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by CELENE CAREY

  Her brother? She didn’t have a brother. Oh, God, her mother.

  “My mother!” she blurted out, her inner filter failing her.

  “Yes, I believe she’s here, too.” Now Angelique was completely confused. Not even sure this conversation was real anymore, she just closed her eyes.

  She must have fallen asleep because when she opened her eyes again, she was in a small room. Painted pale blue and darker teal, with white plastic and chrome everywhere. It smelled antiseptic. Behind her, a slow beep beat, followed by a whoosh of air. She looked down at her hand. A needle punctured a vein, clear tubing snaking down the side of the bed and back where the machine hummed.

  A silhouetted man sat in a chair near the window. His back was to her. From the bit of light filtering through the closed blinds she could see nearly no details, but he seemed familiar.

  “Hello?” It came out scratchy, husky.

  He startled, jumping at her voice. “You’re awake!” He stood, slipping behind the curtain curled halfway around her bed, and leaned out into the hallway. Calling a doctor, he stepped back inside. As he moved closer, instantly, she placed him. Mr. Adams, the new partner. What was he doing here?

  “How are you doing?”

  She only stared. Was she still dreaming? Did she actually die and this was some alternate reality? Really, what was her boss’ newest partner doing here with her--waiting on her--in a hospital?

  A moment later, a doctor entered. He was snowy-haired, bearded, and looked for all world like a thin Santa Claus. Angelique couldn’t help it, she laughed. He waggled his bushy eyebrows. She laughed so hard, she froze, contorted with pain. Instantly, the doctor was all seriousness, rushing the three strides to her bedside.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” he chided, patting her shoulder gently.

  “What happened to me?”

  “Seems you took a tumble down some stairs. Bruised a hip, cracked a shin, broke two ribs and your arm. Banged up your shoulder pretty good, too, but luckily no joints were seriously injured. We’ve treated the breaks, bandaging what we can, and given you a healthy dose of painkillers. Going to be a while before you’re back up and moving, but you should heal just fine. Luckily,” and the doctor stepped aside, motioning toward Mr. Adams, “he was there when it happened. Got you an ambulance fast as lightning and they got the swelling under control.”

  She looked toward Mr. Adams. “Thank you.” It was all she knew to say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The doctor cleared his throat, embarrassed a bit at their formality, then turned to all business once again. “Your brother here gave us what he could regarding your personal information, but we’ll need some more help with a few of the questions. If you’re up for it, I’ll get the nurse back in here with the paperwork. So, now?”

  Angelique nodded. “Yes, now is fine.” The doctor left, making long eye contact with Mr. Adams as he passed by. Holding her tongue until he was gone, she turned on the partner.

  “My brother?”

  “They wouldn’t let me stay unless I was family.”

  “You’re not family.”

  “No.”

  “Why?” and then a memory hit her, “and my mother?”

  “Your mother’s in the waiting room with another woman, Rebecca. As for why I’m here. Well, I was worried about you. It isn’t every day a woman falls at my feet, down a flight of stairs. When you blacked out, I figured it was the least I could do to get you help. The least the company could do. Since I’m new, though, I didn’t have much pull with HR to get your life story. Had to guess a bit.”

  “Uh huh.” Despite his seeming goodwill and concern, she still remembered her initial impression. He was a snake-oil dealer. Through and through. “Will you get my mom?”

  “Sure,” and he moved to leave. As he opened the door, a nurse squeezed past and inside. He disappeared as she began to check Angelique’s vitals and the pain meds. When all that was done, he returned, standing in the doorway. Her mother was beside him, looking for all the world like she was visiting the Pope. The awe in her eyes as she studied Mr. Adams was almost too much to bear. Angelique prayed she wouldn’t say something stupid and invite the man over for dinner, a marriage, and children.

  Surprisingly, her mom said nothing, coming to her daughter’s side and taking her hand. It was a small miracle. He followed her within. The doctor returned and the nurse handed off her clipboard of paperwork. He scanned through the pages, flipping them up as he read. When he got to the last, he held them up as he caught Angelique’s eye, let them shuffle back down, then withdrew a pen, handed all back to the nurse and began to ask her questions.

  “You are doing very well, Mrs. Jacobson, very we--”

  “Miss Jacobson,” she interrupted. “I’m not married.”

  Nodding at her correction, he continued. “As I said, very well. There are no signs of any internal damage, bleeding, clots, etc. Looks like you managed to escape with just the bone damage. You’re still young. It’ll heal as good as new. Perhaps a bit of lasting pain when it rains or some early arthritis, but nothing serious. You might not even notice.”

  “Great,” Angelique answered. Though she wasn’t sure about the arthritis, she was glad the doctor seemed so certain.

  “Ok, then. I’ll check back in a little later. Press the call button if you need me.” He placed a hand on the nurse’s shoulder. “Your turn,” he said, patting her forward. The nurse was all smiles. Taking a chair, she pulled it close to the bed and began. Angelique looked around as she gave one answer after another. Her mother sat in a chair on the other side of the bed, Mr. Adams standing at her feet. She felt comfortably and safely surrounded. It was odd. She hadn’t felt so home in a long time. Shaking her head, she brushed the surreal feeling aside and tried to focus on the nurse.

  “Your father’s name?”

  “Thomas Jac--no, sorry--Thomas Adams,” she amended, glancing away from her mother as she fixed her mistake. For some reason, her mother hadn’t taken her father’s name and though she’d asked many times, no answer came. Each time, just a soft shake of her mother’s gray curls and a sad smile.

  “Adams?” Mr. Adams asked before the nurse could interject another question.

  She looked up startled at his voice. “Yes.” Cocking her head, she thought. Huh? What a coincidence. She flashed her brows at him. “That’s interesting.”

  Mumbling, she thought he said, “I’d say. His name,” and then the nurse spoke up again. More and more questions. Each time, as she handed over information about her father, Mr. Adams leaned forward and craned his neck to hear her every word. Disconcerting to the say the least.

  At last, though, the questions were done and the nurse shuffled everyone out of the room, claiming Angelique needed rest. She was grateful. Even more so when Mr. Adams offered to put her mother in hotel nearby, tossing in a home nurse to stay with her, all on the company dollar. She wasn’t sure if her boss would appreciate this use of his profit, but she appreciated Mr. Adams sticking his neck out for her.

  Perhaps her first impressions had been wrong. It had never happened before, but there was a first time for everything.

  The next day, Mr. Adams was the first to greet her as she awoke. He stayed the entire day, even opting to eat lunch--yes, the horrible hospital food--with her. They talked and talked, sharing stories of their childhoods, marveling at the similarities. Since he was about the same age--maybe three years older--a lot of their experiences were the same. Same movies, same games, same books.

  It was no surprise then, when after the third day of her stay, he asked her out. To a future lunch. A date, sort of, he’d called it. Angelique agreed quickly. A twinge of guilt for meeting another man, not her boss, made her cringe inwardly as she witnessed Mr. Adams smile at her agreement. Did this count as cheating? Did what she have with her boss count as a relationship. It was sex. Submission. Passion. But, was it a relationship? She wanted to say no, but feared her boss would not agree. In his mind, she knew he w
as a possessive dominant. She was his, in his eyes. His alone.

  BOOK 9

  HER CHOICE 2

  (Her Bosses - A Ménage Romance Story)

  KILIE SAMS

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  Copyright 2015 Hardcore Erotica Stories

  Published by Hardcore Erotica Stories

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  First HARDCORE EROTICA STORIES Printing July 2015

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  ~

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure inventions of fiction.

  Chapter One

  A week later, she was released, on crutches, back to the land of the working throngs. Angelique was thrilled to be out of the hospital. She’d begun to go stir-crazy from the constant barrage of interrupting nurses, the mean-spirited physical therapist, and the wacky doctor. Even more excited at the prospect of returning to work. She missed the other women, her boss, and her job. The fact that Mr. Adams would be there as well was also a motivating factor.

  “Miss Jacobson?” Mr. Stone called to her through the intercom from his office. She sat straighter in her chair at his voice, automatically checking her tight bun and yanking on the hem of her skirt as she scooted forward on the chair, shoving it back in order to stand. Leaning across her desk, she pressed the button.

  “Yes?”

  “Come in, please.” He cleared his throat. “I have some dictation for you to copy out.”

  She shuddered at the words. It was his code phrase. She glanced across at the other secretary’s desk. She was gone for the day. No wonder he was ready. She’d been out so long, his balls were probably blue. No doubt her replacement had been a shrew.

  “Yes, sir.” Angelique reached up and pulled her bun free, letting her long dark hair fall in a cascade down her back. Undoing a few of her navy blouse’s pearl buttons, exposing just the barest hint of her lace bra, she walked to his office door, knocked softly, then entered, shutting and locking the door behind her.

  “You have some dic--tation,” she purred, falling to the carpeted floor on her hands and knees, head lowered, a complete submissive. Her emphasis was intentional, a bit of naughtiness all her own. Trite, maybe.

  “You may approach,” he ordered, rising from behind his desk. She crawled forward, eyes to the floor, slowly, her ass swinging with each pace. As she moved closer, her body began to respond. Her skin broke out in a flush of thin sweat. Her thighs shook, her breasts grew heavy, the nipples rubbing against the cup of her bra, and her slit moistened. Her panties grew wetter, the musky scent of her arousal stronger as she neared her boss. He stepped before her, spreading his legs for her to move between them until he straddled her--the ultimate sign of her submission.

  She heard his fingers fumble at his belt, slipping the strap of leather from his slacks. He wrapped one end around his beefy hand, dangling the other teasingly in front of her downcast eyes.

  Angelique knew what was coming. Taking a deep, heavy breath, she prepared herself. Pleasure and pain. The two went hand-in-hand. It was a recent knowledge she’d gained. Under Mr. Stone’s tutelage.

  He ordered her to her feet. She was wearing a pair of sexy flats, instead of her usual heels--doctor’s orders--yet, still she shrunk away from his glare. He was not pleased. Her dress code was very particular. She opened her mouth, licked her lips, ready to defend her shoes. He stopped her with a flick of his eyes to her mouth. It was not her place to speak before spoken to. If he didn’t ask, she wasn’t to respond. She knew better. Shutting her mouth, she froze. He shifted around her, hands trailing her body, touching her over her clothes, testing her resolve.

  “You may undress.”

  She did not hesitate, doing as he commanded. Stripping her skirt down her legs, she kicked them to the side. Her thigh high stockings followed, a slow roll down each leg. Her garters, she left on. He’d told her once, in the throes, that he loved the strips of froth and she’d never removed them since. Next, her blouse. Holding his gaze, one of a handful of times he allowed the act, she slowly popped the buttons down her chest. Pulling the sleeves down her arms, she revealed her pale, freckled skin. Finally, her bra and panties, displaying both to his hungry hands and eyes. Pawing at her roughly, filling his hands with her breasts, he heaved them up, squeezed them until she whimpered, and then pinched each nipple before stroking down and cupping her mound, one fingers slipping--a tease--between her folds. She hissed through closed teeth and he pulled back, smirking at her response.

  “Over the desk. Present yourself.” Her heartbeat quickened. It was one thing, knowing what was about to happen, quite another to actually do it. Being ordered took away a bit of her guilt, but she’d made this submissive bed at her own willingness, and now she would lie in it.

  This, too, she obeyed. Climbing onto the desk, she lay across the top, careful of his papers and work, grabbing hold of the other side with white knuckles. Her hips settled on the edge, her legs draped over the front. Her ass was perched high on top. Her breasts pushed to the cool metallic top. Her nipples were hard nubs under her, painfully aware of the coldness and the coming pain. Spreading her legs, she balanced on her tiptoes. This was easier in heels. She smirked, now, a silent nod of inner understanding. He knew that. The panic at losing her grip and falling would be part of her punishment.

  His first touch to her ass was gentle, a slow circling caress over one of her cheeks, then the other. It was torture to have him touch her like this. He was not a gentle man. It was a lie, a lie her body craved and trusted. She fought the instinct, losing her mind.

  She slowed her breathing and calmed her racing heart.

  “You are already wet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I excite you?”

  “Always, sir.”

  “You missed me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You want me?”

  “Please, sir,” Angelique begged. His questions weren’t meant for him, they were meant for her. They were part of his skit, part of what he needed her to say. She had to answer, no matter the question. She had to be positive, submissive, and focused. Not on her, but him. It was a lesson hard learnt and well taught.

  “You will count out loud,” he reminded her.

  The first strike, a slap of leather across just one cheek, hit. She closed her eyes and forced her mouth closed. No moan, no screams. She was to remain quiet. She took a steadying breath.

  “One, sir.”

  The second strike, across both cheeks, was harder. The red mark from his first strike still throbbed. When the second hit, her skin warmed, nerves flaring, her brain registering both marks. In the beginning, he’d used his hand. It had hurt then, but she’d grown used to it--as he’d known she would--and she’d come to beg him for more. A paddle, then his belt.

  Angelique wasn’t sure what was more troubling, that she’d learned to respond erotically to the bite of pain he promised or that now she craved it. More and more pain, she asked him. In a way, she needed it to come. His belt was the ultimate whipping she could take. Sometimes a hair too much, but usually right on. Troubling, indeed.

  “Two, sir.”

  “How does it feel?”

  “Good, sir.”

  “More, then?”

  “Please, sir.”

  As the strikes came, she was ready. Still, they hu
rt. Still, she counted. Still, he asked. Still, she answered. Her voice shook, her body screaming for release. With juices flowing down her inner thighs, the scent of her arousal, sweet and tangy, filling the space around his corporate desk, Angelique tried to still the throbbing echo from her cheeks to her clit. She bit her tongue to keep from moaning, knowing it wasn’t time for that yet. The leather belt smacked across her ass cheeks with a sharp whack. She needed to cry. She wanted to come.

  Again and again, he stroked her welted, red, painful flesh, then lit into it. Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. She writhed atop the desk, moving into his touch, then away from the strikes. Out of control, she fought to maintain his ordered decorum, losing more as she struggled. It was a never-ending battle of wills. His versus hers. A destiny already written.

  And then her cell phone rang. Having forgotten it was still in her pocket, at first she was surprised at the temerity of whoever dared interrupt them. When she realized it was her own phone, she got scared.

  “Who is calling?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.” Half truth. It could be her mother, though she doubted it. Mr. Adams had promised to call her tonight to see about lunch tomorrow. Their standing date from her time in the hospital, as yet unrealized upon her release.

  “You lie?” He was a very observant man.

  “No, sir.” Clearing her throat, working past the fear of discovery, she forced her voice to moderation. The phone continued to ring and vibrate. Mr. Stone looked over his shoulder at the noise. He considered it, then her. Making a decision, he struck her ass again. Not with the belt, but this time with the flat of his hand. The pain was intense, the welts alert, raised, highly sensitive. She yelped. The phone fell silence.

  The room filled with her gasps. His hands rose to caress her inner thighs, fingers sliding along her wet slit, taking stock of her body response.