CHAPTER THREE — NAUGHTY IN THE POTTY #2
Brent Gibson, in a navy suit, tailored so well that he resembles a male model. His hair is perfect as ever, dark locks waving from a high forehead. He takes up the whole width of the door, blocking my only exit as those blue eyes pierce me.
“Ms. Williams,” he growls. “You look busy.”
My first instinct is to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. The man is a wall, and the only way out is through him.
“Oh, hi Mr. Gibson—” My voice cracks. “I was just searching for a file. Shay said I could come down here if I needed—”
The alpha male’s already walking toward me, slow and measured, his eyes never leaving my face. Each step is a threat and a promise.
“Shay isn’t authorized to give you clearance to the archives,” he rasps. “But you’re not really here for paralegal business, are you.”
It isn’t a question. He stops two feet away, towering over my quivering form. His nostrils twitch, and oh god, but can he smell my aching pussy? Can he sense my arousal?
A gleam flickers in those blue eyes, but his expression remains smooth as the alpha male holds out a hand. “May I?”
Swallowing hard, I pass over the folder, the plug inside me shifting as I move, and I know by the way he’s watching that he knows. He can tell something is up. The look in his eye is predatory. Like he’s just waiting for the right time to strike.
Brent flips through the pages, expression unreadable. Then he closes the folder, places it back on the cart, and regards me with an intensity that makes my knees want to buckle.
“You have your father’s eyes,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a growl.
I don’t know what to say. My throat feels tight. I stare at the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face, cheeks flaming.
Brent doesn’t move. The silence stretches, heavy as the files on the shelf.
Then he does the last thing I expect.
He smiles. Not wide, but just enough to flash the edge of a canine. He leans down until we’re nearly eye-level, and says, “If you’re going to take a risk, Ms. Williams, you need to be better at covering your tracks.”
My breath is shallow. I feel a flush creeping up my chest.
He straightens and turns for the door. “Let’s go upstairs,” he says. “We’ll discuss what you found. You have three minutes to clean up and follow me. Don’t make me wait.”
And just like that, the man is gone, leaving me in the cold, concrete crypt, pulse slamming in my throat.
I shove the files back in the box, tuck my phone into my bra, and try to compose myself. It’s not easy. My legs don’t want to cooperate, and the plug is now a throbbing reminder of how close I am to the edge.
I take one last look at the “WILLIAMS, S.” box. My father’s secrets, and now mine.
I square my shoulders and head for the elevator, ready to face whatever’s waiting for me upstairs.
Brent doesn’t take the elevator. He climbs the stairs two at a time, and I almost have to jog to keep up.
His body radiates a heat that should be impossible because it’s like being bathed in the powerful rays of the sun.
The handsome attorney says nothing until we hit the fourth floor, then he holds the stairwell door open, steps aside, and waits for me to enter ahead of him.
I walk past him, eyes down, my heart hammering a cartoon rhythm.
The toy inside me is suddenly more than a secret—now it’s a live wire, a booby-trap for disaster.
But Brent says nothing, just walks at my back, close enough I can hear his steady breath.
His cologne is all spice and shadow, and it fills the narrow hallway.
He leads me to an office at the end of the hall. This isn’t his regular command post; it’s a storage room, floor-to-ceiling with boxes and loose case files. He closes the door behind us and sets his phone on the desk, screen up.
He stands with his hands behind his back, broad shoulders like a tank.
“Ms. Williams,” he asks in a deceptively calm voice, “do you know why you’re here?”
I make a show of looking confused, but my face is already burning. I want to lie, to spin something, but the best I manage is, “No, sir.”
He cocks his head. “That’s unfortunate because you’re a terrible liar.”
I wince. He waits.
“You could have asked me for access to the archives,” he drawls. “Instead, you disregarded protocol. You risked your job for files you shouldn’t even know exist.”
I keep my mouth shut. It’s the only strategy I have left.
Brent regards me for a long moment. “You’re not here for the experience. You’re not even here for the pay. You’re here for your father’s case.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
He moves closer, crowding my personal space, and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His grip is gentle, but there’s nothing soft about it.
“You have Stanley’s eyes,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk. “And his stubborn streak.”
He lets me go, but the ghost of his touch lingers. I can’t meet his gaze.
He paces, slow and deliberate. “You know what I remember about your father?”
I shake my head.
Brent smiles, but there’s no mirth in it. “Stanley never quit. Even when it was hopeless. Even when he knew they’d execute him anyways.”
The words hit like a slap, but I keep my composure. Barely.
“I know what it’s like to fight for something impossible,” he says. “But you’re going about this all wrong.”
I finally look up at him. “What should I be doing, then?”
He leans back against the wall and folds his arms. “You should be honest. With yourself, and with me.” He’s studying me, not just my face but my posture, my breathing, the tremor in my hands, and my large, quivering breasts. He knows. He’s always known.
There’s a pause, then: “Show me what you found.”
I hand over my phone, the photos still open. His fingers brush mine, deliberate, then he scrolls through the images with a speed that says he already senses what he’s looking for.
“You’re good,” he admits. “These are the right files. You saw the discrepancies?”
“Yes,” I say, barely audible.
He nods, then sets the phone aside. “There’s more. A lot more. But if you want it, you’re going to have to work for it.”
My heart stutters as I gape at him like a fool.
“Wha—what do you mean?”
Brent smiles, all gleaming white teeth as he towers over me.
“You’ll see what I mean. But first, take off your panties, sweetheart. Like I said, you’re going to have to work for it.”
I freeze. The words are casual, like a doctor asking me to step on a scale, but there’s nothing clinical in his eyes because those blue eyes burn like hot coals. I stare at him, searching for a sign he’s joking, but he isn’t.
“Now, Ms. Williams. I won’t ask twice.”
I reach up under my skirt, hands trembling, and peel my panties down my thighs. They’re soaked, and oh my god, this is so embarrassing! But what can I do? I step out of the wet fabric, holding them in my hand, unsure what to do next.
Brent takes them from me before holding them to his nose and breathing deep of my cunt scent. Holy cow, is this really happening? My eyes widen as I watch, the ache in my pussy becoming even more intense.
“You smell fresh, Marnie,” he rasps. “Cunty, but also fresh. Now bend over.”
What? What is he saying? The air is thin and I must not be getting enough oxygen, and yet my body does as he asks.
I turn slowly, resting my palms on the edge of the desk, cold and yet burning hot at once.
I feel exposed, every nerve screaming. The plug is still inside me, and Mr. Gibson is going to see!
Sure enough, the big man lifts my skirt, revealing everything. I hear the intake of his breath, see the bulge in his pants when he notices the toy.
“Interesting,” he muses. “Were you planning to keep that in all day? What a dirty little slut.”
I don’t answer. I can’t because I’m so embarrassed and yet I want this too. I want him to know, and I want him to touch.
Brent smiles lasciviously, running a finger along the base of the toy, teasing, then slowly, inexorably, pulls it out of me.
The sensation is delicious, a long, slow drag that leaves me empty and gasping, trembling with arousal.
There’s a wet pop when it finally slides free, and he holds the toy up in the light, inspecting it like a jeweler.
“Fuck,” he growls, voice almost amused. “Damn, you’re soaked, Marnie. Just like a good girl.”
Oh my god, has he done this before? Are there other good girls wandering around Gibson Grant as we speak? But I don’t have time to contemplate because the handsome attorney slips the plug into his pocket without another word, then puts his palm on my lower back, expression dark.
“If you want my help,” he rasps, “you’re going to learn discipline, Marnie. Understand?”
I nod, face flaming.
“Yes, Mr. Gibson,” is my helpless stutter.
He hikes my skirt up higher, exposing my round ass. His hand is huge, rough, and he strokes through my pussy once, then twice, caressing my soaked folds.
“Unnnh!” I moan aloud, throwing my head back. “Oh oh oh!”
“That’s it, little slut,” he rasps. “Keeping a toy inside you at work. What a horny little pussy you have.”
I cry out again, already lost, but then I’m brought back to reality when he smacks my bare buttock hard with the palm of his hand.
WTF? It’s loud in the small room, a crisp crack that echoes off the file cabinets.
The pain blooms instantly, bright and hot, but behind it is a wave of pleasure so profound that I cry out again.
“Unnnh!” I shriek, hot tremors going through my cunt. “Ooooh!”
“That’s it, little fuckslut,” he rasps. “Who knew we hired such a horny little girl at the firm?”
He spanks me again. Harder. And again. There’s a rhythm to it, a logic, as though he’s mapping the shape of my surrender. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, but it’s useless. The plug is gone, and in its place is a heat so intense I can barely breathe.
“Unnnh!” I scream again, my clit almost full to bursting. “Oh oh!”
His voice is low, right at my ear. “You like this, don’t you, my little fuckslut?”
Where is he getting these words? I should feel demeaned but instead, I don’t.
I love being here with this alpha male, and I manage a slight whimper through my lips, my entire body attuned to his massive form.
Brent smiles, satisfied, and gives me three more, perfectly timed hard smacks, each one building on the last until I’m shaking, bracing myself against the desk.
The last slap hits me squarely on my clit and sends me over the edge.
It’s not a regular orgasm—it’s something sharper, more elemental, like every nerve ending firing at once.
My knees buckle as my back arches spasmodically, and then I collapse against the desk, screaming and crying with tears coming down my face.
My pussy explodes against his hand, drenching it in fluids as tremors shake my form, hot gushes of sweet cream running down my thighs.
Oh my god, what’s happening? How did this man make me come like a hurricane from a mere spanking?
But Brent’s not done yet. in the middle of my orgasm, he thrusts two fingers deep into my spasming cunt, and it sends me over the edge again.
“Mr. Gibson!” I scream. “Oh god, oh god, mmmm, yes!”
“Fuck yeah,” he rasps, fucking me hard with his blunt fingers, shaking his digits in me so that my climax is magnified. “You’re so fucking sexy, sweetheart, and so fucking horny too. Shit, I need to fuck this wet cunt asap.”
I scream and cry out some more, my eyes blind as he fingers my cunt relentlessly. My walls spasm, squeezing on the huge digits within as I cry out, my breasts bobbling with pleasure. Oh my god, what’s become of me? How can I be having dirty sex with my handsome boss in a locked room at work?
Finally, however, the climax ebbs and I return to Earth, still trembling and crying. Brent strokes my blonde hair from my forehead before pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. Then, he removes his fingers from my cunt with a wet sucking sound before pressing them to my mouth.
“Suck, Marnie,” he whispers. “See how you taste.”
I do as told. There’s no hesitation as I part my lips, savoring the sweetness of my pussy nectar while still halfway sobbing and crying.
But Brent’s gentle after I’ve cleaned his fingers, murmuring soft words of praise in my ear.
He smooths my skirt down, covers me up, and then kisses my neck again.
When I finally stand, he hands me my phone.
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” he says, voice smooth. But the man’s pupils are blown, his jaw like granite, and the bulge in his pants is impossible to ignore.
“Until then, sweetheart, I expect you to behave.” He brushes a stray wisp of hair from my face, then bends down one more time for a soft, sweet kiss before leaving, closing the door behind him with a click.
I stand there, trembling, my ass on fire, my pussy still wet and pulsing. What just happened? Did my boss really just finger my pussy, while smacking my bottom as punishment? Did he really just pull a dirty toy out of my cunt with a wet sucking sound, savoring the filthy act? Oh my god!
Yet I feel alive, and more myself than I ever have. Every cell is vibrating, and my senses are on high. I want to scream, or laugh, or just sink down onto the floor and relive every second.
But I can’t. I collect my things, clean myself up as best I can, and stagger back to my cubicle. Shay is there, pretending not to watch me, but she gives me a sidelong glance, her lips twisted in a knowing smile. What does this woman know that I don’t?
Yet this isn’t the time to figure it out, so I log in and start drafting a memo, but my hands won’t stop shaking.
I check my calendar, and lo and behold, there’s an email from Brent, cc’ing James, inviting me to a “casual dinner” at seven tomorrow night.
At his apartment. Just the three of us. And I’m supposed to wear sexy lingerie.
I reread the message five times, heart pounding.
I should be terrified, or at least embarrassed. Instead, I feel a throb of anticipation in my pussy so strong I have to cross my legs under the desk.
Because the wolves haven’t even started yet.
But I’m desperate to find out what it feels like to be eaten alive.