Eric Carlson woke up in a pool of his own sweat. He was alone in his single bed, on top of the tan sheets, blinds open, struggling to rise as he gripped his head. He wasn’t hung over, far from it, but he was disoriented and sore just the same.
He looked down to find himself still half-dressed from the day before, one shoe on, his belt half-buckled, his dress shirt from work barely unbuttoned. He hardly remembered stumbling home the previous evening, her perfume all over him, her musk on his fingers, his lips, his tongue, his dick.
Amanda Pierce. He had fucked his boss, righteously, roughly, right there in her penthouse office. “Holy shit.” His voice was rough, still hoarse from ordering her into every conceivable position he could imagine. He stood, shaking his head, pacing the hardwood floors of his tiny fifth floor walk-up. His work jacket lay on the chair in the corner, roughly tossed aside. He never did that, if only because he had so few he rotated the same three all week long.
He made his way into the kitchen, sleepwalking through the process of making a cup of coffee as he spotted clues that he had, indeed, made it home last night; and barely in one piece.
His keys were tossed randomly on the kitchen counter, his wallet near the flour container, his messenger bag slung over a kitchen chair, untouched despite his massive workload. The fresh coffee roused his dormant brain cells and, with every sip, he flinched at the images that flooded his mind from the day before…
“Eric!” Amanda Pierce had barked, loud enough for the whole office to hear. “In my office, now.”
Fortunately it was the end of the day and, as usual, Eric was one of the last “artist drones,” as she called her graphic designers, to still be lingering around his cubicle, feverishly working on another round of last minute, rush edits for the Coleman’s Coffee account.
He hung his head on the way into the office, hearing the snickers of several of his coworkers as they rose to grab their coats, eager to be on their way home before the shouting began; again.
“Yes, Ms. Pierce?” Eric stood at her open door, wincing as he saw his latest changes displayed on the oversized computer monitor that sat on her work station. A fitness nut, Amanda worked at a standing desk for most of the day and only sat at her long, spotless work desk for client meetings or to take video conference calls.
She turned at the sound of his voice, whipping off her rectangular reading glasses to get a better look at him. “I thought I asked you to blur the edges of the sunflowers at the breakfast nook in this brochure draft.”
Eric shook his head involuntarily. “I will, Amanda, but… I still have to import the wife’s handbag as well as shade in the father’s beard. Remember?”
Her eyes grew wider with every excuse. “Are you kidding me, Eric? You haven’t done that yet?”
Eric’s temples pounded. This bitch had been riding his ass for days, weeks, months, ever since he’d been promoted from the temp pool to a full-time graphics artist for Amanda’s graphics design firm, Visioneering, Inc.
Ever since, she’d been on him to work harder, faster, better. He was always there early, never gone before 6 or 7 at night and could often be found, hunched over a cup of coffee and his keyboard most Saturdays.
He’d noticed that, while steely and cool to all her employees, Amanda didn’t treat anyone as poorly as she did Eric. While not one to be easily offended, he’d have to be blind and deaf not to note that the boss had taken a special interest in making his life at Visioneering a living hell.
She stood there, in snug burgundy slacks that hugged her endless thighs and a black turtleneck sweater that emphasized her long neck and small breasts, daring him to confront her.
Her eyes, so green and predatory, bored into his. Her hair was up, held in place by two silver chopsticks, and she still held her reading glasses in the hand that now rested against her leaning workstation.
He didn’t know why, but suddenly the thought of fucking her was overwhelming. He could picture it, his hands on those high, tight tits, grabbing her firm, round ass, spreading those legs as she begged him to take her, right there on her desk. Cliché? No doubt. Tempting? Fuck yes!
She was waiting for him to answer her, her chest moving forcefully up and down with the power of her impatience and the tap of each high-heeled toe. He slammed the door instead.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked, glasses clattering on the workstation keyboard.
He took a step toward her, weighing the risk. If he kissed her, right then and there, and she wasn’t into it, he’d be fired, on the spot. Hell, she’d probably call the cops on his ass.
Security, at the very least.
He smirked. That’d be a win-win, he thought to himself. At least he wouldn’t have to work 70 hours a week for a towering, if tempting, shrew!
“What am I doing?” he croaked, voice tight with tension as he took another step toward her. “I’m doing what it’s obvious you’re asking me to do.”
He kissed her then, hard and fast on the lips. It was now or never. Either she’d knee him in the balls or have them between her lips in ten seconds flat.
Well, he was almost right; she did a little bit of both, but not exactly on his timeline. “Get… off… of me,” she spat, pushing him away with one hand as she wiped her lips with the back of the other. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He stood his ground, smirking at her. Eric Carlson didn’t have much in this world, a crappy apartment, a crappy car, a crappy job and a hot boss, but this much he knew: chicks loved his cock. He’d never wanted for female companionship, not in bars at night or some random coffee shop barista the next morning.
Maybe it was his close-cropped black hair, his chiseled jaw or six-pack abs. Maybe it was his six-feet and then some status or his clear brown eyes, but mostly, Eric knew, it was his cock. He knew how to use it, he used it often and well, and chicks could sense that from across a crowded dance floor or lonely coffee shop.
Or, in this case, a corner office.
He walked with a swagger because he’d banged more chicks than most movie stars, and the more chicks he banged the more chicks wanted to bang him. Would Amanda? He could only hope so. She stood there, biting her lip and he knew, in that moment, she wasn’t going to knee him in the balls, wasn’t going to kick him out or call security.
Amanda Pierce wanted him, wanted him bad. And was she going to get him. Every last inch of him. And she was going to like it so much, she’d be begging him not to stop.
“Shut your blinds,” he ordered, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it onto the leather chair across from her desk. “Then lock your door.”
“The hell you say,” she spat, standing her ground with a defiant look on her young, radiant face.
“Trust me,” he growled, loosening his tie. “The quicker you do it, the easier I’ll be on you.”
She smirked then, the color risking to her cheeks. “Who says I want it to be easy?”
He locked the door for her, and lowered the blinds as well. The outer office looked empty, but what did he know? Hell, at this point, what did he care?
She stood next to her desk, nearly as tall as he was in her expensive black heels. “Take them off,” he commanded. She leaned down and did as she was told. “Now the rest of it.”
“Don’t you… don’t you want me to do it slow? Take my time?”
He inched forward, dropping his voice a notch. “I want you naked, hot and ready, and I want it now,” he growled. Just saying the words almost made him come!
She slid the turtleneck over her head, revealing a maroon bra to match her expensive linen slacks. They fell to the floor, and she folded them, carefully, before sliding them next to her jacket on the cabinet behind her. Her panties were black and tight and small; college girl panties.
He was already hard, and didn’t think he could get any harder. But seeing her thick snatch pressed against the panties made his tongue literally dart out and lick his lips.
“Funny,” he said, inching toward her, fingertips eager to touch every inch of her trim body. “I always figured you for a thong girl.”
Her voice was a small thing now, but still full of fight. “Never on a Thursday. I thought a player like you would know little details like that.”
He laughed and took off his tie. “Lie down,” he commanded, clearing her massive desk of a blotter and name plate.
She opened her mouth to dispute him but slid back onto the desk instead. He could tell from the way she winced it was cold on the back of her bare thighs, but he knew it wouldn’t be for long.
She lay back, her body one long, taut muscle. He grabbed her hands, roughly, and yanked them back over her head. She gasped and, thinking he’d been too forceful, he was shocked to hear her moan with pleasure, ass already grinding into the heavy wood of her desk and moistness spreading from the crotch of her tiny panties.
He smiled to himself and tied one end of his neck tie around her wrists, anchoring the other to the foot of her desk. He tested it and found it solid. She tugged, too, and the tie gave little room for movement; just the way he wanted it.
Her arms were long and he admired the way her small, firm breasts heaved against her silky maroon bra. Her ribs were clearly visible above her long, narrow waist, made even longer now by the way her taut body stretched tight along the surface of the desk. His mouth ached to swallow each nipple, to gently lick around each mound, to taste her firm, white skin, to smell her exotic perfume as it oozed out of her pores.