Bewitching the Boss

There are still times when I love being treated like a cheap tramp. Love being taken roughly, obscenely, while he mutters filthy names into my ear. But it’s because that little tingle of shame makes me feel sexy, not because it appeases guilt over what happened in the past. And that makes it good for both of us.

Really, truly, incomparably good.

Byron squirts lube between the cheeks of my backside and uses his fingers to spread it over my entrance, rubbing gently, then rougher until my sex begins to dampen, my fingers curling into the edge of the chair. “Byron,” I whimper. “Please.”

He growls, settling his lap against the curve of my backside. “Bet there aren’t a lot of girls begging to get their assholes plowed,” he says into my neck, now using the head of his shaft to stroke over my opening, up and back. Up and back. “What does that make you?”

Unimaginable heat steals through me. “I don’t know,” I whine, wanting to hear him say the words. Craving the syllables in his deep, masculine tone. “You tell me.”

Baring his teeth against my neck, his tucks a finger into my back entrance, drawing it in and out, the lube making a wet sound. “It means you’re a horny girl with tight, slippery holes under her short-ass skirt. Means you’re a hot slutty little thing that a man can’t turn down.” As if he can’t wait another second, he tugs out his finger and replaces it with several inches of his cock, his body shuddering on top of me. “Oh. Fuck.”

His pleasure makes me wetter. Wilder. Needier.

I spread my thighs open until my knees are hanging off the sides of the chair. “More, baby. Please.”

“Jane,” he heaves, kissing the side of my face, panting. “Please. No. I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t.” I clench up around him and his roar raises goosebumps all over my body. “I was made for you. For your pleasure. Tell me. Show me.”

Byron’s hand slaps down on top of mine, both of us holding on to the edge of the chair while he begins to pump, riding my backside with guttural grunts. “You’re built for cock. You exist for this fucking cock.”

“Yes,” I moan, my teeth clacking from the force of how he pumps into me, deeper, deeper until I’m fully mounted. Claimed. There is an immense pressure where our bodies join but the proof of how aroused he is only makes me want that pressure more. Crave it. “Hurt me. Come inside me. Please.”

“Yes,” he growls, his lap slapping up against my buttocks now in a frenzy. “Mine!”

I could have an orgasm just like this, but I want to make it even fuller, even more satisfying, so I slide my digits down between my thighs and pet my clit, making my sex convulse with a twisting, turning orgasm that robs me of eyesight, and in turn, tighten up my back entrance, pushing Byron over the edge. He climaxes while chanting my name, his huge body wracked by shudders until he finally collapses.

As always, after we make love like this, he pulls me into his arms and gives me the care we both need, whispering how incredible I am, how sweet and treasured, kissing my cheeks, stroking my hair and we fall into a deep sleep together beside the lapping pool, our entire Saturday—our entire lives—stretched out in front of us, waiting to be lived.

Just before I drift off, I hear him say, “I love you to the point of madness.”

And then he spends decade after decade proving it.

THE END