Chapter 1: The Office Domination
The rain didn’t fall so much as attack the window, a frantic tattoo against the glass thirty-seven stories above the city’s glowing grid. Kriss watched it for a moment, her reflection a tall, imposing silhouette against the chaos of light and water. She turned, the soft leather of her chair sighing.
Mark stood by the door, looking like he’d forgotten how to work his own limbs.
“You’re late,” she said. Her voice was calm, a low hum that carried across the spacious office.
“The elevator…” he started, his words tangling. “It was… slow.”
“It’s never slow.” She didn’t smile. She let the statement hang, watching him shift his weight from one foot to the other. He was practically swimming in his hoodie, all sharp angles and nervous energy. A faint tremor in his hands. Good. “Come here.”
He took a few steps, the plush carpet swallowing the sound. The distance between them felt vast, charged. The city’s hum was a distant thing here, muted by layers of glass and steel. All that remained was the sound of their breathing and the rain.
“Closer.”
He obeyed, stopping a few feet from her desk. She stood up.
The reality of her size always hit people in stages. First, the height as she uncoiled from the chair. Then the breadth of her shoulders, the solidness of her. She saw the calculations flicker behind his eyes as she stepped around the desk. The top of his head barely reached her collarbone. She was wearing simple heels, black and severe, which put her well over seven feet. He had to tilt his head back to meet her gaze, a child looking up at an adult.
“You said you wanted this,” Kriss murmured, reaching out. She didn’t grab him, not yet. She just let her hand, palm broad and fingers long, come to rest against the side of his neck. His skin was warm, his pulse rabbiting under her thumb. “You wrote me an essay about it. All those careful, hungry words.”
“I did,” he breathed. His eyes were wide.
“Words are easy.” Her hand slid up, cradling the base of his skull. A gentle, inescapable pressure. “This isn’t.”
In one motion, she moved. It wasn’t a struggle. He was so light. Her arms went around his torso, just under his ribs, and she lifted him straight off the floor. His gasp was a sharp, sucked-in thing, all the air forced out of him by the sudden compression. She felt the frantic beat of his heart against her forearm, the delicate architecture of his ribs.
She held him there for a long moment, suspended, his feet kicking empty air a foot above the carpet. She studied his face—the parted lips, the stunned disbelief. Then she let go.
He dropped, but she was already moving, guiding the fall. He landed on his back with a soft whump, the impact more surprise than pain. Before he could even process the floor, she was over him. A knee planted on either side of his hips, caging him. She settled her weight down slowly, deliberately, a continent descending. The air left his lungs in another rush.
“Okay?” she asked, her voice close to his ear.
He managed a jerky nod. His hands came up, hesitant, and brushed against her thighs. The difference was absurd. His slender fingers looked like twigs against the solid curve of her.
She shifted, rolling her hips forward just enough to make him gasp again. Then she moved off him, fluid and sure. “On your front.”
He scrambled to obey, turning over onto his stomach. The carpet was cool against his cheek. He felt exposed, utterly so. Then her shadow fell over him.
She didn’t kneel beside him. She simply lowered herself, one hand braced on the floor near his head, and settled onto him. Her bare feet came first, one then the other, planted firmly on the carpet on either side of his shoulders. Then the impossible, smothering weight of her backside came down, not on his back, but directly onto the back of his head.
The world dissolved into pure, profound pressure. It was dark, and hot, and impossibly heavy. The scent of her skin, clean and faintly musky, filled his universe. The entire massive, voluptuous weight of her was concentrated on that one point of contact, pressing his face into the dense wool blend. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. Each inhale was a filtered, strained effort, pulling in air through the minimal space she allowed.
She adjusted her seat, a slow, grinding shift that made the bones of his skull creak in protest. A wet, rhythmic thud echoed through him—the sound of her own movement, amplified by his isolation beneath her.
Time lost meaning. There was only the weight, the heat, the constriction. A tiny, primal part of his mind screamed panic, but it was drowned out by a deeper, more shocking wave of submission. This was what he’d asked for. This was the reality of it.
Her voice cut through the muffled silence, vibrating through her body into his. “You like this, don’t you?”
It wasn’t a taunt. It was a flat, curious inquiry. He tried to make a sound. It came out as a strained, affirmative grunt into the carpet.
“I know.” She shifted again, a little sigh of movement. “I can feel it. Your whole body just… surrendered.”
One of her hands left the floor. He felt her fingers then, cool and surprisingly gentle, trace the line of his ear, his jaw where it was exposed, a tiny island of skin not buried beneath her. The contrast was startling—the utter, crushing domination of her weight, and this minute, almost affectionate touch.
“Such a little thing,” she mused, her thumb stroking his cheekbone. “I could break you without even thinking about it. You know that, right?”
He did know. The knowledge was a cold, thrilling current under the heat of his shame and excitement.
The hand retreated. Both her palms were flat on the floor now, taking more of her weight. For a second, the pressure lessened, just a fraction, and he drew in a deeper, shuddering breath. It was a cruel trick.
She settled back down, final and absolute. The pressure returned, worse than before.
“Stay,” she commanded, as if he had any other choice. He felt her lift one foot from the carpet, then bring it down, the sole of her bare foot planting itself firmly over his nose and mouth, grinding down with playful, terrifying authority. The world shrank further, to the texture of her skin against his, the blocked, impossible need for air.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
The weight lifted. Cool air flooded over his damp, compressed face. He lay there, gasping, his body singing with pins and needles. He felt hollowed out and remade.
He heard the soft sound of her standing, the whisper of her clothes. He dared to turn his head. She was looking down at him, her expression unreadable. She reached a hand down, not to help him up, but to run her fingers through his hair, once, firmly.
“Get up,” she said, her tone now all business, as if they’d just concluded a mundane meeting. “The bathroom’s through there. Clean up. We’re not done.”
She walked back to her desk, the window’s stormy light framing her once more. Mark pushed himself up onto trembling arms, the imprint of her body still mapped onto his nerves, the taste of carpet and her still on his tongue. He had no idea what ‘not done’ meant.
He was terrified to find out.
He was terrified to find out.
The bathroom was all cool marble and chrome. He splashed water on his face, the shock of it a small rebellion. His reflection in the mirror was unfamiliar—eyes too bright, hair flattened on one side, skin marked with the deep, fleeting weave of the carpet. He smoothed his hoodie, took a breath that still felt thin, and walked back out.
Kriss wasn’t at her desk. She was in the sitting area by the window, a low-slung sofa that looked like a dark slice of obsidian. She’d kicked off her heels. She glanced at him, then patted the expanse of her thigh. The casual command was absolute.
“Come here. Lie down.”
Mark’s throat tightened. This was different. Before, it was about containment, pressure. This felt… exposed. “Kriss, please. I don’t think I…”
“You don’t think?” she interrupted, her voice flat. “That’s the problem. Stop thinking. I’m in charge. Now.”
He stood rooted, a current of pure resistance locking his joints. She watched him, her expression patient and utterly unmovable. After a long silence, she patted her lap again. Once. A final summons.
His feet moved before his mind agreed, carrying him the terrible few steps to the sofa. He turned, his back to her, and slowly, awkwardly, let himself collapse backwards. The back of his head came to rest just above her knees, his legs dangling off the far end of the couch. He was rigid, staring up at the ceiling’s recessed lights.
“Relax,” she said, and it sounded like an insult.
Her hands settled on his hips. He flinched. With efficient, unceremonious tugs, she worked his sweatpants and boxers down over his hips, just enough. The cool air of the office hit his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, a hot wave of shame washing over him. This was it. The vulnerability was total, horrifying.
Then her hand closed around him.
He jerked, a strangled sound escaping his lips. Her grip was firm, knowing, a slow, deliberate stroke that short-circuited his panic and replaced it with a shocking, unwelcome jolt of sensation.
“See?” she murmured, her voice a vibration above him. “You don’t have to think.”
Before he could process the touch, a new weight descended. She leaned forward. The soft, heavy swell of her breast, freed from her top, pressed against his forehead, then covered his eyes, his nose, his mouth. It wasn’t the brutal, flattening pressure of before. This was a smothering blanket, a profound, living weight that pushed his head back into the firm muscle of her thigh.
He couldn’t see. He could barely breathe. Each breath was a labor, drawing air through the hot, scented confines of her flesh. The sheer mass of it was incomprehensible. Fifty pounds was a bag of concrete, a small child. It was this—a warm, yielding prison settling over his features with a final, possessive gravity.
Beneath that suffocating warmth, her hand kept moving. The rhythm was relentless, impersonal. It wasn’t about pleasure, not for him. It was a demonstration. A function. Her thumb swept over him in time with the pulse he could feel in the weight crushing his face.
He was dissolving. The sharp lines of his embarrassment, his fear, his fragile ego—all of it was being ground away between the millstones of her dominance. The city outside was gone. The room was gone. There was only the slow, rhythmic pull of her hand, the crushing perfume of her skin, the overwhelming presence of her body consuming his.
Tears, hot and involuntary, leaked from his screwed-shut eyes, absorbed instantly by her skin. A choked sob was swallowed by her breast. He was giving her everything—his air, his sight, his control. And she was taking it, methodically, as her right.
Her pace didn’t change. She didn’t speak. The only sounds were the wet friction of her hand, his ragged, muffled attempts to breathe, and the silent, monumental fact of her ownership.