by Skye Warren
Spike's voice cut through the bluster, cold as hell, even as he began humping his cock in and out of my tight sucking lips. “So, Glen, what you got to top this?” For one dark moment, I flashed on the thought that he might prefer to abuse Glen—you know what they say about prison—and found myself almost jealous. Spike's grip tightened in my hair, though, and I felt his cock twitch in my mouth. I figured that was about all the encouragement I'd ever get from him, and took it as a good sign.
I couldn't see Glen from my extreme angle but filled in details in my imagination—picturing him bug-eyed and sweating, hopelessly turned on by watching me getting face fucked this way. I had to add a dick to my internal picture of him, and it wasn't very big, but it was screaming… I hummed happily on Spike's cock and got an extra-tight squeeze on my hair in return.
Glen finally found his voice again. “Stop. That. I'll get the—”
“Yeah, right. Sit your fucking ass down or Lewis can't see, and he likes to watch.” I heard Glen's chair squeak and assumed the dumb-ass obeyed, but all I could really focus on was the iron-hard rod plunging in and out of my mouth…that and keeping my lips nice and tight around it.
Spike dragged me a little farther forward, across the table, so my thighs were pressed hard against the back edge and I had to spread them to take the strain. I felt the tension vibrating his hands in my hair, and was amazed that none of it could be heard in his voice. Instead, he almost sounded disinterested. “She likes it, the horny slut. Don't believe me, Glen? Get in there and feel her cunt—she's got to be creaming by now.”
I tensed, waiting for Glen's hand, wanting to feel him capitulate. To become complicit in the game. Nothing. Chickenshit. I wasn't surprised but found I was almost disappointed.
Spike was too, it seemed. “Did that sound like a request, Glen? You want my help; you better make it worth my fucking while.”
An instant later, I felt Glen's fingers on the back of my knee, and it sent such a thrill through me, I almost choked on the meat in my mouth but managed to stop myself from biting down. Glen's fingers began to trace a tentative trail up the back of my leg, under my skirt, his nails making a slight skreeing noise, skimming across the cheap pantyhose.
Glen hesitated for only a second at the cotton panel covering my now soaked pussy, then pressed inward slightly, feeling the damp. I knew he felt it—I heard him gasp.
Spike had slowed his pumping slightly but was going for depth, leaving me barely able to get enough air between thrusts. “Rip your way in and get a couple of fingers into this bitch's cunt.”
It took every ounce of my limited self-control to not move, to not thrust backward with my hips, to not show any interest in Glen's fingers—futilely rooting around, looking for a way through the hose.
“Pussy.” Spike dismissed him, pulling me abruptly off his cock so he could look into my eyes. “Maybe this fucker just gets to watch.” He didn't say it like he was asking me, just taunting Glen. “Or he can shut his eyes and listen.” He chuckled almost soundlessly. “Maybe stand in the corner.”
With this, I heard and felt nylon tear, and fingers invaded my steaming wet cunt. Even as I gasped, my mouth was once again filled with cock, and I was being invaded from both ends.
Glen was still fumbling, sloppily plunging two fingers in and out of my vagina, when Spike abruptly hit him with, “You like a good ass fuck?” Glen was stunned, and his hand froze, thumb pressed against the back of my thigh, sticky fingers tracing cold lines against my skin.
“No. Not m-me,” Glen managed to stammer, fear oozing from every word. I loved it, and much as I wanted Spike's attention for myself, I still took great pleasure in a cruel image of Glen being bent over the table and taken by force, crying and orgasming all at once.
“Too bad.” Spike pulled me hard against his crotch, mashing my lips into the hair at the base of his cock, choking me deliciously, then gave a long grunt and spewed a heavy load of jism deep in my throat. “If you…said yes…I woulda let you fuck her in…the ass. Guess you lose.” Then he groaned again and left the last few drops on my tongue as he pulled his cock out of my mouth, leaving me desperately swallowing and gasping for air.
Glen's voice was all relief, with a new sound—an undertone of deep hunger. “Oh, like that—”
“Fuck you.” Spike took a deep breath. “You lose. Sit down.”
Glen tensed his hand on my ass, then shoved his fingers deep inside my pussy, defying Spike. I gasped, and my back arched up, lifting my head and shoulders off the table so my nipples, in their silk and lace casings, just brushed against the surface.
Even through half-slitted lids, I could see Spike's eyes narrow in consideration. “Fine. You have until I get hard again to get into this bitch's ass. Ticktock ticktock.” Spike's gaze moved to me. “Start sucking, cunt,” as he presented his momentarily exhausted penis to my lips. I got my hands up in front of me this time and started to pump his cock, working my jaw to recover from the reaming he'd given me.
Glen flipped my skirt up over my ass, baring my split-open hose and soaking crotch. I heard more ripping as he widened the tear, then spread my thighs as far as they would go, palming my ass cheeks apart and sending a shiver up me as my tiny rosebud was exposed to the coolness of the air.
Spike pinched my ear, pulling my attention back to the cock knocking at my lips—it was already half-hard again. He was obviously enjoying watching Glen's desperate movements. I opened my mouth obediently, but he held himself back, just out of range—close enough that I could just get my lips and tongue around the knob, and I nibbled and licked as best I could, stroking the shaft with my hand.
Glen ran a finger up my wet crease to moisten it, and just as he finally pressed that bony intrusion hard into my tight little asshole, Spike shoved his cock to the root into my mouth again. The finger hurt, and when Glen pulled out and worked two of them in, the ache was terrible—and still thrilling.
Even though Glen had probably always wanted to fuck me, never in his wildest, nastiest dreams could he have thought he would be allowed—let alone forced—to sodomize me, all the while being watched by a convict who was ravaging my mouth. Forced. Yes. Poor little Glen was being forced to help rape me. That was almost as thrilling as the idea that they'd both be pumping into me at once—end to end.
Spike muttered, “Yeah, that's a fucking hot mouth, babe,” then louder, “Ticktock ticktock, better hurry, Glen.”
Glen groaned and began to furiously work at widening my asshole, constantly stroking through my cunt to moisten the smaller hole. Finally, I heard his zipper and felt his cock spring out, hot enough to almost burn the spot on my leg where it brushed me, making me gasp again on Spike's hard spike, and earning me an extra-deep thrust to gag me.
Then Glen shoved his cock into my pussy, hard. One thrust, then a second one, his groans so loud they drowned out the sound of my own gasping breaths. I had to amend the picture in my imagination—his dick wasn't tiny and spongy, but good and long—not too thick, but it felt like he had a huge knob on there, which would be difficult to slot into my tiny hole.
Before Spike could reprimand him, Glen shifted his now well-lubed shaft, moving it up and into position. He pressed hard but couldn't seem to make any headway. I was distracted from his clumsy efforts, though, as Spike pulled his cock out of my mouth and ran it over my lips, then rolled my head to the side and moved closer until his balls rested on my lips, demanding attention. I licked and sucked, running my fingers over his scrotum and teasingly up the length of his shaft, which earned me another twitch of that almost ready organ.
Glen shoved both thumbs into my asshole, making me squeal as he spread me as wide as he could, pressing his huge knob into the tiny gap formed by his straining digits. I had a distinct feeling he'd never done this before. And here we were, ruining him for anyone else.
I felt him pause with just the tip caught tight by my sphincter; then he pulled his thumbs out quickly. He would have lost what ground he had if Spike hadn't shoved me bac
k hard onto Glen's fleshy prong—much to Glen's astonishment and my masochistic delight.
It hurt, but I was expecting it. Reveled in it. Took sadistic glee in Glen's willing unwillingess, and appreciated Spike's warped imagination all the more. I groaned long and deep, whether in agony or ecstasy I don't know, and reflexively tried to buck Glen loose, rearing up off the table as best I could as the huge head of his cock speared its way through my tight, protesting ring of flesh.
Spike effortlessly held me there, suspended above the table, supported by Glen's cock and one tattooed, implacable hand. With his other hand, he caught the neckline of my white silk blouse and yanked, hard, tearing the delicate fabric with a shrill zipping noise and a rattle of escaping buttons, exposing my breasts, barely controlled by a simple white lace bra.
Held in this strange half-lifted position, I felt Glen's cock slide deeper—or rather, I felt myself slide inexorably down his shaft. Once the head had passed the tight entrance, the pain lessened some. As if in reflex, Glen's hands caught convulsively at my hips, pulling me the rest of the way onto his hot member, until I could feel his expensive shirt against the soft skin of my derriere.
Spike maneuvered around the end of the table, clutching me by one shoulder and a breast, pressing me back and down. I felt like a doll, a toy, something to be used, and I reveled in the surrender of control.
We were still moving, like some weird three-person dance, until I felt jolted against Glen as we were backed into a corner. The impact drove him even farther into me, flattening my perfect buttocks against his pelvis.
I took a breath and felt Spike pull my bra down and spill both breasts out over the top. His hands clamped onto them, mauling my lovely mounds and tweaking my nipples, forcing me to wriggle and moan, each move making me more and more conscious of the cock in my rear.
Finally, Spike kicked my feet apart, then melded himself to my body, his burning cock sliding up into my well-wetted cunt in one hard thrust.
I gasped and flinched as one tattooed hand shot toward my face, but he reached past me to grab Glen's ear and pull his head forward against my shoulder. Spike hissed, “You better not fucking come until I'm done.”
Glen groaned, but I felt his chin move against my bare skin as he nodded. Then Spike was moving, fucking up into me, pressing me hard against Glen, as if he was fucking us both at once. Each thrust of his nasty, hard cock hit deep inside me, rubbing against Glen's stationary member, separated as they were by the thinnest of barriers.
I took every chance to torment my erstwhile coworker, tightening and rolling my ass back and forth to meet Spike's thrusts, jerking on Glen's cock in my ass each time. Vindictive? Yes. I wanted him to fail and fail spectacularly. I made painful sexy noises, trying to push him prematurely over the edge. He was too timid to even grab my breasts, the lump.
Glenn was breathing hard in my ear, trying to hold on, but I could feel his cock twitching, could feel his muscles clenching, ready to shoot. Too bad—Spike showed no sign of letting up anytime soon. I clamped my hands on Spike's shoulders, digging my nails in, and whipped my head around, catching a glimpse of Lewis the guard, plastered to the glass of the door. I smiled at him and ran my tongue around my lips and was rewarded with a look that said he just came in his pants.
Now for Glen. I clenched my ass tight and screamed, “Oh God, Glen! You're hurting me!” And he climaxed. And he would never be able to forget that, I though smugly.
Glen let loose with a long gasping scream and shot a torrent of come into my ass, the hot blast starting me on a chain of orgasms, shaking and twisting and grinding my cunt on Spike's unstoppable cock. Spike pulled out of me with a juicy sticky noise, leaving me to fall forward with the lack of pressure. I felt Glen start to slump behind me, exhausted, and threw myself back against him, hard, keeping him tight against the wall so, flaccid or not, he wouldn't be able to get loose before I was good and ready.
Spike grabbed my chin and tilted my face downward to stare at the tiny slit in his glans, a couple feet below my eyes. He stroked himself, making me watch; then his body tensed, his hand sliding down to my throat and tightening as hot jets of white gooey come shot out of that slit and felt like boiling oil as it sprayed all over my belly. He snarled like an animal as he came, shooting so hard that a drop even made it up to my cheek. He kept pumping and shooting, though none of the aftershocks were anywhere near as powerful as that first one, until I was well coated.
Then he yanked off the last shreds of my blouse and wiped his cock, casually tucking himself back into his industrial oranges.
I finally released Glen, feeling him slide limply out of my ass as I stumbled toward the table, my legs buckling from the exertion and the fierce pounding of the blood in my veins. Spike shoved me, though not roughly, into a seat, and took his own place on the far side, shifting his chair with a harsh scraping noise. We both ignored Glen as he tidied himself as much as he could, then stumbled back to the table.
Glen swallowed and looked at me, though I only saw him in my peripheral vision. I sat there, the ice queen again, despite my state of dishabille—my blouse shredded and gone, my bra only a sling that my breasts were spilling out of, and my skin coated in semen. My skirt was still hiked up, and I sat bare-assed against the chair since I could still feel Glen's juices leaking out of my hole, and I wanted to avoid dry cleaning if I could.
I swiftly put my hair to rights and wiped down my torso with my ruined blouse. As if it were nothing, I slid each breast back into its cup.
Realizing he wasn't going to get any reaction from me, Glen cleared his throat and addressed Spike in a slightly high voice, a this-never-happened tone, “So, um, my client—”
Spike interrupted him, sliding his white tee off over his head as he spoke. “Fuck him. You need to work on your timing.” Spike shot to his feet and threw the shirt onto the table in front of me, then strode to the door.
Glen sputtered, “But—but you—”
“Come back in a week. And you better fucking do what I say next time.” With that, Spike slammed out of the room.
I slipped the wifebeater tee casually over my head, breathing in the sharp tang of Spike's sweat. My trophy. Something dark caught my eye—black ink at the bottom edge of the white cotton. Four letters.
MINE
And written upside down, so I could read it when I put it on. I suppressed a smile and quickly tucked it into my skirt, feeling Spike's mark against my skin.
Pulling on my jacket, I stood, craning my neck to see how much semen had spotted my skirt. Not too bad, I decided, then caught Glen's anxious look. “What? You came too soon. You need to work on your timing.” I grabbed my case and swept out.
As we drove off in silence, I was turning over possibilities in my head. Making a list of coworkers—who else might I enjoy being forced to fuck?
Last Day
By Trent Evans
Alyson Hart’s nightmare began with a simple envelope.
She arrived, late as usual, mumbling another excuse to the scowling office manager. The yellow manila waited for her on her desk. Opening the envelope, the damning contents spilling onto her cluttered desk, the certain write-up for her tardiness no longer mattered anymore.
Oh no. God, no.
The photographs trembled like leaves in the breeze as she clutched each one in shaking fingers. The note inside was scrawled in the stark block print of the CEO, Will Ellsworth. As she read it, dread sank in her belly like a cold lead weight.
“These are copies, Ms. Hart. There are more, but this is more than enough for the authorities. Be in my office at 8:30 this morning. You won’t be late.”
Her quaking hands stuffed everything back into the envelope, her heart pounding. She’d been so careful—only shaving off a little here, a little there. Not much more than rounding errors in the company’s books. Who would miss it? She knew she’d taken less cash than the company blew on a single off-site business meeting. Much less.
But somehow he knew. And now her life
was over.
“Ms. Hart. I need to speak with you in the conference room.” Connie’s frown and her quiet, exasperated sigh told Alyson everything she needed to know.
“I—I can’t, Connie.” Alyson looked at the clock on her computer: 8:25. “Will, I mean, Mr. Ellsworth. He wants to see me.”
“Now?” Connie lifted a sculpted brow. “Does he even know who you are?”
“I don’t know.” Connie’s eyes slid over to the manila envelope, and Alyson snatched it up, stuffing it in her purse. “I have to go, though. He was very…specific.”
The walk to Will Ellsworth’s office felt like a walk to the gallows, the long sunlit corridor seeming to stretch before her forever, every step one closer to her doom.
“Uh, I’m here to see Mr. Ellsworth.” Alyson stopped at the admin’s desk, clasping her purse in both hands in a death grip, hoping to hide the tremor of her hands.
“You have an appointment?” Karen, his admin, lowered her glasses, the dark frames somehow charming on her delicate features.
“I’m not really sure. I was told to be here at eight thirty. Is he expecting me?”
Karen’s phone buzzed, her delicate fingers picking it up. The voice on the other end was barely audible, but the rumble was definitely male.
“Yes, sir,” Karen said. “She’s here now.”
Karen hung up, glancing up at Alyson. “He’s ready for you.”
The door, the blackness of the wood seeming to absorb the sunlight, swung open, and Alyson slipped in. With a sepulchral thud, the door closed behind her.
His corner office seemed all windows, and up here on the thirtieth floor the sunshine filled the space with dazzling light and warmth. Not what she’d expected of Will Ellsworth—the man whom many of the other accountants referred to as simply The Unholy.