Working Under My Boss #2
His thumb digs into the sensitive inside of my thigh, and the breath leaves me in a shudder.
“Tell me,” he whispers, all predator now, “how many more touches until you give yourself away?”
The screen blinks, a graveyard of ruined sentences, and my body screams knowing that I’m already giving myself away—every second I stay in this chair.
The screen blurs, letters piling into chaos, my breathing too ragged to steady. His hand presses harder into my thigh, and my fingers falter, missing keys, stumbling across the board.
“Wrong,” he murmurs, the single word crawling down my spine.
Before I can recover, his grip clamps over my wrists—rough, sudden, dragging them off the keyboard with a scrape of plastic. The silence that followed swallowed the sound of keys clattering under my palms.
He holds me there, wrists pinned together in his one hand, lifted just above the desk like he’s presenting my failure to the room.
“You couldn’t even last five minutes.” His tone isn’t loud, but it’s brutal, each word slicing clean.
I twist instinctively trying to free myself, but his hold doesn’t budge. If anything, he tightens, thumb pressing into the frantic pulse hammering at the inside of my wrist.
“You think you’re strong, don’t you?” His mouth finds the edge of my ear, his teeth grazing. “But all it takes is this.” He jerks my wrists a little higher, forcing me to arch against the chair. “And you’re finished.”
“Dean—” His name slips out like a curse I shouldn’t have said.
He chuckles low, unholy, right at my neck. “There. Finally. You can’t even keep my name out of your mouth.”
I swallow hard, heat pooling in my stomach. “You wanted me to fail.”
“Yes.” His admission is sharp, merciless. “Because now I get to decide how to punish you.”
The way he says it—like it’s inevitable, like there was never another outcome—makes every nerve in my body scream.
His free hand skims down my side, slow and teasing, stopping just where my blouse tucks into the waistband of my skirt. He lingers there, fingertips sliding under the fabric, testing how far he can push before I beg.
“Look at the screen.” His voice drops lower, harsher.
I glance up. The words I typed are nothing but nonsense, broken letters scattered as if I’d lost language altogether.
“Pathetic,” he breathes, pressing my wrists tighter until they ache. “But I like you better like this—ruined. Mine to correct.”
He bends so close his lips almost brush my temple, and whispers, “Do you want your punishment now, baby girl?”
My wrists burn in his grip, every shift of my body just reminding me how little I can do to free myself. His fingers flex once, possessive, like he’s reminding me he doesn’t just hold me—he owns me.
“Answer me.” His voice is velvet wrapped around a blade. “Do you want it now?”
I shake my head, but it’s too fast, too shallow. He notices. He always notices.
“That’s not an answer.” His mouth brushes the edge of my jaw, close enough to leave me trembling, far enough to make me chase. “Use your words.”
“I—” The word catches in my throat, like it doesn’t want to betray me. “I don’t know.”
“Wrong.” He pulls my wrists down, forcing them flat against the desk, spreading me open, making the hard wood bite into my skin. “You know. You just don’t want to admit it.”
Heat coils low in my belly, traitorous, and I hate the way my body gives me away. He feels it, senses it in the shallow gasps leaving my chest, in the way my thighs press tighter together.
“You’re shaking.” His teeth graze my ear. “From fear, or from wanting me to break you?”
“Dean—” His name comes out like a plea, a warning, both.
“Shhh.” He doesn’t let me finish. His other hand slips further under my blouse, knuckles dragging over my stomach, slow enough to torture. “You’ve been mouthing off all morning. Can’t type. Can’t follow orders. You can’t decide if you want to be ruined or if you want to be spared.
His hand stops just below my ribs, holding still, heavy, threatening.
“So I’ll decide for you.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment, just holds me pinned there—my wrists trapped, my body thrumming, the air thick with the weight of what’s coming.
“Say it,” he breathes, lips ghosting against my temple. “Tell me you want your punishment. Tell me you want me to make it hurt.”
I bite down on my lip, hard enough to taste iron, because the truth is clawing its way up my throat, desperate to escape.
And he waits—patient, merciless—like a predator who knows the prey will eventually break itself trying not to beg.
The silence stretches too long. My teeth dig deeper into my lip, but I don’t give him the words. I won’t.
His laugh is low, cruel. “Stubborn little thing.”
Before I can breathe, he twists my wrists tighter in his grip, forcing them behind my back, one hand holding both with humiliating ease. My chest jerks forward against the desk, the edge biting into my ribs.
“You think you can win?” His breath scorches down my neck as he presses his weight against me, pinning me there. “You think I don’t know how to make you talk?”
I try to suck in air, but all I get is the scent of him—cologne and smoke and something darker that clings to my skin like possession.
“Here’s your first punishment,” he murmurs, dragging his free hand down to my thigh, nails grazing my skin through the thin fabric of my skirt. “Every second you stay silent, I take something away.”
He lifts the hem with brutal slowness, knuckles grazing higher, higher, until the cool air hits the backs of my thighs.
“Your control,” he says. The fabric rides up to my hips in one sharp tug. “Gone.”
My body jerks, heat rushing through me despite the sharp sting of humiliation.
He pushes my legs apart with his knee, a predator spreading his prey open. “Your dignity,” he adds, voice dark silk, “gone.”
“Dean—” It breaks out of me, but he cuts me off with a harsh grip to my jaw, yanking my head sideways so I’m staring at his reflection in the black gloss of the desk.
“You don’t get to use my name as a lifeline.” His eyes are fire in the glass. “Not until you’ve earned it.”
His hand abandons my jaw, sliding lower, hovering at the edge of where I’m already throbbing for him. So close it makes me shake, but he doesn’t touch.
“You feel that?” His voice drops, wicked. “How wet are you for your punishment? That’s the only truth in you, baby girl. Not your words. Not your defiance. Just this.”
I can’t stop the whimper that claws its way out of me.
He smirks, hearing it, savouring it. “You’ll talk. They all do. But first, I’m going to make sure the only thing left in your head is me.”
The desk is cold against my skin, my wrists aching where he cages them in one brutal hand. Every second he doesn’t give me what I want feels like a blade twisting deeper.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice smooth cruelty. “Give me the word.”
I clench my teeth, shaking my head against the desk, hair falling wild around my face. My whole body’s trembling, but not from fear. From the unbearable pressure of wanting him to break me all the way open.
“You can hold out,” he taunts, dragging his knuckles along the slick inside of my thigh, just shy of where I need him. “But the longer you do it, the worse it gets. And when you finally fall apart—because you will—you’ll hate yourself for how sweet it tastes.”
His words slice straight through me.
I can’t stop it. My voice rips raw and defiant from my throat.
“Stop making me beg for scraps when you know I’d burn myself alive just to feel your hands on me.”
His grip tightens until I gasp, and I meet his eyes in the reflection—dark, feral, wide with hunger.
“I don’t want mercy, Dean,” I snarl, biting the words like they’re poison and prayer in one. “I want the pain. I want the ruin. I want you to fucking wreck me until there’s nothing left but you.”
The room goes still, electric.
For a moment, even he doesn’t move. His chest rises sharply behind me, jaw flexing like I’ve just handed him the one weapon sharp enough to cut through his restraint.
Then he laughs—low, dangerous, vicious.
“There she is,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth over the shell of my ear. “My filthy little liar, pretending she had lines she wouldn’t cross.” His teeth sink into my neck, making me gasp. “Begging me to cross every single one.”
His hand finally slides between my thighs, claiming what I’ve already given.
The second his fingers sink into me, it’s not relief. It’s violence. He drives into me like he’s been holding back for years, every stroke a punishment for the words I just spat at him.
“You think you want ruin?” His voice is a growl, hot against the shell of my ear, his hips caging me against the desk. “You think you know what you’re asking for?”
My answer is a broken sound, my body already clawing for the edge he’s ripping me toward.
He laughs—feral, breathless. “Begged me to wreck you. You don’t even know what that means yet, baby girl.”
The hand that isn’t inside me grips my hair and slams my head back so I have no choice but to meet his eyes in the glass’s reflection cabinets lining the office wall. My own face looks wrecked already, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes wet. His looks worse. Starved. Possessed.
“Look at yourself,” he orders. His voice cuts sharp through the slap of skin, through the ragged gasps. “Watch how pathetic you are for me.”
I watch the way my body responds to his fingers sliding in my pussy. The way my legs open wider. It tears something inside of me, the pleasure crawls through my body and I find myself grinding against his hand chasing the release I know he won’t give me.
“Fuck, I need to cum, please let me cum.” I cry out.