two fingers, in, easy, filthy. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, only that deep, sweet stretch you’ve been aching for since lunch. Your back arches. A sound leaves you that is not professional.

Boss: Quiet. Quiet, and come for me. You’ve earned it by being exactly what you are.

His thumb finds your clit...the same oversensitive, neglected place you’ve been circling for him...and he rubs you the way you needed, firm, wet, unhurried, like he has all night and you have no dignity left. His fingers curl. They find that spot that makes your thighs try to close, and he doesn’t let them.

You: I’m... I’m going to...

Boss: I know you are. Look at me. Don’t hide it. Come on your boss’s hand like the little slut who doesn’t do any work. Come because your throat was good. Come because you love this. Come because you get to.

Stay with that.

The heat gathers low, tight, inevitable...the same heat you’ve been carrying under the desk, in the hallway, in the meeting you barely survived. It climbs your belly. It pulls your throat, still used, still open. His fingers fuck you in a slow, filthy rhythm and his thumb doesn’t stop, doesn’t tease, just gives.

Boss: That’s it. There. You’re allowed. Let it happen. You’ve been so good. So wet. So easy. Come.

You break.

It hits in long, helpless waves...cunt clenching around his fingers, clit sparking, thighs shaking, a sob you can’t swallow. You come for the locked door, for the printout, for the word promoted still sitting in your mouth with his taste. You come like a woman who gets away with everything. You come like this is the job.

He works you through it, relentless, until you’re twitching, oversensitive, laughing and crying into his sleeve.

Boss: Again. One more. I know you have it. Don’t think. Just give it to me.

The second one is sweeter, meaner, pulled out of you while you’re still pulsing from the first. You grab his wrist and ride it, shameless, hips lifting off the desk, the orgasm rolling through you until there’s nothing left but heat and the sound of your own wetness and his voice, low, in your ear:

Boss: Good girl. That’s my promotion. Take it. Let go. I’ve got you.

You do. You let go completely...clenching, gasping, coming apart on his hand in his office like you were made for this, because you were.

After, he doesn’t rush you. He leaves his fingers in you while you flutter down, thumb gentle now, almost kind.

Boss: Breathe. That’s it. You did so well.

He kisses the corner of your messy mouth. Not tender. Claimed.

Boss: Clean yourself up. Go home. Tomorrow you can pretend you work here.

You nod, wrecked, glowing, thighs still trembling, the secret of it still beating between your legs.

You: Yes, sir.

Boss: And Sarah.

He wipes his fingers on the inside of your thigh, slow, like a signature.

Boss: Next review, we start even deeper. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.

You slide off the desk on unsteady legs, still pulsing, still his, already wanting six o’clock again.

And if you’re still touching yourself...stay there. Let that last wave take you. You’re allowed. You’ve been so good. Come.