Falling into Black

by Carrie Kelly

  Falling into Black

  By Carrie Kelly

  Copyright 2012 by Carrie Kelly

  Published by Eccentric Erotica

  Cover Art:

  © Can Stock Photo Inc. /konradbak

  (Formally called Billionaires Prefer Curves and Curves Collared)

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved.

  All characters in this story are made up by the author. They aren’t based on any real people.

  I stood in line with the other girls and fixed my pencil skirt, pulling it down toward my knees. Maybe I should’ve pulled it up. It really depended on what they were looking for, and I had no clue. In the back of my mind I couldn't believe I'd answered the ad. Mr. Dorian Black's personal assistant -- the gorgeous billionaire who rose to power and fame at just twenty-nine. I didn't have a chance in hell at the position, but Lord knows I needed the money.

  With less than five hundred in my checking account, I had about a month before I lost everything -- my apartment, my crappy car -- everything. This was my last shot besides working fast food. And what girl with a degree in business wants to end up flipping burgers? I hadn't had that kind of job since I was a teenager.

  Damn the economy!

  Looking at the other girls, then down at myself, I felt woefully underdressed in my T.J. Maxx blouse and Payless shoes. How did they afford designer duds like that? And maybe I should've done something different with my hair, but a bun was the only way to contain my wild brown curls.

  Did it look too matronly at the base of my neck? I should've gone for the red lipstick and not the pale pink. Sure it looks professional, but it doesn't pop. I know fashion shouldn't really matter, I was there for a job as a personal assistant, but the rest of those girls looked way fancier than I did. Way more put together while I looked plain and boring.

  An older woman, probably Mr. Black's gatekeeper, moved down the line of girls glancing at our resumes as she passed. I smiled at her, and she stopped for moment, looking me up and down before shaking her head.

  "Alicia Jones," she said and glanced at my meager resume. After graduating college last year I'd been hard pressed to find work. Temp jobs here and there, but nothing permanent and nothing impressive.

  "Yes?" I asked and stood up straight.

  "Pass," she said and moved down the line.

  The girl next to me, a tall pretty blonde, snickered at my misfortune. I took a deep breath and bit my bottom lip.

  Don't cry Alicia. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

  Slowly, I walked to the table in the corner and gathered my things before I headed for the door.

  What a royal waste of time. What was I going to do now?

  Stepping outside of the boardroom, the bright sunlight in the opulent hallway seemed like a cruel joke. The potted ferns and fig trees that dotted the smooth marble floor flush with life, and there I was not one step closer to getting a job.

  Who was I kidding? This wasn't where I belonged. A girl from a middle-class family in a high-class place like that? A personal assistant to one of the most powerful men in the city? My parents still had their anniversary dinners at the Olive Garden for God's sake. Maybe I could get another temp position. At least something to make money. I'd get by -- I had to.

  I turned the corner in a rush, my mind on my failure, and bumped right into someone. Of course he carried not only a pile of important looking papers but also an iced coffee. The papers flew, scattering across the floor. Coffee spilt on both my pink blouse and his fine Italian suit, as we ran into each other -- my breasts pressing against his firm chest.

  "I'm so sorry," I stammered, looking up.

  Shit. This was not happening. Mr. Dorian Black. I just ran into Mr. Dorian Black!

  A frown creased his perfect brow; sharp blue eyes staring me down with barely concealed annoyance. "I don't care how sorry you are, girl. Look at the mess you've made."

  "I know, Mr. Black. I'll, um, clean it up." I fished in my purse, pulling out a pack of Kleenex and patted down his suit, trying to soak up the worst of the mess. My hands trembled, my heart racing a mile a minute.

  How could I be so stupid?

  He stood still as I cleaned off as much of the coffee as I could. Crumpling the used cloth in my hands, I willed myself to look at him again.

  Sure, I'd seen pictures. Dorian Black and his model good looks were a well-known fact. But up close he was breathtaking. Long black lashes lined those impossibly blue eyes. A straight nose punctuated by slightly full lips. Cheekbones that could cut like a knife, and dark wavy hair that fell just passed his temples, tickling the edge of his suit jacket, stylishly messy.

  "I hope it's not ruined," I said, taking in the fine craftsmanship -- the broad shoulders and perfectly fitted waist of the suit.

  What did his body look like underneath? Why am I thinking that at a time like this?

  For a moment, he didn't say anything. His eyes traveled over my body, almost scorching me with the intensity of his look.

  He probably thinks I'm so stupid. So inexperienced and unstylish.

  "Are you going to clean up the rest?" he asked and motioned at the papers littering the floor.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Black. Yes, right away," I said and fell to my knees, gathering the papers. As I stood up and handed him the pile, his eyes traveled down to my soaked blouse.

  I knew he could see the outline of my lacy bra under the wet pink material, and I tried to keep my head high and fight the blush that crept over my pale cheeks. Too bad I wasn't tall and gorgeous like some of the other girls applying for this position. But I couldn't do anything about my petite and chubby body.

  "Come with me, girl," he said and turned on his heel, walking towards the elevators.

  Great. Was he going to take me to security or something?

  But when we got inside he pressed the button for the fiftieth floor. That high up? I wanted to ask him where we were going, but the words died in my throat. He didn't look at me once, just fingered through the papers I’d picked up, and my trepidation grew with each floor.

  Where was he taking me and why?

  The doors opened and we stepped out into an even fancier hallway than the one below. Huge windows overlooked the city, the floor a slick black marble that was so shiny I could see my reflection in it. He walked toward a pair of huge oak doors stained dark, and an empty desk sat in front of them.

  His office? No way.

  "Come in," he said and opened the door.

  An expensive rug lay across the black marble. Huge windows and pieces of abstract art framed the walls. A desk loomed at the end of the room, the same dark oak as the doors, and Mr. Black leaned against it and crossed his arms.

  "Come here," he ordered as I stood awkwardly in the center of the room, trying to look anywhere but at his impossibly handsome face.

  He removed his suit jacket as I stepped toward him, and I noticed a coffee stain on his fine shirt and silk tie.

  Shit! Alicia, you've really made a mess of things now!

  "Take off my tie," he said and stared at me, his eyes like dots of blue flame.

  "What?" I asked.

  He motioned impatiently at the coffee stain. "My tie, girl. And my shirt while you're at it. They'll both need to be dry cleaned."

  I stared at him dumbly. "You want me to take them to the dry cleaners, Mr. Black?"

  Without a word, he reach
ed forward and touched my shoulder, taking the thin cotton material between his slender fingers. "This will need to be cleaned too. Machine wash or dry clean?"

  Heat rushed between my legs at his touch. What the hell was happening here?

  "Well? The shirt?" he asked.

  "Oh right, Mr. Black." I fumbled with his tie, loosening it and sliding it off his neck. Then I started on his buttons, my fingers shaking as I undid each one. The whole time his eyes burned into me -- watching me, judging me, and my body scorched under his stare. Underneath the shirt his chest was bare, his finely muscled physique smooth.

  I can't believe I'm undressing Dorian Black!

  Once I pulled the shirt off his shoulders and stood with it folded over my arm, I wasn't sure what to do. "Mr. Black?" I asked.

  "Your blouse is cotton, is it not? Go rinse it in the bathroom," he said and pointed at a small door to the left.

  "Now? I actually should get going, Mr. Black. But thank you."

  A thin smile spread across his lips, his eyes lighting with mischief. "What makes you think you’re going, girl? Go wash your blouse or the stain will set. Then get your ass back out here."

  Part of me wanted to storm out of his office, it's not like I worked for the man! But another part of me -- a strange new part I never knew existed -- wanted to follow his orders more than anything in the entire world. As I fought to make my decision, his smile turned into a smirk.

  "Oh, are you going to be obstinate, Ms. Jones? Do you want this position or not?" he asked.

  "Wait, is this an interview? I thought I got axed back there."

  Mr. Black chuckled, showing his perfectly straight white teeth. "Oh, Mrs. Anderson doesn’t know what I'm looking for, but it's lucky I walked around the corner right at that moment, isn't it Alicia?"

  About a million questions rushed through my head. How did he know my name? Was he waiting for me to leave the boardroom? But none of that really mattered. I was still in the running. I still had a chance for this job -- the job I needed more than anything.

  "Yes, Mr. Black'" I said and headed toward the bathroom.

  Taking off my shirt, I noticed the coffee stained my bra. But I couldn't really wash them both in the sink. So I settled for just the shirt. After I got most of the stain out, I rang it to dry and looked around. Now what was I supposed to wear? Or maybe I was supposed to walk out in just my bra? Well, there wasn't anything in the bathroom for me to put on, so I took a deep breath and stepped back into his office.

  "Anything else, Mr. Black?" I asked.

  His eyes hovered over my breasts peeking out of the white lace of my bra, the tops heaving as I tried to suck in my belly.

  Dammit! Why did he make me feel this way? So hot and bothered.

  Well, I guess it had been a while since my last boyfriend -- but still. He might be my boss. I had to keep it together.

  "How badly do you need this job, Ms. Jones?" he asked.

  "Very badly, sir," I said and looked at my cheap pumps. Maybe if he felt sorry for me he’d give me the job out of pity.

  Yeah, right!

  Mr. Black chuckled, his voice rich and deep. "At least you're honest. You see, Ms. Jones, I need a woman with unique attributes. A personal assistant willing to do anything to please me. Do you understand?"

  My cheeks flushed. "I'm not sure I do, Mr. Black." Was he talking about sex? Was he looking for an assistant to fuck on the side? I didn't know whether to be flattered or offended.

  "You’ve already passed the first test, Ms. Jones, would you like to move onto the second?"

  My mind spun with the possibilities of what this test could hold, but I didn't really have a choice. I needed this job. So, I nodded and waited for his next command -- my body tingling with anticipation of what was to come. Looking at his toned arms, the muscles taut -- his fit chest and slender waist -- sex with Dorian Black wouldn't be bad.

  Not at all.

  He motioned for me to approach, and I walked slowly across the thick carpet until I stood in front of him.

  "Take your hair down," he ordered.

  Prickling all over with excitement, my panties wetting just at the sound of his sexy voice, I took out the band that held my hair in place. It fell over my shoulders in thick chestnut curls, landing right on the top of my full, heaving breasts.

  Mr. Black smiled. "Good. Now open the top desk drawer and take out the rope you find inside."

  Rope? What was he going to do with a rope?

  But I couldn't afford to ask. Opening the drawer, I pulled out the thick length. It felt smooth under my hands -- smooth and safe. Weird.

  "Set the rope on my desk and open the bottom drawer. Pull out the paddle, Ms. Jones. Can you guess what comes next?"

  My cheeks burned.

  Was he going to spank me? Or did he want me to spank him?

  I shrugged. "No, sir, I don't."

  "Who among us has been a naughty girl today?"

  The room suddenly felt too hot. My skin feverish, and sweat trickled down my back, between my breasts. The heat all flowed toward my needy clit.

  "Me?"

  "And who needs to be punished for being a naughty girl?"

  My head spun. How did the room suddenly empty of air? And why did I want to bend over for him? Bend over and lift my skirt so he could paddle the hell out of my ass.

  "Me?" I asked, my voice breathless.

  "Good. And do you know why you're getting this punishment, Ms. Jones?" he asked and stepped close to me- so close his minty breath blew across my cheek.

  "Because -- because I bumped into Mr. Black," I said, lowering my head. Just looking at him made this whole situation almost unbearable.

  How could I have been so clumsy? So stupid?

  Shame burned across my entire body – shame and lust.

  He nodded. "Now bend over the desk, and put your hands behind your back."

  I did what I was told, my whole body on fire.

  Would this get me the job? God, I hoped so.

  Suddenly, his body pressed against mine. The thick bulge in his pants nudging against my full ass cheek. Then he grabbed the rope and wound it around my hands, tightening it so I couldn't move, but not tight enough that it cut off any circulation. Each wrap sent jolts of electric excitement through my veins.

  "Mmm," he moaned in my ear and grabbed the paddle from the desktop. "Should I leave your skirt down or pull it up, Ms. Jones?"

  My pussy flooded with juices.

  "Pull it up, Mr. Black," I panted and pressed my cheek to the warm wood of the desk.

  His hands gripped my round thighs, yanking the gray material until it was bunched around my waist. Then his long fingered hand ran across my white lace panties, plucking at them and rubbing the scratchy material against my skin.

  "You always wear panties like this, Ms. Jones?"

  "Sometimes, sir," I said.

  When was he going to get on with it?

  "Look at you. You're so impatient. I think you need an extra punishment for that kind of insolence."

  "Yes, Mr. Black."

  Without a word he swung the paddle, and it connected sharply with my tender cheek. The hot sting seared my flesh -- turned my blood into lust-hot lava. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, and he swung again -- the second swing landing on the same bruised cheek.

  The paddle whooshed through the air and landed again.

  Whoosh.

  Smack.

  Whoosh.

  Smack.

  Each blow harder and sharper than the last. My whole body trembled -- writhing on the smooth wooden desk. My fingers clenching and unclenching in their tight binds. But there was no escape. None whatsoever from Mr. Black, the paddle, or my body's passionate embrace of the situation.

  Another smack, and I moaned -- my voice foreign to my own ears.

  "That’s twenty, Ms. Jones," Mr. Black huffed.

  I panted too, though I don't know why. But I felt breathless and eager for more.

  "Please," I moaned wiggling my
ass. "Please, punish me some more, Mr. Black."

  He chuckled. "Oh, are you a little slut, Ms. Jones?"

  How was I supposed answer that? Did he want me to say yes or no?

  "I just need to be punished."

  His fingers plucked at my panties again. "Yes. Yes, I think you do. You really like this," he said and rubbed his hands over the wet mound of my sex. "You like this a lot."

  Suddenly, he pulled my panties down around my knees, rubbing his slender fingers over my bruised bottom. Pinching at the tender flesh, twisting it until I cried out in agonized delight.

  "Turn around, Ms. Jones," he ordered, and I obeyed without a thought.

  He looked me over and pushed me back on the desk. I fell with a slight oomph and stared at him.

  His bright blue eyes burned into my hazel ones, and he reached forward and ripped down the front of my bra. My breasts bounced free, the pink nipples already hard and at attention. He plucked at one, turning it painfully to the side.

  It burned -- blossoming bright red under his cruel fingers. I spread my legs wide, hoping he'd stick something inside me. Something like his aching cock.

  Yeah. That's what I wanted!

  Then he grabbed the other nipple and squeezed it mercilessly, watching my face the whole time. I open my mouth and moaned, twitching on the desk for his next attack. The next glorious rush of pleasure pain.

  "You are an extra naughty girl, Ms. Jones. Your body is just filthy and in need of discipline."

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. What was he going to do to me next? Fuck me?

  Please fuck me!

  He grabbed the paddle and turned it around to its blunt rounded handle. The thing was thick, about the same girth as a good-sized cock, and at least six inches long. He smirked when he looked at my spread legs. The dripping ache of my sex. Ready and waiting just for him. Then he rubbed the end over my moist clit, the baby soft touches exciting every nerve in my groin. I moved my hips, trying to get a harder touch, but he pulled it back and wagged his finger at me.

  "You need to learn patience, Ms. Jones."

  I forced myself to sit still and held my breath. After a moment, he smiled and rubbed the handle over my needy hole. The wood had been carved smooth, the rounded head nudging inside me easily, although my pussy gripped it tight.