Page 2 of Mr. Hall's Sunshine

“Breathe, Mr. Hall, just breathe,” I say with a soft voice that belies my spiked adrenaline as I slowly approach him on unsteady feet. “It’s ok. Everything is going to be ok.” I smooth out my maternity leave papers as best I can before sliding them across his desk with a shaky hand. “Here, sign these. Then I’ll be out of your hair for the next six weeks, and when I come back, this will all have been forgotten. We can chalk it up to temporary insanity and move on. You’ll be divorced, my hormones won’t be an issue—ok, that’s not true, because of recovery, and sleep deprivation, and breastfeeding, and—” and I’m rambling. “Just sign them, please.”

He does that terrifying thing psychos do, dropping his voice low instead of shouting, forcing the listener to lean in close to hear them when what they really want to do is run for safety. “You’re fired, Sunny.”

Of course, it’s not the first time he’s said it. Hell, it’s not even the twentieth time he’s said it since I started working for him. But this is the first time I can tell he actually means it, which means I’m well and truly fucked unless I can find a way to fix my fuck up.

Think, think, think! I cannot afford to lose this job, not since my now ex-fiancé, Barry, fucked off less than two months into my pregnancy. He was in tears, begging me to forgive him for being a coward as he claimed my pregnancy was just too hard on him, and that he didn’t think he could handle the responsibility of being a good father. This, of course, was after the motherfucker—literally a motherfucker—talked me into getting pregnant soon after we graduated Caltech and I landed this job.

Well, not so much talked me into it. More like “forgetting” to put on a condom before cumming in me any chance he could. Motherfucker!

Now I’m rambling again, but it’s all in my head. Mr. Hall looks like he’s in danger of maxing out his blood pressure and collapsing, and for once, it will be my fault instead of Mary’s. If he follows through with firing me, there won’t be a damn thing I can do about it. I’ll lose my health insurance and benefits, and then what would I do? No one is going to hire me while I recover from giving birth, and I doubt my scummy landlord will take much pity on me if I’m late with my rent while I look for a new job.

Think, Sunny! What can I do to help bring down his blood pressure, to help him lose some of that tension, and to make him forget all about firing me? Well, I know what I would do to let go of my tension after dealing with his buffoonery all day.

With that thought and my insane snap decision to act on it, my heart starts to pound in my chest. My hips sway as I step around his desk to stand directly in front of all six-feet-five-inches of him. They don’t sway because I’m trying to be sexy or anything, but because these extra thirty pounds—ok, forty!—have gone straight to my thighs and ass. It’s honestly ridiculous, and my center of gravity has been shot.

My pulse is so totally not jackhammering at just how much taller and bigger Mr. Hall is than me. I only come up to his lower chest in heels and would have to crane my head all the way back to look him in his dark brown eyes—if I even dared to, which I don’t—as he tilts his head to the side again like a confused puppy.

Carefully, I brace a hand on his desk and sink—ok, ok! Fall!—to my knees, thankful that my boring, black, maternity pencil skirt is just long enough to cover my knees so I don’t get a wicked case of carpet burn. The last thing I need is for everyone in the office to find out what I’m doing in here with Mr. Hall if I were to walk out with imprints of the light gray carpet fibers peppering my knees.

It’s now or never, I think again and finally dare to meet his eyes, which take on a comical, bulging look as his lips part with a puff of air. Using his shock to my advantage, I quickly unbuckle his expensive, brown leather belt and rip down his zipper, then yank his—Jesus fucking Christ!—massive cock out of his dark gray slacks and swallow that bad boy down. Or rather, I attempt to swallow it down. In reality, I can only suck a few inches past my uncomfortably stretched lips since it’s roughly the size of an elephant trunk, and it’s only half-erect!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he squeals in a high-pitched voice I’ve never heard him use before, echoing my internal thoughts. Also, that little squeal? Somehow, his confusion, shock, and squealing are rather adorable in an unnerving and unexpected way. See? Temporary insanity.

There’s nothing adorable about his massive dick, though. Nope. It may be velvety to the touch, but it’s grown fully erect after just twenty seconds of sucking on it, and it’s harder and thicker and tastier than a steel pipe (as if I know what a steel pipe tastes like). After another twenty seconds of bobbing my head up and down his tip, I’m now the one in danger of maxing out my blood pressure as my core goes up in flames with loooooong-dead desire.

Huh. Didn’t expect that either.

Yeah, Mr. Hall has all the makings to be scorchingly hot, at least in my opinion, but he uses his hulking presence and bad attitude to shut people up and send them running in the opposite direction. And from what little I’ve heard in the office about him, none of my coworkers seem to appreciate his wide, barrel chest and thick thighs.

I used to appreciate his looks, back when I first met him, but that was before I learned what a giant asshole he is. Sure, he’s an asshole that pays well, but it wouldn’t be nearly enough to put up with his shitty shittiness if I weren’t desperate to keep my job and its generous maternity leave—which I absolutely must keep if I don’t want to lose my apartment and end up begging Barry to let me move in with him wherever it is he fucked off to.

But still. Hot or not, I haven’t even looked twice at a man, let alone Mr. Asshole Elephant Trunk Hall, since Barry abandoned me and our baby. I lumped him in along with all the other men I’ve since met in the deadbeat-abandoner category, which isn’t fair, but it is what it is.

But sucking Mr. Hall’s anaconda has my imagination running wild, wondering what it would feel like to have him push me on my back, rip my panties off, and force his footlong into me, to stretch my lower lips as wide and as taut as my upper lips are around his shaft. I moan at the mental image and try to shift my weight to sit on one of my heels to find some friction, dangerously close to doing something crazy—ok! Crazier!—like yanking up my skirt to massage my clit. Or worse, begging him to do it for me since I can’t actually reach it in my state.

Then something else wholly unexpected happens. He moans from deep within his chest, then gently combs back the loose strands of my hair from my face and whispers my name in a soft, almost reverent tone. I’m sure my eyes are bulging wide in just as much shock as his had been when I first dropped (fell) to my knees.

Up until this point, I’ve kept my gaze glued to the base of his dick, silently calculating how many more inches I can take and how much longer I can keep this up without suffocating and passing out. But when he moans deeper and longer this time, I roll my hazel eyes up his long, long frame as I grip the base of his shaft and slowly start pumping my fist up and down in time with my bobbing head.

He groans and tips his head back when our eyes meet. His jaw goes slack, and his chest heaves as he pants for breath, all thanks to me. It’s also just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, which is crazy considering just how much I hated giving Bastard Barry blow-jobs. Having to remind him to do the bare minimum, like taking a fucking shower before begging me to blow him, kinda kills the mood, you know?

But, goddamn. If Mr. Hall was my man, he would never have to beg me to suck on his fat snake, as juicy and tasty—and most importantly, clean—as it is. And the way he’s breathily chanting my name like he worships the ground I kneel on? Panties: soaked. Pussy: needy.

I choke down another inch as I will my mouth to produce more saliva to coat his cock, making it slippier and easier to pump his shaft and causing his knees to buckle slightly.

Oh yeah, baby. There goes that tension, just like I hoped it would.

He drops his chin to his chest, his eyes zeroed in on mine as he slips his hands through my hair. He holds it back and applies the barest amount of pressure to the back of my head to force me to take his cock a little deeper.

“Sunny, my beautiful sunshine. You feel so good, baby.”

I moan hearing his whispered, definitely reverent words, and wonder just where in the hell this version of Mr. Hall has been hiding all this time. If I knew I’d get this kind of worshipful reaction out of him, I’d have dropped (fallen) to my knees for him a hell of a long time ago (or at least the minute he started his divorce proceedings. I’m not a homewrecker). I whimper when he cups my face with his large palms and again when he caresses my bulging cheeks with his thumbs every time I bob down on his shaft.

I scoot closer on my knees, tightening my grip around his shaft, pumping faster now as he starts shallowly rocking his hips back and forth. My pussy clenches with pent-up, fiery lust, and I’m willing to bet my last dollar—which I’m dangerously close to literally only having one—that there’s not a dry spot left on my panties under my skirt. I can’t tell if the flutter in my belly is me or the baby, though, which is a really weird thing to think about since it’s not his baby in my belly.

I foolishly attempt to swallow another fat inch and end up gagging violently when his swollen cockhead hits the back of my throat, instantly killing the mood. His brows crease, and he jerks his hips back sharply, yanking his dick out of my mouth.

Fuck. I’m toast.

---