The Boss’ Pet

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

C harlie

I head back up to Marcus’ office just before seven. The office is just as busy as it was earlier in the afternoon. I would put money on the fact that the employees here work close to twenty-four/seven. They might take shifts, but this is a business that never sleeps. It’s too powerful. More powerful than any government you might care to name.

I’m starting to get nervous again. What am I doing? How on earth am I ever going to outplay someone like Marcus Waterstone?

I’m fretting about that question when a large hand comes down on my shoulder.

“Miss Crown,” he says.

I turn around to look up into his eyes. He really is very tall, and very imposing, and there’s something knowledgeable in his dark eyes, as if he possesses information of the kind I’ll never be able to handle. I should be careful when I’m playing with monsters.

It’s safe to say he looks nothing like my ex, but for a brief moment, I get a flash of anxiety. Am I safe? Will I ever be safe again?

“Come,” he says, speaking to me not unlike I am a dog. He turns around and walks toward the elevators. I follow on his heels.

We get into the elevator, just the two of us, and he presses a button. I thought we’d be going down, but instead he presses the button for the highest floor. Interesting. I wonder what’s up there. I wonder if anybody officially knows what’s up there.

“Oh, wow!”

The elevator opens onto a gorgeous rooftop bar. It is empty, without so much as a bartender. I wonder if he asked for it to be private.

This is about the most romantic setting I have ever been in. The city is laid out beneath us in a glimmering grid that speaks to order and chaos at the same time. There’s something about watching dusk turn to proper night and seeing the lights of the city get brighter and brighter that enchants me. I am in the very heart of power right now, at the nexus of so many roads and flows of capital and influence. It is all quite overwhelming.

I realize I’ve wandered off from Marcus. I just had to go to the edge of the building and look over. There’s something about a city view that always awes me. You only get it from really tall buildings like this one.

Marcus appears beside me with a glass of white wine in his hand. He gives it to me, not asking if it is what I want. I could be offended by his assumption, but I’m not in the mood for arguing right now.

“So this is your world. Everything and everyone at your feet. Like an emperor, only better, really.”

“It is a good life,” he says, in what must be an incredible understatement.

“It’s a life almost nobody will ever live,” I muse. “A life so exclusive, there’s probably only a handful of people who know enough to understand it. Is it lonely?”

“What a question,” he says. “You do have a talent for blunt inquiries, Charlie.”

“Maybe.” I smile, sipping my wine. It’s delicious. Or maybe it tastes like paint stripper. All wine tastes pretty much the same to me. “Mmm,” I say. “Delicious.”

“You don’t look like you’re enjoying that,” he says, sweeping the glass away from me. “No need to fake pleasure with me.”

Another one of those very hot flushes rushes through me. There is intimacy in every one of his words, and in the way he is looking at me. A light wind ruffles my hair and plays with his dark mane. He really is an incredibly handsome man, and I cannot believe I have him all to myself up here.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to keep talking to me,” I say, instantly awkward. “I know the interview today was a little…”

“I agreed to take you out for a drink,” he says. “I will have to find a beverage that will suit your tastes. What would you prefer? Scotch? Bourbon? Chocolate milk?”

He’s teasing me.

“We’re not going to just sit and drink in silence, are we?” I ask as I follow him back toward the bar. I assume this is usually tended by a third party, but tonight Marcus plays bartender.

“Something sweet for you, I think,” he says, reaching for a bottle of Kahlua. “Are you able to tolerate lactose?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He is concocting something with sure hands. I bet he knows more drinks than I’ve had hot dinners. He’s like a walking encyclopedia of suaveness.

“Are you intending on asking me more questions about potential crimes I might or might not have committed?” He flickers a wink at me.

“No.” I smile. “I’m sorry about all that. I wanted to follow up on some wild rumors, but it’s obvious you could never be that kind of criminal.”

“Is it,” he says. There’s a stillness about him now.

“Yes. You’re far too busy to be doing anything that interesting. Business is about managing spreadsheets, predictions, shorts, longs. Money. Mathematics.” I give a little shrug. “I suppose crime could be similar, but it would be of the boring, white-collar variety that people don’t really get all that excited about, and you’ve no need to commit white collar crime. You’re more profitable than any deity one might care to mention.”

In spite of all of the compliments in that sandwich, he sticks on the part in the middle.

“Are you calling me boring, Miss Crown?”

“Of course not,” I say, though obviously, I very much am. It’s probably not the brightest idea to try to get a rise out of a man like this. I risk offending him and having him stalk off without another word to me. But I want to get under his skin a little. He certainly got under mine without even trying.

He gives me a very stern stare, but says nothing. Silence stretches between us, and I start to feel that this could go badly. So, I decide to offer him something of my own impression, perhaps tempt him out on a different limb.

“I can’t get the painting in your office out of my mind,” I confess. “Not very many people would have an image like that on display. It almost had what I might call, if I were to be so bold, a kinky context.”

He smiles broadly, his energy shifting in a moment. “It absolutely does.”

“So you’re displaying a very private part of yourself somewhat publicly?”

“It is the sort of thing that calls to those who recognize it. In other words, it only has meaning to people who think it has meaning.”

“You’re saying I had some kind of reaction to it because I’m also into whips and chains and collars?” I try not to laugh as I say that. “I’ve never been aware of such an interest.”

That’s a diplomatic way of saying ‘I think it’s weird as hell’. I don’t see the appeal. But then again, I do see the appeal of being able to be intimate with Marcus. I imagine that he could get women to do absolutely anything he asked. And he wouldn’t be the first powerful man with some sordid kinks.

“You’re curious, aren’t you?” He drawls the question. “You want to know what it’s like to be taken by a man like me. A lot of women feel that way. But not a lot of women can handle being used the way I use them. It takes strength to be with a man like me, Charlie.”

I’m holding my breath, almost as if I’m drowning. He makes me lightheaded with his intensity. It’s something in his eyes, an expression I’ve never seen in anybody else before. I could call it predatory, but it’s more than that. True predators have hunger. They are hunting to survive. But Marcus isn’t hungry. He can eat whenever he wants. This is all about amusement of a dark and carnal kind. I am being toyed with.

“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” I stammer. “I don’t need to know what it’s like to… I mean. I’m not…”

He smiles and hands me another drink. This one is in a cocktail glass and tastes like coffee and chocolate. I sip at it before taking a longer draught. I don’t usually drink when I’m trying to do journalism, but he makes me feel like I need to relax.

“I think you were enchanted by the painting, and I think that’s the reason you can’t get it out of your mind. I think that’s why you have been testing my patience since you met, why your every question is impertinent, and why you’ve come here, to the roof of a building, in a bar that has no name, in a building that doesn’t technically exist.”

I let out a nervous little laugh. “How can a building not exist? It’s very large. It’s a skyscraper. It has your name on the side, or at least the first letter of it.”

“In our world, things only exist where there are digital records of them. Without the record to refer to, nothing exists officially. You can remove the existence of a great many things if you know the right thing to remove. You can erase places, and…” His lips quirk in a dangerous smirk. “People.”

I feel my pulse quicken, as the threat becomes immediately apparent. He is telling me he is capable of making me disappear forever. Is that because he wants to scare me? Or is it because he simply cannot help but brag about his power? I do not imagine a man like him gets much in the way of opportunities to really expose himself this way.

Monsters like to show themselves from time to time. Everybody likes to be seen for who they are, after all. There is a lot to see in Marcus Waterstone’s eyes. I have no evidence for it, but right now I have the distinct sense that all the rumors about him are not only true—but they also barely scratch the surface. This is a man who wants to be known and wants to be feared, and can’t be either of those things because he also needs to be socially acceptable.

He may like to hold others in bondage, but Marcus Waterstone is so wrapped up in whatever color tape represents social obligation and a proper appearance that he can barely move most of the time.

I make the choice not to be afraid of him. Not now. Not yet.

“That is an interesting thing to say to a journalist, Mr. W.”

Marcus gives me a slightly annoyed look. “Mr. W makes me sound like a math teacher.”

Oh, he really does not like his gravitas being undermined, especially not when he’s in the middle of playing up how big and bad he is.

Marcus

Her eyes dance at me as she sips her drink, or what is left of it after she more or less downed it in a single nervous gulp. I get a sense of disobedient mischief about her yet again. What I said to her is true, and I think she knows as much. But she is resisting giving me the response that I want. Charlie is a tough little nut—one I would love to crack.

I want to make this woman tremble before me. At first I thought she was forward, bold, and cute. But the longer I spend in her presence, the more I realize she has an intellect and a spark that I don’t often encounter. I am surrounded by smart women, of course, but the ones I usually tolerate working for me have a proper sort of glaze over them.

They are wives, mothers. They are women who want to work hard and achieve great things. I provide them with ample opportunities for both. The younger women employed in my organization are kept at an appropriately professional distance. I do not screw the crew, as the saying goes.

But this young lady is not one of the crew. I’ve selected her because she is different. There is a pointedness to her curiosity, and something sharp about her wit. She tried to hide it at first, but there is an acerbic tang to so much of what she says. Even when her tone is neutral, I can practically taste the acid.

“If you were a math teacher, you might teach me something,” she smirks.

I think the alcohol is giving her more confidence and bravado than is really safe for her.

“I can teach you a lot of things,” I reply, reaching out to take her glass from her. “Moderation, for starters.”

Her pout is instant. Her eyes narrow at me.

“Excuse me,” she says. “I think I am capable of deciding how much to drink.”

She reaches for her glass, an act of impudent resistance that I have absolutely no interest in entertaining. It is easy to hold it out of her reach, but I shouldn’t have to. The sight of a young woman swinging her grasping fingers for a glass like a spoiled brat is all too much for me to tolerate. I place the glass down and catch her by the wrist.

It is a simple matter to haul her out of her chair, move my own seat back, and tip her shapely body right over my lap. This, she did not see coming. Outrage is in every line of her body as she twists in a hapless and helpless attempt to escape.

I hold her in place easily, and I let her fight herself out. The sensation of a woman’s soft curves wriggling against my body is very enjoyable. The slight irritation I felt at her attitude has melted as I regain the upper hand with little in the way of effort.

“What are you doing!?”

“I think you already know,” I purr, soothing her by rubbing her upper back. “You know why naughty girls find themselves in this position, don’t you?”

She makes a little squeak that functions as an admission that she very much does know why girls find themselves over the knee.

“When I give an order, I expect it to be followed. When I tell you that you have had enough to drink, that means you’re done drinking. It’s very simple, Charlie.”

“You’ve got no right to tell me what to do. You barely know me.”

I arch a brow as she starts arguing from this very unfortunate position. Usually the women I play with are more cooperative. Usually they beg to be in a position like this… or would be absolutely mortified to find themselves being punished.

I’m not used to women like Charlie. She comes from a simpler world. She wasn’t raised in the circles in which I have always moved, and it shows. She looks good in her dress, and she’s groomed neatly, but there are still so many rough edges to be smoothed.

I start by spanking her ass. It is presented tantalizingly in that tight skirt that has pulled very snugly over her hips. I like her curves. They are generous. Her thighs are nice and thick as well. There is a fullness to her figure that contrasts with my much harder, muscled body beautifully.

“ Ow! ” Her cry is plaintive and very real. “Mr. Waterstone! You’re hurting me!”

“Spankings hurt, Miss Crown,” I reply. “You might want to remember this next time you are tempted to open your mouth in response to something I tell you.”

“You cannot do this… You cannot…”

She whimpers those words as I continue to spank her. It truly is the most tame of punishments. It is chaste and rather innocent, which seems to fit her very well.

“What are you doing!?”

“Teaching you the lesson you so terribly need.”

I spank her ass again, very much enjoying the firm flesh and softer curve beneath my palm. There is something so very satisfying about spanking a girl who deserves it. I know I am doing her a favor right now. If I was to never see her again after this moment, it would be good for her to have experienced this.

Charlotte Crown has not been spanked enough.

“Ow! Stop! Stop it now! You’re not allowed to do this! You’re just a man. You’re nothing special. You’re just some guy! And you’re going to regret this!”

“This is not how a good girl takes her spanking, Charlie,” I chide her. “You’re supposed to behave better, not worse.”

I take a moment to smooth my palm over her ass. I know she’s not going to submit easily, but she is going to submit. I have no intention of letting her get away with her attitude.

“Let me go,” she repeats.

“Apologize for your rudeness and your bad behavior. Show me that you’ve learned something rather than speaking to me in that spoiled, entitled tone.”

“A billionaire calls me spoiled and entitled? Ow! ”

I’m smirking as I smack her ass again. She certainly knows how to give me an attitude. But an attitude isn’t what I want right now. What I want is to feel the tension in her body start to melt away as she begins to understand she will not get away with anything where I am concerned.

That revelation might be quite soothing to her. But she’s not going to understand that until she experiences it. Which means she’s going to get spanked a lot longer and a lot harder.

“Settle down, or I’ll take my belt off.”

“Go to hell!” she hisses back, ensuring that I do indeed shuffle her around on my lap so I can unbuckle my belt. A hand spanking isn’t going to cut it with this one. She needs more sting.

And she needs her skirt pulled up.

And her panties taken down.

The sound of my leather belt sliding out of my belt loops is immensely satisfying. But what is even more satisfying is the way she wriggles and squeals when she feels her skirt being pulled up over her waist. She is wearing very cute underwear, white with pink strawberries. Not quite the apparel I would have picked. Most women I encounter wear thongs, or lace. But I don’t think Charlie intended on me seeing her undergarments today, and that makes this moment all the more delicious.

She’s quite an innocent little thing underneath it all. She talks a big game, and she makes references to terrible, dark things. But she does not understand the significance of them. Not really. They’re all academic and conceptual to her. That’s why she dared ask the questions she asked earlier. If she understood any of the ramifications of the things she so flippantly threw accusations about, she would have never set foot in my presence, and especially not come alone to a rooftop bar with me.

This little girl has no idea how much danger she could potentially be in if I were even a slightly worse man than I am. She deserves this spanking, and a great many more punishments just like it.

I double the belt over in my hand, secure her in place over my lap, and set about painting the seat of her underwear with hard swats of the leather loop.

Her response is immediate and dramatic. She lets out a helpless wail that echoes through the city air. It is taken up by the wind and the traffic and the indifference of the average person. She could scream to her heart’s content up here and nothing would happen.

I expect that this thrashing will break her. That snotty attitude will go by the wayside, and she’ll start to beg for mercy.

But that’s not what happens. I snap the belt across her behind a good dozen times and there’s no response from her besides kicking, cursing, and threats.

“You’re going to regret this! I’m going to tell everyone what a horrible man you are!”

“Everybody already knows that I am a horrible man,” I laugh. “They like it. They need someone to be horrible. The worse, the better. Try another threat.”

“I… ow! I hate you!”

“You don’t know me well enough to begin to hate me,” I chuckle.

I am used to a higher caliber of threats, but this is rather cute, I have to admit.

She is squirming ferociously, trying to get off my lap. That is not going to happen. I am a great deal stronger than she is, and her flailing isn’t the kind that would work even if I weren’t. It’s really more a grinding than…

Wait…

I smack her with the belt, wait for her to inevitably kick her legs, and then push the outside leg open and down off my lap. This parts her thighs in a lewd manner, stretching the gusset of her panties tight over her lips.

She’s soaked.

The revelation shifts my chemistry instantly. I was punishing her because she is a rude, careless little brat who desperately needs her butt spanked. Now, I find myself with the same careless little brat, whose body is begging for mine.

I could fuck her right here and right now, and I want nothing more than to do that. There’s a part of me that wants to use her like she’s disposable, take her flesh for my pleasure and just fucking rut her until I’m done.

But that’s the rash action of a man with short-term goals, and I have already decided that this girl is going to be mine in every single way. The hole that is drenched for me is far from the only one I intend to take. She will give them all up for me. She will purr for me. She will beg for me to defile her.

I give her one last chance.

“Are you learning your lesson, young lady?”

“Fuck you.”

I feel the last vestiges of self-control fall away. All she had to do was offer me the slightest bit of submission and acknowledgement. But she doesn’t want to do that. She wants to fight, in a manner of speaking. Her resistance is a challenge to me, and not an accidental one. From the moment we first met, she has initiated clumsy attempts to enter into a battle of wits. I’ve felt her taunt and tease me, and I’ve risen above it. But right now my cock is rock hard and my willpower is at an all-time low.

I slide her off my lap and stand her in front of me. She’s disheveled from all the squirming she’s been doing, and the pout on her face is worthy of a portrait all of its own. She’s beautiful like this, wild and resistant and completely out of her depth.

I am getting more turned on by the second. When I speak, my voice is thick with barely-veiled lust.

“I’m going to give you a choice,” I say. “Leave this bar right now, and never contact me again. Or stay, and face the full brunt of the consequences you just earned, you filthy little animal.”

“I’m not an animal.”

“No? Pity. I am.”

Charlie

Holy shit. I can’t believe this is happening. My ass is so damn sore. I feel as though I’ve been whipped to the point of not being able to take anymore. I never imagined being handled this way, but there’s a reason Marcus has the reputation he does.

He’s right about one thing, too. He is an animal. He is sitting in front of me in his shirtsleeves, a few buttons undone at the top of his shirt, his hair slightly messy. When did this all happen? How did he go from being a completely put together billionaire to a sexy-as-hell, roughed up criminal mastermind?

I can see the change in his eyes and in his face. It’s not just about messy hair. It’s more like he took a mask off and he’s letting me see a part of him he usually hides.

“Last chance to walk away.”

“Before what?”

“Before this.”

He reaches for me, snatches me by the wrist, and pulls me between his legs. This time, instead of putting me over his knee, he kisses me roughly, standing as he does, making me tip my head back as his mouth plunders mine.

I shouldn’t react to him with arousal, but it’s too late to stop myself. He’s a handsome man, and he’s a dominant brute, and I didn’t leave when he told me to. I stayed, because I want to see what he’ll do to me. I want to be able to make a full report of all the torrid, terrible things he does to me while he thinks I am a helpless girl with no friends in high places.

Kissing me senseless is his first port of call, but it is only the beginning. I half expect him to strip me naked, but he doesn’t do that. That would be a civilized thing to do, and just as he said, he is all animal.

He doesn’t undress me. He doesn’t take the time to do that. He turns me around on the bar, and he presses me face down across it. My skirt is already up and it takes less than a fraction of a second for him to pull my panties to the side. Not down. Not off. Just out of the way.

I feel a cock, his cock, pressing against my wet slit.

This is too much. This is too fast.

Or is it? I am wet, and that is the purpose of foreplay. It’s not like I could get any more physically ready for him to fuck me.

We’re not using protection. He’s not asking me if I’m on birth control. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He’s doing precisely what he said he’d do. He’s using me like a filthy animal.

“Whipping your hot little ass didn’t improve your attitude,” he grunts. “Maybe you needed a fucking instead.”

A billionaire’s thick, hot cock is deep inside me. It’s been a while since I had sex, but he’s already making me feel as though I’ve never had sex before. I feel like a virgin, my tight inner walls stretched around his big rod. He’s an absolute monster, and it feels as though he can go deeper and deeper and…

I let out a whine of complaint as he pulls out, unexpectedly leaving me bereft.

“You like that cock, don’t you,” he says, satisfied. “You’re a hungry girl. You need to be fucked properly. You need to learn respect, and I think you’ll learn it on the end of my cock.”

He pushes back inside me, just a little, just the tip. It is a maddening intrusion, spreading me wide in a way that makes me want more, and that makes me whimper and have to potentially admit that I want this.

I was hoping I’d be able to tell the world that Marcus took me against my will, but my will has become absolutely twisted by him. I want him to fuck me. I want him to push that cock back inside me, and I want him to make me take it.

As if reading my mind, he pushes me firmly down on the bar, his hand twisting in the hair at the back of my head. He has full control of me as he starts to fuck me again, giving me exactly what I want, even when his suited hips meet my sore, welted ass.

I know what is happening to me now has probably happened to dozens, if not hundreds, of other women. Marcus doesn’t have a reputation as a rake, but he’s rich, handsome, and powerful. I am quite literally being used as a sexual amusement, punished for being an irritant. This is how he deals with women. He beats and he fucks them, and I am getting the same treatment as everybody else.

That’s what I tell myself as his cock makes me feel as though I’m being stretched wider than I can take. I don’t want to get attached. I don’t want to think this means anything. He’s just another rich man taking what he wants.

And what he wants is me. My body. My interior. My most sensitive, internal, vulnerable places. He wants to conquer me, and he wants me to know I have been conquered.

Being fucked by Marcus is a deeper, more thorough experience than I have ever had before. Men are often selfish lovers, but that’s not what he is. His self-interest is more sophisticated. He wants more than just physical pleasure. He wants to teach me a lesson. He wants to not only demonstrate his dominance, but force me into submission. And he is getting his way.

With every stroke, I feel myself softening to him. There’s no point fighting him. I don’t want to. I don’t want to resist. I want to take his powerful, hard body inside mine. I want to feel all the pleasure I can. He is bringing out my greedy little animal side—a part of me only he can see.

“This could have been a nice, pleasant little drink,” he growls down at me. “You could have asked me some more questions, gathered material for the little article you were going to write. The one that was going to join thousands of others and drift into inevitable obscurity. But you didn’t want to play it safe. You wanted to taunt me, you wanted to make me teach you a lesson.”

Did I? I don’t know anymore. I know I was curious as to what would happen if I kept pushing him, and I know I felt attraction. How could I not? Everything about Marcus is designed to make my animal self flush with desire. I have no choice but to want him.

I can feel the marks of his belt and the aftermath of his palm flaring into repeated life. Sometimes it is a deep ache, other times, a hot sting. Now and then he slaps my ass to make it that little bit worse. Each and every time he does that, my pussy clenches him tighter, gripping him with primal affection.

“You’re going to come for me,” he says in a commanding tone. “You’re going to give me your orgasm.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me feel as though my climax will seal something between us. It will be some kind of acknowledgement that I’ve given in to him fully. I take a deep breath and I try to hold back, but nothing about this situation is conducive to self-control. All of that has been taken from me. Now I am nothing but feeling, sexual desire, and a receptacle for his lust.

Marcus does not intend to wait. He makes me come, forcing the orgasm from me by fucking me hard and toying with my clit between agile fingers. He fucks me through it as I start to wail, extending the peak of pleasure for what seems like torturously long minutes. I squirm beneath him, my hips bucking my ass and pussy up to his cock, giving him everything he wants. There’s a brief moment of madness where I don’t even care if he comes inside me.

There is no protective barrier between us. There is nothing to stop him from filling me all the way up. As his breath turns into deeper grunts and growls, I almost feel as though he is going to, but in the middle of my writhing orgasm, he pulls free and spends himself on my ass cheeks, covering the material of my underwear and what exposed skin there is with hot splashes of his seed.

Holy fuck.

The moment my orgasm subsides, I am absolutely suffused with shame. I just allowed myself to be used like a cheap, disposable slut. All semblance of being an intelligent journalist has been stripped from me.

I can feel his come on my ass, being rubbed into my reddened skin like some kind of twisted salve. I don’t think he’s trying to make me feel better. I think he’s trying to mark me. That’s what this whole evening has been about, taking me down a peg, turning me into his little whore.

I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can’t even bring myself to look at myself. Suddenly, I am surrounded by shiny surfaces, glassware, polished chrome, or whatever it is. I see my face and his reflected back at me over and over. I see my flushed features and his triumphant gaze.

Marcus

She is very nearly falling out of her shirt as she rises, her face full of red shame. She reaches under her shirt to pull her straps up and out, settling her breasts back into captivity.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says. Her voice is shaky. She looks unsteady. I reach out to try to help her keep upright, but she swats my hand away.

“Oh?”

I wait to see what she’ll say next, but she doesn’t say anything at all. She opens her mouth a few times, but ends up shutting it again before she can form a word. It’s not easy to make your mind work when you’ve just been thoroughly punished and your flesh is still ripe with searing heat.

Instead of saying anything, she turns and runs out of the bar, finding the stairs next to the elevator and busting through the door like the heroine in an action movie.

I follow her, but she is fleeing at top speed, and I fear that chasing her will cause her to break her silly neck as she chooses to take the stairs rather than the elevator. She is going to be freaking out for a very long time with all of these stairs, but that does not seem to be of concern.

“Slow down, Charlie,” I call out. “You’re going to break your neck.”

She doesn’t listen, of course. If she were the sort of girl to learn a lesson the first time she was taught it, she wouldn’t be running down almost a hundred flights of stairs with her ass on fire.

As she rushes down the stairs, the heel of her left shoe snaps in that undignified way women’s shoes sometimes do. She stumbles for a moment, nearly breaks her damn neck, and proceeds to throw herself into a car, her shoe behind.

My very own little Cinderella.