13. Kristoff Underestimates Himself
13
Kristoff Underestimates Himself
I come to an abrupt halt when I hear that now-magical phrase.
“I want a word with you.”
I hesitate for a moment. There are so many responses I could give, but only one will get me laid. Or off. Probably. All other roads lead to me alone in my apartment with only my cats. Staying—obeying—will lead somewhere new and exciting and terrifying. Can I do this?
Something long neglected inside me balks at the question. This is your chance, it says. Take it and don’t fuck it up.
I imagine saluting the voice. I’m going to do my best.
Do better than that, the voice chides then subsides back into my head.
I’m not crazy, although that’s exactly what a crazy person would say. I have a therapist who assures me that talking to myself isn’t abnormal, especially in someone who had my kind of childhood. It’s not something I like to dwell on, except at night, when I push at my earliest memories like a tongue wiggling a loose tooth.
And none of this is in any way helpful. I push my anxiety down and away, zipping it into a mental suitcase then sitting on it. My mind is made up. I want to have a word with this absolutely impossible man.
I turn back to Peter, bow my head, then kneel between his spread legs. I will do this insane, horrible, wonderful thing and maybe, for once in my life, I will get the thing I crave. The possible reward is more than worth the risk. Except…
“We keep this separate from the business,” I say, looking up at him, no longer a supplicant. “This is between you and me and has nothing to do with Minola Corp.”
Peter appears to think it over then nods. “Agreed. I want to fuck you, not Minola.”
A persistent part of me is still worried, but that’s always there, and easy to ignore when my cock is shouting at me much louder and far more insistent. I tip my head again, close my eyes, rest my hands on my thighs, and wait to be told what to do.
Instead of giving me an order, Peter ruffles my hair with his hand. “Breathe, Kit,” he says slowly. “In and out. In and out. Relax. We’re alone in my office, behind a locked door, in a nearly deserted building with your name on it. You’re safe here. Safe as houses.”
This isn’t anything like I expected. I should have his cock down my throat right now according to my calculations, but maybe Peter is using that incomprehensible new math. His voice is soothing, and I start to uncoil my muscles. My cock hasn’t lost hope yet but the rest of me could get used to a low rumbling voice and a hand petting my hair.
“Open your eyes, Kit.”
Peter’s voice brings me out of a near trance, but without startling me. I obey, because that’s what I do, and see he’s got his pants pulled halfway down his thighs, leaving a bulge barely covered in navy blue cotton. His cheap, ugly tie hangs untied around his neck, and he’s fully unbuttoned his shirt. He’s not wearing an undershirt, and I’m treated to a galaxy of copper stars spangled across milky skin. His nipples are pale pink and fuck me, one is pierced with a small barbell. I touch it lightly with my index finger then pull my hand back like I’ve been caught with my hand in a cookie jar.
“Why just one?”
Peter laughs softly. “Turns out I have a shitty pain tolerance.”
I like the thought of being pierced and tattooed but wouldn’t know where to begin. It’s part of a lengthy list of things I want but know I can’t have. CEOs don’t have tattoos or piercings. It’s unprofessional. It's not something a Minola would do.
On the other hand, a Minola probably shouldn’t be kneeling in front of a half-undressed man in his family’s skyscraper, either.
“Take my cock out, Kit, and suck me. Do it slow. Make it last. I don’t want to come in the first three seconds.”
“Pretty sure I couldn’t make anyone come in three seconds,” I say as I reach out to palm Peter’s hard cock and heavy balls.
“I think you underestimate yourself, Kitten.” Peter’s head is thrown back, showing the prominent arch of his neck. I want to bite it. “God, your hands are as bad as your mouth. I’m not gonna last long.”
“Maybe you need to get laid more often.”
“A-fucking-men to that. I need your mouth on me before I come in my underwear.”
I look down at the bulge I’m fondling and see a growing wet spot darken the blue cotton. I put my mouth over the area and suck at the salty fluid right through the fabric.
Peter moans and buries his hand in my hair. “More,” he croaks out.
In this moment I feel like I could do anything just because I have this man who hates me at my mercy. He is begging me for more, so that’s what I give him. I pull Peter’s cock out and, because he told me to go slow, examine it like the work of art it is. It’s thick and long, dark red at the tip, and also stippled with freckles. The hair there is neatly trimmed, and his balls are bare, so I can’t resist putting them in my mouth.
“Holy Jesus god,” he shouts, his hand tightening its grip on my hair. It hurts, but it’s just the kind of pain I love.
I take my time running my tongue over every inch of him. I adored having him buried down my throat, but I love the novelty of this just as much. I’ve never been given carte blanche to do whatever I wanted to another man’s cock and it’s not like I can suck my own. Even when I was young I was never that flexible.
“Hold still,” Peter commands, grabbing the sides of my head and thrusting up into my mouth.
I relax my throat as he shoves inside, using me as his fuck toy. I fumble with my belt, but I can’t get it open. Story of my life. So I hold onto the bulge in my dry clean only Burberry trousers and fuck into my hand as best as I can while Peter’s cock stretches out my throat. Tears and saliva stream down my face. My tie is probably a lost cause but there is no part of me in this moment that gives one flying fuck. What I want, even more than my own release, is Peter’s cum sliding down my throat as his cock softens in my mouth.
That is my nirvana.
Peter lets out a delicious keening moan as his hips speed up and he pistons hard and relentlessly inside me. Then he stiffens and stills, the grip on my hair perfectly excruciating as he empties himself into me.
“Ah, god, Kit. Fuck yeah. Take it. Fuuuuuuck. Every last drop.”
And I do. In this split second of ecstasy and agony I am Peter’s entire world, and nothing could ever feel this good.
Then the moment ends. His body relaxes, including the death grip on my hair. In the aftermath my scalp feels both scorching hot and also liquid cool at the same time. It’s like blood is flowing down the back of my head but I don’t need the involuntary touch of my hand to know the feeling is an illusion.
I haven’t come and that’s a good thing. I have no idea how I’d explain cum stains to the nice couple who own the dry cleaner I frequent. Overall, this was better than I imagined or hoped for, and from the look on Peter’s face, this time won’t be the last. Tonight, in my shower, I’ll relive the moment of Peter’s climax over and over until I spend. I can’t quite believe how lucky I am. Even if this all ends in disaster, it’ll have been worth it.
Then Peter, that asshole, has to go and fuck up everything by bending down and kissing me.