It started with a deadline and ended with a bruised lip and soaked panties.
The office was dead quiet that Friday night — everyone gone, the lights humming, the city glowing outside like a slow-burning candle. I was staying late to finish a report, hair tied up, skirt a little too short because I didn’t expect to stand up much.
He walked in without knocking, as always. My boss. Sharp suit. Silver cufflinks. Those quiet, controlling eyes. He leaned against the doorway and just stared for a moment, watching me type. I felt my skin prickle under his gaze.
“You missed a comma,” he said, walking behind me.
I didn’t even look. I just smirked. “Maybe I wanted to give you something to correct.”
The silence behind me got heavy. I kept typing. Then suddenly, his hand was on the back of my neck — firm, warm, possessive — pressing down slightly. Not hard, not soft. Just enough to make my breath hitch.
“Stand up,” he said.
I did. Slowly. My thighs tingled.
He turned me around and pushed me gently against the desk. The cold surface hit my thighs and I gasped as he pulled my hips back, bending me just enough. I felt his breath on my ear as he whispered, “You like being bad at your job?”
I moaned. I actually moaned. Fuck.
“Good,” he said, and yanked up my skirt.
No foreplay. No polite teasing. Just the raw scrape of his palm against my bare ass and the sharp snap of his belt unbuckling. I was dripping. He ran two fingers between my legs and groaned into my hair.
“Messy little thing.”
When he pushed inside me, I nearly screamed. The desk creaked. Papers fell. Somewhere down the hall, an elevator dinged. I didn’t care.
He fucked me like I was his dirty little secret. No mercy. No tenderness. Just raw, greedy, punishing strokes that made me forget my own name.
At one point, he grabbed my wrists and pinned them behind my back with one hand, the other sliding around my throat like a collar. “Keep quiet,” he growled.
I didn’t.
By the time he came, I was crying and shaking, his cum dripping down my thigh and a stapler embedded into my hip. He leaned in, kissed my cheek like we were lovers, then zipped up and walked out without a word.
I stayed bent over that desk, legs shaking, mascara ruined, a smile on my lips.
Tomorrow, I’d pretend none of it happened.
Tonight, I was his.