Mastering Him

by Meghan Boehners

  Wait – no. Down, boy. You're a VP now. Twenty-seven years old and a fucking VP. No piece of ass, no matter how intelligent and hot, would derail that.

  Or would it? My cock itched to sink into her. To claim her. To show her, exactly, who was the boss.

  Mark parked his car and I pulled into a spot way, far across the parking lot, as far as I could get from him. Oh, shit! I just got into a road rage contest with my hot boss!

  And I'd won. An evil grin stretched over my face. He was new, like me, and eager to prove himself. Like me. I had decided before I graduated with my bachelor's degree that I would never sleep my way to the top. Mark had made that very, very hard these past few months. He looked like a young version of David Duchovny, tall and lean, calm and together, with a droll manner and laughing eyes that were intelligent and – under the surface – passionate. Maybe even kinky.

  If he had half the kink I hoped was there, then I'd quit my job just to fuck him.

  Whoa! Where was that coming from? I wasn't about to lose my career over some hot guy. No, no, no.

  What the hell was I doing, fantasizing in the parking lot like this? My boss had just tried to cut me off on the turnpike and I had played a game of “chicken” with him. And won. And we'd flipped each other off.

  I might lose my job even if I didn't fuck him.

  A heavy sadness overwhelmed me, tinged with anxiety. Walking into the building was hard. “Hi, Linsday!” shouted Lou, the old security guard who manned the front desk. I waved back and pulled out a cheerful smile. Lou beckoned me with one finger.

  “Watch out,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Mark just blazed through here, and he seems pissed.”

  “Oh, yeah? Thanks for the tip, Lou,” I said, walking slowly toward the elevator. The four-story ride felt like a walk to Death Row. I got off the elevator and scurried to my office, hoping no one would talk to me. Once I was safe behind my own closed door I booted up my laptop and tried to bury myself in email.

  That worked for about 45 minutes.

  And then Mark barged right in to my office, scaring me. I jumped up and my jacket slid off my shoulders, falling around my elbows. Shrugging my arms worked, but it also made me heft my breasts, which Mark zeroed in on immediately.

  Subtlety wasn't his strong point. He'd been eyeing me for months, since we both started.

  “So what the hell was that on the turnpike, Lindsay?” he growled, pacing back and forth in front of my desk. He was wearing an expensive Brooks Brothers suit, a pinpoint white oxford, and a tie that probably cost more than a week of my salary. Dark brown hair cut perfectly to frame his strong jaw. Chocolate eyes that begged me to turn them dark and impassioned.

  But he wasn't winning this one. “I could ask you the same thing! Cutting me off like that. I'd been in line for 20 minutes. Just because you drive a BMW doesn't mean you get to cut like that.”

  “The McClintock campaign was this morning. You made me miss the beginning of the meeting. A $50,000 contract.” He looked at me like I was the stupidest thing on the planet.

  Ah, fuck. I'd forgotten about that. “How was I supposed to know who you were? I didn't realize it was you until you pulled into your parking space, Mark.” Now my arousal was turning to irritation. If he was just going to bully me, then forget it. My sex toys, Junior Mints, and YouPorn were all I needed.

  He walked around the desk and reached toward me, his hand firm against my right forearm. “I tried, but you were in your own world.” He smiled with his eyes, but his mouth was set in a strong, angry line. The mixed signals were confusing.

  “I can't read minds, you know?” I shrugged, willing away the surge of lust that his touch brought out in me. My eyes lingered on his belt buckle, looking down, down to find the upright bulge I wanted to ride. A pool of warmth filled my panties, which I wanted him to remove.

  With his teeth.

  “You can't?” His voice was like warm velvet. “I thought you could. That's why we hired you. For your – ” his eyes traveled down my body, then back up, his face flushing and eyes darkening with desire. “-- mind.” His hand began caressing the inside of my elbow, brushing lightly against my breast. I inhaled and nearly moaned.

  “Lindsay, I think you can read minds.” He pulled away and sat up on my desk, legs spread toward me. “What am I thinking right now?” Maddeningly, his face showed virtually no expression. His eyes and body, though, burned for me.

  My clit wanted so much more than it had gotten from Darren last night. To think I'd been satisfied – no, convinced myself I'd been satisfied – by Darren's pathetic tongue, when this man was standing in front of me, wearing a neon invitation that screamed “Fuck Me Right Now”? Hah.

  “I think you want me to fuck you.”

  He grinned. “I think you have that backwards.”

  A thought hit me. If we were going to do this, let's do it all the way. Reaching into my laptop case, I fumbled to find my target. Got it.

  Clutching my new strap-on, I slowly pulled it out and into view. “No. I don't have it backwards at all. I think – ” I said, stepping between his legs and running the tip up his thigh, “--I want to fuck you.”

  Now, this was the point where I either got fired or I got laid. Well, Mark got laid.

  Someone was going to get fucked either way.

  This was not how I expected my quick meeting with Lindsay would go. When I marched into her office, having managed to save the McClintock campaign and signing the new contract, I thought I'd chew her out and, maybe, convince her to go out for drinks after work. Angry? Yes. Frustrated? Sure. Victorious? Yep.

  Being asked to be ass fucked by a strap on? That was not what I'd expected. At all.

  This was new territory. Virgin territory, you might say. I'd had a pinkie finger here and there shoved in me by an enterprising girlfriend, but no one had every suggested pegging. So now my direct report wanted to turn me into a bottom?

  Who was the boss here?

  I arched my eyebrows and stared into her green eyes. She blinked twice, coquettish and pretending to be guileless, but the promise of freaky fetish sex was too incongruous. Who was this woman?

  And where had she been all this time.

  She stroked the strap-on's head against my shaft, slowly following my dick from base to top, applying slightly more pressure as she hit my mushroom cap. I grabbed her and pulled her face to me, kissing her and parting those lush lips with my tongue. An eager mouth met mine as we immediately became Human Resources' worst nightmare.

  Thankfully she was such an underling in the company that she'd been given a crappy office with no windows. As if reading my mind – hey, maybe she really could! – she pulled away, went to the door, and locked it.

  Then she turned around and began a slow strip tease. Panties first, which she brought to her face and sniffed, then threw at my head. They bounced to the ground but I didn't retrieve them, instead mesmerized by the show. She scooched out of her skirt, revealing a heart-shaped ass and hips meant to be clutched from behind, perfect handlebars for rear entry.

  Next, her shirt, which she threw off with more haste. Then her bra. Now she was naked and she came back to me, breasts as soft and supple as I'd imagined them while jerking off at home, Or in my office next door. She hadn't known, so it had never hurt to think about fucking her. I stopped for a moment – or had she?

  And then she reached forward and with one swift move unbuttoned and unzipped me.

  Ah – she read my mind. I slid off the desk and slipped out my clothes. Now we were both naked.

  “The staff meeting!” she suddenly squealed. The clock read 8:56 a.m.

  “I'm the boss,” I murmured as I drew the length of her to me, pressing every possible square inch of our bodies together. “If I don't show up, they won't care.” She relaxed into me and her hands roamed my back while I lowered myself, licking a trail between her breasts, tongue finally reaching that blazing crotch, ready to tongue her into a frenzy. With gentle hands I parted her legs and flic
ked once or twice – just enough to make her shudder.

  Then I stood and lifted her on the desk. “I need a more ergonomic office environment, Ms. Jennings,” I said as I went down on her, the scent a musk mixed with lavender, her curls hiding a bright red nub and a slick hole that was ready to be filled. She filled her hands with my hair, pushing me rhythmically into her clit, tongue tracing careful circles and linear lines designed to provoke her, but not take her to orgasm yet. I slid a hand up to find her nipple and pinched, then entered her with two fingers, one hooked up to find her G spot.

  Her breath hitched with a pattern I knew. Soon she was writhing and screaming through gritted teeth, shoving my face into her clit, grinding into me as I struggled to follow her, tongue using a steady pressure to keep her going as wave after wave made her juicy and soaked.

  She eased down from her orgasmic wave and then sat up, hazy and unfocused, yet oddly determined.

  “Your turn,” she said, and I stood there waiting for her mouth.

  Instead, she reached into her laptop bag and brought out a bottle of lube. Then she reached for the strap on, slid it up into her wet pussy, and closed her eyes. A long sigh and a sudden tightening of her abs showed me a slow, simple orgasm I didn't know women could achieve. And then she withdrew the strap-on's dildo and clinched it around her hips.

  “You weren't kidding?” I asked.

  She feigned innocence. “What ever made you think I was?” Then a laugh that sent shivers through my dick and into my ass filled the room.

  She shot me a questioning look. “You in?”

  I hesitated, then smiled. “No, but apparently you will be in a few seconds.”

  And that's all it took. She guided me onto the desk, in the same position she'd been in a minutes ago. This was new – missionary with the man on...bottom.

  She took the lube and stroked the dildo carefully, loading it up, blending it with her juices. Then, using the same hand, she slid one finger in my asshole, pouring more lube over my hole with the other hand. I was soaked, and so was her desk blotter.

  She grabbed a small footstool and stood on it, trying to find the right height and angle. And then – pressure and pleasure. Withdrawal. In – out. She'd go in a half inch, then my muscles pushed the dildo out. In – out. Her hips bucked, slowly, like mind did during sex with a woman, except hers were less practiced, more awkward My hot, red, tight cock was screaming for attention but I didn't care, fascinating and aroused by the attention my ass was getting.

  And then – pain. Exploding, blinding pain that filled me and completed me. Pleasure and climax all at once, the a friction that withdrew the sensation to nothing. Then the filling and friction. And now – oh, oh oh! A perfect pressure point inside that made me writhe, grabbing anything I could reach, squeezing the life out of it as the agony and the ecstasy blended.

  And then it was gone.

  Back again.

  Gone. She pumped in and out, with more practiced strokes, her hands preoccupied with balance. I reached for my cock and nearly came with one light touch.

  Then she did it for me, solely with the strap-on, as something shifted and now a pleasure vortex in me turned my entire world into one pinpoint of orgasm, shattering everything in the room. I grunted and groaned; she put a hand over my mouth. I bit her palm and she used her other hand to touch herself, head thrown back, my mouth biting her and her other hand bringing her wave after wave of climax as we rode the ocean together, surfing through this tsunami of lust.

  And then the phone rang.

  I fumbled to answer it, heart pounding, cock twitching, head reeling. “Mark Warham.”

  “Mark, I think you forgot about the staff meeting,” my secretary said.

  “Oh.” I stared at Lindsay, who was grinning triumphantly at me. “Yeah. Be there in a minute.” I hung up. We both started getting dressed. My orgasm left me with a jizz-covered belly; Lindsay kindly handed me a box of tissues and I laughed. She kept sneaking glances at me and smiling.

  Fully dressed, we looked at each other. “Do I look OK?” we asked in unison.

  Laughing, we both answered, “You're fine.”

  “So, how was that?” she asked.

  “I feel drained but full, all at once,” I answered, suddenly a bit self-conscious. “Is that normal?”

  She flinched and looked unsure of herself. “How would I know? I've never done that before.” She slid the strap-on into her laptop bag, along with the bottle of lube.

  “So why did you...?” I let the words hang in the silence.

  After a full minute passed, she looked at me and said, “It's like playing a game of 'chicken.' Whoever backs down first, wins. I figured I'd throw it out there and see if you, uh, backed down.” An evil grin filled her face again, making her glow.

  “Then we're 1-1 for today,” I replied, pulling her to me for a kiss.

  “That depends,” she said between kisses, “on how you interpret the game.”

  Pegging the Boss: Jill and Paul

  I was, as always, running late for work. A bad hair day didn't help, and having the hot water heater die out in the middle of my shower made for lots of screaming and very cold, very taut skin where the cold water rinsed the soap away. While I'm the first person to jump in and enjoy nipple erections, I generally like them at the tip of a man's tongue.

  Not from a broken household appliance.

  And now I hit gridlock on I-80. The highway was more parking lot than road. Idling and slowly accepting that I would be late, I sighed and decided I might as well put on make up.

  A flip of the visor mirror showed me a face that made me cringe. Dark circles from too much fun with the girls last night? Check. Blonde curls everywhere? Check. Slightly rumpled clothes from pulling them on while my one night stand slept this morning? Check.

  I put on my foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick while scooting along at 4 miles per hour. At this rate, I'd be 40 minutes late. Mr. Miles – that's Paul to you! – would be upset. Was it worth a quick call on my mobile phone?

  Only if I wanted to soak my panties. Mr. Miles – er, Paul – had been my soccer coach when I was in high school. I couldn't call him Paul easily, so in my mind he was still Mr. Miles. It had been seven years since he coached me, but the high school crush I'd nursed for four years hadn't faded. Not even with four years of college across the country and two years of grad school at a Big 10 school near home.

  He was still divine. Those perfect, thick soccer legs that made me want to lick his calves and fuck him wearing shin guards – and nothing else. That wavy, black-Irish hair and dark eyes. He was like a more athletic version of Colin Farrel, minus the kink.

  Or...was he minus the kink.

  Ah, damn it. Now I was turned on and my clit itched. Might as well send my entire pussy into clenched hell by giving him a quick call and a head's up I'd be late.

  I'd rather give him head than head's up, though.

  The phone rang twice. “Welston Soccer Clinic. Paul speaking.”

  “Hey, Paul, it's Jill.”

  “Stuck in traffic again? This excuse is getting old,” he teased. “Like me.”

  “Old?” I squeaked, imagining his spicy grin, the lopsided way he made himself look tousled and delicious. “You're not old.”

  “When you're 35, let's talk about old. You're 24. A baby.”

  “Babies don't have a 36DD and an ass like mine,” I retorted, the flush on my cheeks as hot as the flame in my pussy. How could I be so hot and so pissed at the same time?

  He made a whooshing sound, like blowing out a breath qucikly, then I swear I heard a low growl. His voice was like smooth whiskey as he practically purred into the phone, “Jill, I think you need to...we can't do this...you're – ”

  Silence. Oh, hell no. I was already embarrassed, but once the cat was out of the bag, the pussy needed to see what was possible.

  “We need to what, Paul?” I murmured, using sexy, dulcet tones. “We need to talk about my tits and ass, which are decid
edly not baby like?”

  He laughed. “You need to get whatever body parts you, uh, have, into work. We have tons of paperwork and calls to make. And don't – ” he paused, his voice starting to shake “-- do that again.”

  “Do what?”

  “Tease me about your body. Trust me. I know you're not a baby. Or a child. You're all woman now. It's hard enough...well, don't make it harder.”

  Click.

  Now what the fuck was that supposed to mean? Traffic inched forward and I nearly came with frustration and excitement.

  Another 35 minutes or so and I'd find out. But damn if my clit didn't want to explore some territory right now. I glanced at my tote bag on the front seat.

  No! Down, girl!

  To make some extra money, I'd recently started working as a host for sex toy parties. Middle-aged women loved it, and man did they spend money to get their kink on! Nothing like some 45 year old married woman buying a $75 double-headed dildo or a $80 double vibrator. My average sale was $212, and I could make an extra couple hundred dollars per party.

  In fact, after work I had to do a party, so I had my bag of samples and toys right there. In the car. And now I had a red clit that was humming with blood flow, pert and eager to be released.

  And a big old bag of sensual aids designed to help me.

  Traffic moved at about 5 miles an hour. I was wearing a skirt. Could I?

  Should I?

  Look left. Look right. The people in the other cars were too absorbed in their own lives, in this fucked-up commute, to care what I was doing. I slid my panties down and off, and then grabbed the first thing I could find.

  A nice strap on.

  I have to confess that I love, love, love strap ons. I love that pegging a guy has become a popular trend. And, apparently, a lot of married women in their 40s and 50s seem to be really into the trend, because I sell more of these strap-on dildoes to those women than I do major sex toys like rabbit vibrators or little lipstick vibrators.