by Ami Snow
I obliged, seating myself across his desk. He cocked an eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze sizzling into my skin. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, finally remembering the resume clenched firmly in my grasp. He accepted the resume, his hooded, blue eyes darting from side to side, skimming through my type-written achievements.
“I know I don't have a lot of –”
Mr. Crawford interjected, cocking an eyebrow, “Like I said – experience isn't crucial to your employment. Can you type?”
I nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, I've got a 103 WPM –”
“Show me.”
“What?” I blinked, furrowing my brows, “Right now?”
I rose from my chair, meeting his unwavering stare. My heart pounded in my ears as I teetered towards him awkwardly in my heels, my confined breasts swinging heavily. Did I just notice his eyes lingering on my heaving chest? A rush of exhilaration coursed through my veins.
Mr. Crawford dragged away his leather throne, pulling up a plain, sturdy wooden chair in its place. I slanted my head to the side in confusion. I shivered, catching a hinted whiff of his brisk, cognac-inspired cologne, the back of his hand delicately brushing against the small of my back. My toes curled inside my pumps.
“Bend over.”
I gasped, crinkling my forehead, “Excuse me, sir?”
He leaned in close to me, his hot breath tickling my earlobes, “You heard me. Get up on the chair and bend over, ass up.”
I glanced at the blank document on the screen of his desktop. My eyes fell to the leather-bound Bible next to his computer, displaying a highlighted passage. In a trance-like state, I heaved myself up on the wooden chair, resting my elbows on his desk, wobbling until I gained balance. I turned to him for his approval.
“Like this, sir?”
“Good girl. Start typing.”
I swallowed. Beads of sweat collected in the creases of my palms, dampening his keyboard. I froze, his fingers crawling up my thighs, slowly hiking my skirt over my waist. An icy blast blew past my unsheltered skin, the thin, white cotton of my high-cut briefs clinging to my ample cheeks.
“Sir?” I squeaked, “What are you –”
“I want to see how you fare under distraction. Now, type.”
My eyes widened at the irony of the verse I had become well-acquainted with over the years – 1 Corinthians 6, verses 18 to 20. I propped my trembling fingers upon the keyboard, my thumping pulse accelerating in my wrists as he grabbed a handful of my left cheek, melting at his touch.
I feebly clicked away, “Flee from sexual immorality...Every other sin...”
Mr. Crawford opened his bottom drawer and brandished a black, seven-inch scourge with leather fringes. I hunched my shoulders, a cold, frigid fear gripping me motionless. He yanked my panties down to my ankles. I glimpsed at him behind my shoulders, his eyes hovering over the diamond on my ring finger. I curled my fists.
Without warning, he cracked his whip violently against my bare cheeks. My back arched, a pained shriek trilling out of my lips. The skin of my jiggling cheeks numbed, a faint, reddish stain blossoming from where he struck me.
Mr. Crawford grunted through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of my hair, “I didn't ask you to stop. Keep typing.”
The room around me hazed, my heart pounding in my ears as my eyes snapped back to the screen. My knees quavered, a thin stream of my juices trickling between my legs. God forgive me.
Chapter Four –
Just as I expected, Mathias awaited my return. I groaned under my breath, bracing myself as I spotted his department-issued motorcycle, parked on the curb across my house. Mathias was leaning against his ride, sporting his full uniform, his spotless badge glinting under the muted glow of the streetlamp. He hung his helmet over his handlebar, his arms crossed and his face contorted in a seething sneer.
“So we've finally made it home, huh?”
I stifled the urge to roll my eyes, skirting past him as I headed for my front door. Mathias followed closely behind, his jagged breath beating down on the back of my neck. I bit down on my lip as I stuck my hand into my purse, searching for my keys. I jolted backwards, startled as Mathias reached into his pocket. He jammed a key into my door and booted it open.
My eyes bugged out in disbelief.
“Mathias?” I inquired, my blood running cold, “How'd you get a copy of my keys?”
He curled his bottom lip in disdain, snarling, “I took it upon myself to make a copy of my own, as you obviously have no intention of ever making me the one I asked for.”
I opened my mouth in protest, quickly deciding against fruitless arguing and instead, slithered through my doorway. Mathias lumbered in after me, slamming the door shut behind him. His tedious, unchanging harping fell incoherent to my ears as I kicked off my shoes, tailing me to my living room. I collapsed on my couch, shivering. I could still feel Kane's long, smooth fingertips scraping against my skin...
“Why you looking so doe-eyed for? Answer me, Cleo!”
I blinked. The velvety, bearded goatee on Mathias' chin was streaked with his angered spittle, his rounded, sepia eyes a product of his uncontrollable wrath.
Crestfallen, I sighed, “Aren't you going to ask me about my interview?”
He huffed, cracking his neck as he folded his arms across his brawny chest. He asked, his tone challenging, “So? How'd it go?”
“It was – er – interesting, but hey, I got the job, baby! You're looking at the new secretary of –”
“I knew it.”
My mouth hung open, his words settling in my ears. I rose from my sofa, wincing at the sudden aching of my stretching, tender cheeks. I hurled a spiteful look at my fiance, sizing him up from head to toe.
“Well, don't get yourself too excited,” I grumbled sarcastically, “Unbelievable, Mathias. This is a good thing. I'm moving up in the world. I'm growing – why can't you ever be happy for something that doesn't concern you?”
“Don't fucking talk to me like that –”
I'm not quite sure what it was – maybe it was the overwhelmingly cold, callous look in his beady eyes, the way his chest inflated with such passion and vigor. A bizarre, sensual prowess overcame me, spurring my tranced limbs into action. I swung my arms around his shoulders and pulled him towards me, fiercely pressing my lips against his, kissing him with more passion and vigor in all our seven years combined.
I groaned sultrily into his mouth, the thorns of his closely cropped hair piercing into my fingertips. Mathias fell back onto the sofa, his adam's apple bobbing as I climbed on top of him, straddling him. I cupped his chin in my hands, gently nibbling on his lip as I carefully urged his hands towards the swollen mounds of my aching breasts. I undid the top three buttons of my blouse, my ample, creamy cleavage taunting him just inches from his nose.
“I think we've waited long enough,” I purred into his ear, gingerly rubbing against the growing bulge on his crotch.
His glazed, widened eyes narrowed abruptly, glowering as he hefted me off him. I toppled backwards onto the floor, swearing under my breath as I scrambled to my feet. Mathias bared his grinding teeth, tucking his obvious erection into place.
“What the fuck do you think you're doing, Cleo?”
Wading in my dreadful pool of embarrassment, I stammered, “What – what do you mean, Mathias? I thought we could just –”
Mathias threw his hands up in the air in frustration, shaking his head, “Let me get this straight – so you won't marry me, but you'll try to get me to fuck you with the man upstairs watching us? What's gotten into you, Chloe? We've been engaged for three years now –”
“Maybe I just don't wanna be tied down with you,” I retorted, breathing heavily, “For fuck's sake, Mathias, why does everything have to be turned to a religious debate? There's –”
“Slut.”
My nostrils flared with rage at the hateful utterance of his words, my ears ringing. I locked my right foot securely on the ground, leering. It didn't matter that he stood a go
od three feet over me – at that very moment, the man I stood by for seven years was a mere two inches tall.
I took a deep breath, my frothing rage slowly subsiding.
“Get out, Mathias.”
His fists curled at his sides, shaking his head adamantly. I pounced towards the sofa and dug into my purse, grabbing hold of my phone. Mathias stopped in his tracks, an inkling of fear swimming in his dark, heavily-hooded eyes.
“If you don't get the fuck out of my house now, I'm calling the cops – the real cops – and Matthew.”
Mathias froze at the sound of his brother's name, his face wracked with defeat. He turned on his heel and stalked out the door, his shoulders grudgingly slouched. I cringed, the door slamming shut behind him. I raced towards the door and bolted it shut before slowly slinking back to my living room. I climbed onto my sofa, coiling myself into a ball. As the rumbling sound of Mathias' motorcycle sped away, my eyelids slowly fluttered shut.
Chapter Five –
I peered into the shutter-blinded, glass windows of the conference room, squinting at the row of important-looking, suited gentlemen gathered around the lengthy, circular table. I shifted in my heels, the skimpy underwear I purchased riding up on my cheeks. The lacy fabric scratched against my skin. Irritated, I clicked my tongue, craning my neck to ensure that my oblivious colleagues, who were permanently nose-deep in the self-obsessed worlds that revolved around them, were doing just that. I furtively adjusted my panties through my skirt, feigning a hacking cough into my hand as Phil from HR strolled past. I clutched the clear folder of documents to my chest and opened the door to the meeting, the jittery sensation in my stomach intensifying.
My cheeks pinked, the weight of the men's perplexed, fixated stares anchoring down on me. Mr. Crawford was seated in a swiveling chair at the far end of the table, facing an attractive man in a pinstriped suit, standing in the center of the room, evidently in the midst of a presentation. I flashed them a wavering, rueful smile.
“So sorry for bursting in here, gentlemen – Mr. Crawford, I've got some documents from Shannon that need your signatures right away.”
Mr. Crawford lifted an eyebrow, his slight confusion apparent through his slightly parted lips. He nodded, quietly gesturing for me to enter. I scuttled towards Mr. Crawford, the man in front resuming with his presentation, jabbing his pointer stick at the projections on the wall.
I removed a stack of papers from the folder and placed it in his hands. His eyes widened, bewildered at the blank papers I had slyly inserted in his fingers. I regarded the inattentive presiders of the meeting, their lines of vision preoccupied with the redundant drivel spewing out of the presenter's mouth.
I wet my lips, lowering my eyes as my fingers loosened their grip. The remaining papers slipped out of my grasp, the floating papers fanning askew on the carpet. I smacked my forehead, crouching down to my knees in my inappropriately short pencil skirt.
“Sorry, guys – I can be so clumsy sometimes,” I flashed them a thumbs-up, “Carry on.”
I glimpsed back behind my shoulder, angling my hips upwards. A cool breeze tickled against the curves of my cheeks, faintly peeking out from the hem of my hip-hugging skirt. Mr. Crawford struggled to keep his eyes forward, casting fleeting, yearning glances in my direction. My chest swelled, relishing in the wake of his stirring lust. The slit between my panties pulsed, moistening with my warm secretions.
I gathered the papers and seated myself on a chair pushed up against the wall, feigning a bout of note-taking as I retrieved a pen clipped onto my chest pocket. I could barely suppress the smile on my lips, my cheeks glowing at Mr. Crawford's continuous glimpses. Nearly choking on my own spit, I gasped, his hand slipping under the table, out of view, stroking the mounting prominence on the crotch of his dress pants.
I gingerly flicked open the top buttons of my blouse, a small smile playing on my lips. A jolt of excitement fizzed through my body, watching him squirm from four feet away. He wiped away a dribble of sweat running down his left temple, his eyes focusing on the teasing shadow of my naturally plump cleavage.
“Mr. Crawford? What are your views on the fall line-up?”
Mr. Crawford tugged at the knot of his tie, clearing his throat audibly. He turned back to his peers, the corners of his tight-lipped mouth twitching. The creases on his forehead deepened as he reclined in his chair, prodding at his temples with his fingers.
“Sorry, fellas. I'm feeling a bit under the weather today – must be the bad shrimp I had last night. I apologize profusely but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to postpone the meeting – Friday, perhaps.”
The presenter nodded, his face falling, “Of course. Thank you for your time, Mr. Crawford – we look forward to seeing you again on Friday.”
I stood from my chair, flattening the rumples of my skirt as the men filed out of the conference room. Mr. Crawford cocked his head to the side, smirking as I sauntered towards him. He seized my wrist, slowly wringing it to an unnatural angle.
“You're a naughty little distraction, aren't you?” Mr. Crawford hissed into my ear, tightening his grasp as I squealed, “You like acting like a little whore when I'm in the middle of business?”
“I'm – I'm sorry,” I gasped, his grip loosening around my wrist, “I won't – it won't happen again –”
Mr. Crawford snickered, his dark laughter filling me with an inexplicable sense of wonder and terror.
“I didn't say I didn't enjoy it. Now go to my office and wait for me. That's a fucking order.”
Chapter Six –
I paced around in Mr. Crawford's office, aggressively chewing on the dangling skin around my shortened fingernails as I awaited his return. I exhaled indignantly, seating myself back down on the armchair opposite his desk. The modern, non-numerical clock perched on his wall informed me that I'd been waiting for more than twenty minutes now. Where the hell was he? Had I gone too far? I've been here barely a month – what am I even really doing here? I buried my head in my arms, groaning. My restless legs curled up against the chair's, finding strange solace in the cool wood against my skin.
The door swung open behind me. Mr. Crawford strutted inside the room, a shiny, silver briefcase in his hands. The door creaked shut behind him as he wordlessly set his briefcase atop his desk.
“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 –”
“Gentl
e?” 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.