Page 11 of The Boss' Pet

As if reading my mind, he pushes me firmly down on the bar, his hand twisting in the hair at the back of my head. He has full control of me as he starts to fuck me again, giving me exactly what I want, even when his suited hips meet my sore, welted ass.

I know what is happening to me now has probably happened to dozens, if not hundreds, of other women. Marcus doesn’t have a reputation as a rake, but he’s rich, handsome, and powerful. I am quite literally being used as a sexual amusement, punished for being an irritant. This is how he deals with women. He beats and he fucks them, and I am getting the same treatment as everybody else.

That’s what I tell myself as his cock makes me feel as though I’m being stretched wider than I can take. I don’t want to get attached. I don’t want to think this means anything. He’s just another rich man taking what he wants.

And what he wants is me. My body. My interior. My most sensitive, internal, vulnerable places. He wants to conquer me, and he wants me to know I have been conquered.

Being fucked by Marcus is a deeper, more thorough experience than I have ever had before. Men are often selfish lovers, but that’s not what he is. His self-interest is more sophisticated. He wants more than just physical pleasure. He wants to teach me a lesson. He wants to not only demonstrate his dominance, but force me into submission. And he is getting his way.

With every stroke, I feel myself softening to him. There’s no point fighting him. I don’t want to. I don’t want to resist. I want to take his powerful, hard body inside mine. I want to feel all the pleasure I can. He is bringing out my greedy little animal side—a part of me only he can see.

“This could have been a nice, pleasant little drink,” he growls down at me. “You could have asked me some more questions, gathered material for the little article you were going to write. The one that was going to join thousands of others and drift into inevitable obscurity. But you didn’t want to play it safe. You wanted to taunt me, you wanted to make me teach you a lesson.”

Did I? I don’t know anymore. I know I was curious as to what would happen if I kept pushing him, and I know I felt attraction. How could I not? Everything about Marcus is designed to make my animal self flush with desire. I have no choice but to want him.

I can feel the marks of his belt and the aftermath of his palm flaring into repeated life. Sometimes it is a deep ache, other times, a hot sting. Now and then he slaps my ass to make it that little bit worse. Each and every time he does that, my pussy clenches him tighter, gripping him with primal affection.

“You’re going to come for me,” he says in a commanding tone. “You’re going to give me your orgasm.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me feel as though my climax will seal something between us. It will be some kind of acknowledgement that I’ve given in to him fully. I take a deep breath and I try to hold back, but nothing about this situation is conducive to self-control. All of that has been taken from me. Now I am nothing but feeling, sexual desire, and a receptacle for his lust.

Marcus does not intend to wait. He makes me come, forcing the orgasm from me by fucking me hard and toying with my clit between agile fingers. He fucks me through it as I start to wail, extending the peak of pleasure for what seems like torturously long minutes. I squirm beneath him, my hips bucking my ass and pussy up to his cock, giving him everything he wants. There’s a brief moment of madness where I don’t even care if he comes inside me.

There is no protective barrier between us. There is nothing to stop him from filling me all the way up. As his breath turns into deeper grunts and growls, I almost feel as though he is going to, but in the middle of my writhing orgasm, he pulls free and spends himself on my ass cheeks, covering the material of my underwear and what exposed skin there is with hot splashes of his seed.

Holy fuck.

The moment my orgasm subsides, I am absolutely suffused with shame. I just allowed myself to be used like a cheap, disposable slut. All semblance of being an intelligent journalist has been stripped from me.

I can feel his come on my ass, being rubbed into my reddened skin like some kind of twisted salve. I don’t think he’s trying to make me feel better. I think he’s trying to mark me. That’s what this whole evening has been about, taking me down a peg, turning me into his little whore.

I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can’t even bring myself to look at myself. Suddenly, I am surrounded by shiny surfaces, glassware, polished chrome, or whatever it is. I see my face and his reflected back at me over and over. I see my flushed features and his triumphant gaze.

Marcus

She is very nearly falling out of her shirt as she rises, her face full of red shame. She reaches under her shirt to pull her straps up and out, settling her breasts back into captivity.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says. Her voice is shaky. She looks unsteady. I reach out to try to help her keep upright, but she swats my hand away.

“Oh?”

I wait to see what she’ll say next, but she doesn’t say anything at all. She opens her mouth a few times, but ends up shutting it again before she can form a word. It’s not easy to make your mind work when you’ve just been thoroughly punished and your flesh is still ripe with searing heat.

Instead of saying anything, she turns and runs out of the bar, finding the stairs next to the elevator and busting through the door like the heroine in an action movie.

I follow her, but she is fleeing at top speed, and I fear that chasing her will cause her to break her silly neck as she chooses to take the stairs rather than the elevator. She is going to be freaking out for a very long time with all of these stairs, but that does not seem to be of concern.

“Slow down, Charlie,” I call out. “You’re going to break your neck.”

She doesn’t listen, of course. If she were the sort of girl to learn a lesson the first time she was taught it, she wouldn’t be running down almost a hundred flights of stairs with her ass on fire.

As she rushes down the stairs, the heel of her left shoe snaps in that undignified way women’s shoes sometimes do. She stumbles for a moment, nearly breaks her damn neck, and proceeds to throw herself into a car, her shoe behind.

My very own little Cinderella.

CHAPTER 3

Charlie

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