Burning Desire

by Ami Snow

  “Mr. Crawford – what's –”

  He unlocked the case, my mouth dropping open as I surveyed its contents. On the left was a row of strange-looking whips and scourges of multiple sizes, fashioned out of what looked like leather, rubber, and silicone, wedged into the special-made molds of the inner black lining. The right side of the briefcase flaunted multicolored candles of variously burned states and extra long wicks, along with bottles of pricey-looking, fragrant oils and substances, and finally, a gleaming pair of handcuffs. Speechless, I stared wide-eyed at Mr. Crawford, who was now crossing over to the ab bench in the corner of his office, situated next to his state-of-the-art treadmill.

  There was a loud clang as Mr. Crawford fiddled with the handles of his fully-cushioned exercise bench, the leg rests elevating upright, the reclining bench sloping downwards. I blinked in confusion at the tweaked contraption, my gargling breath arrested in my throat as he lunged towards me and grabbed hold of my wrists. He dragged me towards the mechanism, positioning me over the leather cushion. Sweat licked the creases of my underarms as he forced my wrists together and slammed them over my head, cuffing them against the leg rests.

  My feet were hooked against the foundations of the bench, my thighs quivering turbulently as he wrenched down my skirt, along with my racy panties, wresting my vibrating, fleshy cheeks apart with his icy fingers. I could feel scarlet tinging my cheeks as he caught sight of the pulsing slit between my legs. I wondered if he could tell what a virgin cunt looked like. My hips writhed in circles as I jutted my jiggling cheeks towards him.

  “Mr. Crawford – please, I can't –” I stuttered, smacking my lips, “I need you to take me – but please, be gentle –”

  “Gentle?” He snorted, raising his eyebrows, “You're being punished – wait, Cleo, you're not a virgin, are you?”

  I shivered, his body pressing down against me from behind, my cheeks depressing into the rugged, cushioned surface. He traced the back of his knuckle against my cheek, whispering, “Are you, Cleo?”

  “Y – yes,” I gulped, my kissing thighs now coated with a sheen of my juices.

  “And you want me to fuck you? Is that what you want?”

  “Yes – please, sir –”

  “No.”

  My skin crawled, his definitive words resonating in my ears. Beads of sweat squeezed out of my palms.

  I squeaked, “Sir?”

  “You're being punished, little whore. I'm not in the giving mood, but you will entertain me.”

  Before I could ponder the possibilities of his frighteningly enticing words, he smacked me hard across my left cheek. I glanced backwards, my bottom lip quivering at the smarting, ruddy spot sprouting across my flesh. He backhanded my right cheek, his stunning, clean-cut features clouding over, replaced with a haunting grimace, absorbing every bounce of my cheeks. I yelped, my lips cracking in their dryness.

  Mr. Crawford reached into his pocket and produced a navy-blue handkerchief, balling it up in his fist. Tears sprang into my eyes as he shoved the suffocating fabric into my mouth. My nostrils stretched, breathing heavily out my nose. The sound of a cap unscrewing filled my ears. I turned my neck hesitantly, my eyes rounding in anticipation as he slowly approached me, an orange bottle in his hands. He drizzled a hearty amount of jasmine-scented massage oil onto my stinging cheeks. A trail of perspiration glistened in my cleavage as I relaxed into the cushion, his fingers slathering the slippery oil into every crease and wrinkle. I moaned, the roving fingernails perforating into my flesh surprisingly sharp.

  My eyes popped open, smeared mascara tracking down my burning face. I craned my neck hesitantly, following the sound of a clicking lighter. He was now hovering over me, a thick, twisted candle about ten inches long suspended over my glossy, greasy cheeks. He set the dangling wick aflame, a hint of strawberries dancing in the air. My mouth was growing sore. I was salivating from the sides of my lips, my convulsing, pleasured shrieks lost in the drenched, balled up fabric. My back arched, my legs squirming underneath me with every brief, almost addictive, sweltering heat that came with every wax bullet that kissed my flesh.

  I gasped, a chill running down my wrists at the alarmingly florid patches of my skin, forming around the globs of ruby-tinted wax dotting my terribly aching cheeks. I wasn't sure what it was – maybe it was the burst of color, the explosion of vitality surging within me, perhaps, even the agonizing, yet tantalizing pain inflicted upon me, but I wanted more. Whatever it was, I needed more.

  Mr. Crawford uncuffed me, bright red rings circling my tender wrists. I dropped to the floor, burrowing my fingers into the fibers of his plush carpeting. My mouth gaped open further, sputtering on the handkerchief as he unbuckled his belt, his pants dropping to his knees. I watched as he removed his veined, throbbing pole from his black boxers. The room around me blurred as he began stroking the length of his shaft. He picked out the largest whip from his briefcase and forced the handle into my fingers.

  “Spank yourself, you little whore. I wanna see how sorry you really are.”

  He yanked the handkerchief out of my mouth, his nebulous grin broadening. I squeaked, my heart pounding in my ears as I raised the large, menacing whip over me with trembling arms. I cracked it lightly against my left cheek, the fringes bouncing gently off my flesh.

  “Harder,” Mr. Crawford barked, his eyes flashing.

  I flung the whip against my flesh with all the might I could muster, a splitting screech trilling out of my lips. Gasping with my tongue probing my cheek, I sucked in my lips from the burning sensation. I glanced towards Mr. Crawford, biting my lip. His fingers were wrapped around his cock, jerking the length of his shaft violently, a clear, filmy liquid oozing out his reddish, glistening tip. The lust-riddled look in his eyes was slightly maddening, and it made me squirm. There was nothing I wanted more than to watch his tip erupt with his milky emissions. With a mischievous twinkle in my eye, I hefted the whip over me and flogged myself repeatedly, my quavering kneecaps scraping against the carpet, almost unbearable.

  Mr. Crawford bolted across the room and clenched a fistful of my hair. My lips parted instinctively, the tip of his throbbing pole shoving into my mouth. His beautiful blue eyes softened as he emptied his load between my lips, his creamy, faintly tart discharge trickling down my throat. I gasped as he pulled himself out of my mouth. He brushed the back of his fingers against my cheek, stroking ever so gently. I kissed his fingertips, gazing dreamily into his eyes. I knew exactly what I had to do.

  Chapter Seven –

  “So, are we ready to apologize?”

  I scrunched up my nose, slowly counting to ten under my breath as Mathias stormed into my living room. Cracking my neck from side to side, I rose from my sofa, folding my arms against my chest. Mathias tossed his helmet onto the cushion next to me, missing me by inches, and pocketed his copy of my house keys. My stomach twisted, despising every bit of the dreadfully smug, self-congratulating look etched across his darkly handsome features. I clucked my tongue. What a damn waste.

  The complacent smile on his face began to flounder, a hypocritical sense of satisfaction stirring within me. His eyes fell to the princess cut, solitaire engagement ring in the center of my coffee table. He growled, snatching the band from the table, shaking his fist in my face.

  “What the fuck is the meaning of this?”

  I slowly retreated, narrowing my eyes, drumming my newly-adorned fingers on my crossed arms. He squinted towards the metal band cuffed around my ring finger, his hanging jaw cementing his growing confusion as he eyeballed the tiny, circular hoop dangling from the band.

  “What the fuck is that?” Mathias snarled, drops of his spit spraying across my cheeks.

  “It's none of your fucking business, that's what,” I snapped, standing my ground, “We're over, Mathias.”

  Mathias snorted, his brows knitting dangerously as he paced around my living room, his heels scuffing my hardwood floor. His chest fluctuated as he purposefully trampled across my faux polar bear-skin rug
, sullying the lush, parchment-white fur with his filthy boots.

  “My point, exactly,” I sighed, rolling my eyes, “Please, if you will, get the hell off my carpet. And watch my floors – that's oakwood for pete's sake. I swear, every time you come around here, my house decreases in value.”

  “Hey, you – just – shut the fuck up for a minute.”

  “You kiss your mother with that filthy Christian mouth?”

  Mathias lunged towards me, wrapping his fingers desperately around my arms. My shoulders stiffened defensively, wriggling out of his grasp. I glared at him, seething.

  “Don't touch me, Mathias.”

  He dropped the angst in his voice, his tone eerily compliant, “Please, Cleo – just tell me why –”

  “Why?” I repeated, aghast, “I'm sick of the abuse, Mathias –”

  “I never fucking hit you –”

  “No,” I agreed, sighing exasperatedly. I rubbed my temples, continuing, “No, you haven't. All those names all these years, after I've begged you to stop on countless occasions. You have absolutely no respect for me, Mathias. And your godforsaken need to control every little part of me is just unhealthy, not to mention, terrifying.”

  “Control? I don't know what you're –”

  “The spyware you installed on my laptop? The tracker you downloaded on my cellphone? How about something a little more recent to freshen up your memory – getting my keys duplicated – all of these were done without my permission. Are we seeing a pattern here or do I have to spell it out to a damn cop?”

  Mathias breathed heavily through his mouth, still frenziedly stampeding all over my living room.

  “You either need to get your shit together, or please, get the hell out of my living room,” I warned, my rage intensifying. I uttered coldly, “You don't scare me, Mathias. You never have.”

  Mathias stopped, his heaving chest gradually relaxing. He unknotted his thick, heavily-arched brows, this time, approaching me with cautious, deliberate steps. My shoulders weakened as Mathias snaked his strong, strapping arms around my waist, holding me close to him. He tilted his head and leaned towards me, pressing his lips softly against mine, his fuzzy beard tickling my chin. He pulled away, his watery eyes glistering with remorse.

  “Please, Cleo, I love you,” Mathias pleaded, his chin quivering, “Don't do this to me, baby. I need you in my life, I swear I'm gonna be a changed man, just give me one more chance. That's all I'm asking for.”

  I cringed, his pleading words all too familiar. In fact, it was starting to sound like a tired, old script. I looked into his imploring, sad brown eyes, and for a fleeting moment, my knees weakened. Happy, laughing memories of us snuggled on my sofa, smearing whipped cream on each other's noses; our one, peaceful fishing trip out at Lake Tahoe; snatching the trophy at a couple's bowling night in a seedy bowling alley, reeled in my mind like a cheesy clip show. I frowned, the jubilant memories short-lived. The verbal abuse, constant degradation, lack of respect and tolerance, topped with the forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, hit me all at once like a tumbling pile of bricks.

  “No,” I declared firmly, squirming out of his arms, “I'm sorry, Mathias. I'd like to keep things civil, as we'll still be seeing each other at Church –”

  “You stupid bitch –”

  “There you go again,” I sighed mockingly, pointing towards my front door, “Well, off you go.”

  “You can't make me –”

  “No, but I'm pretty sure Matthew would,” I grinned, shrugging, “He's parked outside the door. You really think I wouldn't bring reinforcements? I'm a strong woman, but I'm definitely not stupid.”

  The color drained from his cheeks as he pulled apart my curtains, glancing out my window.

  “And you can keep your keys, by the way. Matthew's coming in to help me change the locks when you leave.”

  Mathias blinked at me, furious, his incredulous eyes bugging out of its sockets.

  “Screw you, Cleo.”

  “You had your chance. No thanks,” I said simply, cackling to myself, my front door rattling in its frame.

  Epilogue –

  Mr. Crawford's office door squeaked to a close behind me. He glanced up from his desktop screen. He flashed me a cool, sexy smirk, stroking his flaxen stubble pensively at the sight of me, undoubtedly consumed with his perpetually brooding, twisted thoughts. I brushed my fingers lightly against my coral-kissed cheeks, the metal band around my fingers shimmering under the radiant white lights of his office.

  He simpered playfully, remarking, “You gotta be careful showing that ring off around in the office. We've got over a thousand employees – there's bound to be someone to recognize it.”

  I winked, returning a tittering smile, shrugging, “Well, just as long as they never find out who it's from.”

  “We don't want anyone else laying a single finger on you now, do we? You know how crazy angry I get when I see the creeps at the office eyeing that delicious fucking ass of yours.”

  “No, of course not,” I pouted, sashaying towards him seductively with exaggerated sways of my hips, “You're the only one I want, Mr. Crawford. I promise.”

  “Good. That's exactly what I wanna hear.”

  His eyes widened as I edged across his desk, slowly pulling my skirt up over my waist. He grunted as I revealed my rounded, swollen cheeks, my flesh slightly tainted with faint, purplish bruises. I grabbed hold of his two forefingers, pressing them against the sheer, sodden material of my pantyhose, my warm juices seeping out from the pulsing space between my legs.

  I turned, smiling as I leaned against his desk. Slowly, I carefully unbuttoned my blouse, my milky, pendulous breasts spilling out freely. I moaned as Mr. Crawford caught each of my spheres with the warmth of his large, mannish palms, tweaking my erect, tawny nipples.

  “Please, Mr. Crawford,” I groaned through my trembling lips, “I need you to fuck me. It's all I've been able to think about – I've felt your thick, fat cock throbbing in my hands...I need to know what it feels like in my pussy –”

  “As you wish, Cleo,” Mr. Crawford chuckled, his eyes twinkling, “As you wish.”

  He bent me over across his desk, a titillated moan escaping my lips as he shredded a hole in my pantyhose with his bare hands. My knees knocked gently against each other, feeling the smooth, warm tip of his rod rubbing against my dripping wet slit. He slowly slid his length inside of me, my eyes fluttering shut. The floating, morphing orbs of light frolicked behind my squeezed-shut eyes, the dancing of pain and pleasure between my legs coursing through my body. The colors were the most beautiful things I had ever seen, so untroubled, so carefree...

  I shuddered, a thick, warm stream slithering down the insides of my thighs. I sighed deeply, savoring the beautiful, agonizing discomfort. At that very moment, I could feel nothing but a glorious, calming pain...every drip of my repentance, leaking down the space between my legs.

  Tamed by the CEO

  Secretary Romance

  By: Amanda Bolton

  Tamed by the CEO

  Laurie slipped the ends of the her shirt collar between her thumbs and index fingers to stretch it forward and smooth it out in an effort to look as put together as possible. She checked to make sure all her buttons were secured for about the third or fourth time before looking over her entire outfit. Dark grey slacks, black leather belt, and a cobalt blue button-down shirt all made for an outfit with a professional look but did nothing in particular to make her stand out. Not even her pair of simple but cute black flats added any excitement to the ensemble. But it did the job in making her look the part as the secretary of a billionaire CEO while also working with her larger figure.

  There were days she was surprised she had that job to begin with. It was not that she was under qualified by any means; it was that she would ride the elevator with other secretaries or see them roaming the office floors as the doors slid open and closed that made her feel out of place. Most of them were beautiful in a conventional sort of way, the kind
of way that made her feel dumpy if she allowed herself to think about it. They were thin and fit with luscious, flowing hair and wore pencil-skirt suits that showcased their legs and figures while just barely tugging at that line between the professional and the inappropriate. They had airy laughs that raveled through the halls and seemed to make all the men smile. They knew how to wear their daily makeup and how to carry themselves to attract just the right amount of attention. These were all things Laurie had never been able to master.

  But she was a cheerful woman in the infectious sort of way. She always managed to brighten someone’s day and bring the atmosphere to life. She was a kind-hearted woman who believed in helping others. Simply put, she truly found joy in the joy of others without ever compromising her own comfort or happiness. “That is something many people find difficult to balance,” she had once been told a long time ago. But those were words she had decided to always carry with her as a reminder to put her best foot forward. It was a way to remember that the only way to actually do that was to take care of her wants and needs just as much as she wanted to take care of others. And this was the work ethic she demonstrated every single day in the office. Though she may have felt lower than the rest in the looks department from time to time, she felt she was on or above par in what really mattered.

  She flattened her bangs one last time before looping the straps of her purse around her arm and grabbing her car keys to head out. It was Monday and she had not bothered with making lunch for the day so she would just have to settle for buying something at the building’s cafeteria. It was not her favorite thing to do as the food was rather bland and overpriced but she found the sandwiches to be a happy medium. She turned on her car and leaned back against the headrest, closing her eyes just for a couple minutes for her last rest before the start of the workday. She knew the day ahead was a long one because the office had been particularly busy the past couple of weeks and this last week would be the worst of it. The company was gearing up for a special event, a ceremony of sorts, and she had been given plenty of responsibilities for its preparations. Given she was the secretary to the CEO, there was an added pressure to her job and quite a bit of extra tension in the office.