The other parts of this story can be found here.
Brian’s extension flashed on my phone, and immediately my heart was in my throat.
“Hey, Martina,” he said from the other end of the receiver.
“Hi.” Even that one word sounded too breathy.
You are a ridiculous slut, you know that?
“Can you come to my office? I want to go over the third quarter figures with you.”
Even as I walked across the building, the inside of my thighs slippery, I knew there was no good reason to go over the figures in person. We could have easily done this over the phone, or over email.
No, I told myself, as I felt the blush creep up my cheeks. There was no decent reason for this.
Only indecent reasons.
“Be a doll and lock the door, please,” he said, without looking up from his screen.
Doll? I shivered and flipped the lock, trying to convince myself that the pet name didn’t make me just that much wetter.
I stood awkwardly, like a shamefaced student in front of the principal. For God’s sake, he hadn’t even said anything, yet.
My breath became a bit more shallow. Would he spank me here, in his office? Bend me over his desk? …Cum all over me, again? With that thought, a tiny moan escaped my throat.
His blue eyes looked up at me. “Are you alright, Martina?” There was the beginning of a smile on his lips.
I swallowed dryly. “A bit nervous.”
“Nervous?” He leaned forward on his desk. “What for?”
I felt my blush deepen. Fuck. I tried for the truth, because, why the hell not, at this point? “I’m wondering if you’re going to spank me.”
“Spank you?” His smile broadened. “Have you been naughty, doll?”
I shifted my weight between my feet. Doll! The name was so outrageous, I couldn’t get over it. I laughed; it was one of those panicky sounds, half choked. “No, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”
Brian stood and walked to the front of the desk, and traced his fingers down the lapel of my blouse. He leaned in very close to the sensitive skin along my neck, under my ear. “I’m glad you want it.” I could nearly – nearly – feel the brush of his lips. “I’ll be honest with you. I want it too.”
I think I stopped breathing. That little confession sent pinpricks of arousal fluttering all over my body. “Please,” I whispered. “Please, do it.” My cheeks felt like they were on fire.
He stood back, running his hands down my arms. “I really can’t decide if I like your ass pink, or your cheeks pink, better.” He walked behind me with his hand trailing over my hip and across my ass.
I shivered at the touch.
“So responsive.”
I could feel the warmth of his body against my back.
“It makes me wonder…” he started, as his hands came around my front, his fingers tracing the line of my bra.
My lungs refused to work, refused to pull in oxygen. I watched his fingertips move along the curve of my breasts.
“Tell me to stop, Martina. Tell me no, if you don’t want it.” His voice was husky.
Did I want him to stop? I wasn’t sure.
His hands fell away. “Breathe, Martina. Jesus Christ, breathe.”
Cool air, as if it had needed permission, trickled down my throat. And then the breaths came in deep, quick and needy. The image of his fingers around my throat flashed through my head, allowing me to breathe. His hand around my throat, with the other crashing into my bare ass.
My cunt clenched. Fuck.
I had never had these kinds of fantasies before.
Why now? Was this just so perverse, that my brain allowed itself this boon of a filthy fantasy?
“Talk to me, Martina.” Brian’s voice was soft, powerful, demanding. A whisper against my ear, leaving no room for debate. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
My cheeks burned. “I’m thinking… oh, God, please. I can’t say it. Please don’t make me say it.”
I felt his hand on my ass, squeezing, just this side of pain. “Tell me,” he said. “Or else.”
I shivered. “I’m thinking about… your hand on my throat.”
Slut.
He let go of my ass, and gave me one, good swat. The sting of it was delicious, and it made me moan.
“Keep going,” he said, his voice again taking on that deeper timbre. “Tell me what’s going through that perverse little mind of yours, doll.”
I felt my cunt clench at the name again. Or maybe it was the anticipation of the next spank. …Or maybe it was that I was in my co-worker’s office, about to tell him about something that made my cunt drip. “I’m thinking about your hand around my throat, making it hard to breathe… while you spank me.”
“Slut.”
His judgment made my cheeks flush all over again, and I wanted to lean over his desk and let him beat the slut out of me.
Instead, his fingers crawled around the front of my throat, lightly. Teasing, almost. “Like this?” he asked.
“Harder,” I said, shocked at my own audacity. “Please, don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop.”
He squeezed, just a little more. At the same time, he lifted my skirt up over my hips, running his hand over all that lace-covered skin. “Look at these pretty panties, doll. Did you wear these for me?” His grip tightened, and he pulled, making me arch my back for him.
“Yes,” I whispered, my voice soft and hoarse from his hand across my neck.
“Little fucking slut.”
He gave me a sharp spank, and the feel of his hand making it hard to breathe tipped the sensation into the sublime.
“Please, more,” I whisper-begged.
“Little… fucking… slut,” he said, each word punctuated with another spank.
The stinging heat spread and grew, and the air felt cool against my wet panties. I moaned and wiggled, as much as his hold would allow me.
“Teasing me… all… this… time.” More spanks. “We have a lot to make up for, don’t we, doll?” Brian let go of my throat and went back to rubbing my warmed skin.
Yes, Sir.
I blinked, wondering where that thought had come from.
Thank God I didn’t say it out loud.
“I asked you a question. Answer it.” He continued to rub my ass, threateningly.
“Yes…” I said. I licked my lips. Why did that phrase sound so incomplete?
“Yes, what?”
I blushed, trying to convince myself that he couldn’t actually read my mind. “Yes, we have a lot to make up for.”
He brought his hand down against my skin again, and I moaned.
I felt him step back. “I’m going to need you to work over the weekend, Martina. These third quarter reports are way behind.” He smacked me again, this time on the other cheek. “Saturday, 9AM, here. Do you understand me?”
I shivered. Yes, Sir. “Yes, of course.”
Photo by Jeremy Beadle on Unsplash