Chapter 11: Office Adventures
The weekend was over and it was time for Lisa and Paul to return to their routine. Paul made coffee. Lisa showered. They kissed goodbye and said their "I love you"s before leaving for work. The taste she’d left in his mouth seemed to have seeped into the very air of their apartment, a sour undertone beneath the normalcy.
Her office cubicle felt like a decompression chamber. The hum of computers, the clack of distant keyboards, the bland beige of the partitions—it was a sterile, undemanding space. Here, she wasn’t a cruel instructor. She was just Lisa, the junior marketing associate. Until the chat box on her screen blinked, flashing the name Marcus_Devlin.
Her heart did a hard, quick thump against her ribs. She glanced around. No one was paying attention.
She opened the window.
Marcus\_Devlin: Monday. A tragedy in three acts. Coffee, meetings, existential dread. How was your weekend, Lisa? Any fires to put out?
She could see him, three rows over and one aisle down, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t looking at her. His expression was one of mild screen-focused boredom. The deception was a thrill.
Lisa\_Corbett: A small blaze. Mostly contained.
Marcus\_Devlin: And the boyfriend? Still warming his hands at the embers?
Lisa\_Corbett: We talked.
Marcus\_Devlin: And?
Marcus\_Devlin: Don’t leave me in suspense. I’ve got a 10:30 budget review that needs all the distracting thoughts I can muster.
A slow smile spread across her face. She typed, the keys sounding louder than they were.
Lisa\_Corbett: He’s not going anywhere. In fact, we reached an understanding.
Marcus\_Devlin: An understanding.
Lisa\_Corbett: He understands that I’m not going to stop seeing you. And he’s decided he will try to live with it.
Marcus\_Devlin: You’re fucking with me.
Lisa\_Corbett: I’m not. I was tough but he caved and gave me permission. I told him he would start enjoying it eventually. We'll see.
There was a long pause. She watched his avatar, the little green circle. She imagined his face, the sharp, calculating shift in his eyes.
Marcus\_Devlin: Conference Room B. The one by the server closet. Nobody schedules anything there because the AC is fucked. Five minutes.
The chat box closed. The directive hung in the digital air. Lisa’s skin felt tight, electric. She waited exactly four minutes, gathered a notepad and a pen—a flimsy prop—and walked with deliberate calm across the floor. Her heels made neat, professional clicks on the linoleum.
Conference Room B was a glass-walled cube halfway down a dim, narrow hallway. The air was indeed warmer, thick and still. She slipped inside, the door hissing shut behind her. The blinds were half-drawn, slats cutting the view into strips of empty corridor.
He was already there, leaning against the long, polished table. He had ditched his suit jacket. His white shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He appraised her as she entered, a slow, hungry scan from her heels to the conservative neckline of her blouse.
“No.” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “You are actually fucking with me.”
“I’m not.” She set the notepad down with a tap. “He knows. He’s… acclimating.”
Marcus pushed off the table and took two strides toward her. He didn’t touch her. He just stood close, his body heat cutting through the stagnant air. “Acclimating.” He repeated the word as if tasting it. “So you actually did it, convinced your boyfriend to be your cuckold.”
A flush crept up her neck. The crudeness was a shock after Paul’s devastated silence. It was exhilarating. “He wants to be with me. And if this is what it takes for me to be happy, he’ll… accommodate it.”
Marcus laughed, a short, disbelieving sound. “Un-fucking-real.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “So what’s the understanding? He gets sloppy seconds? He tucks you in afterwards?”
“Something like that. We're still working out the dynamics. I told him that everything is about my pleasure now, and he needs to play his part. He's getting better at eating me out, for example.”
He reached out then, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Your pleasure, you say. And that part involves me, I guess?”
“Exactly,” she whispered, her breath hitching.
That was all the confirmation he needed. His hand slid from her lips to the back of her neck, pulling her in, and his mouth was on hers. It wasn’t a kiss like Paul’s. It was claiming, demanding. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting of expensive coffee and a mint he’d just popped. She kissed him back, feral and eager, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. The notepad clattered to the floor.
He walked her backwards until her ass hit the edge of the conference table. Papers scattered. His hands went to her hips, hoisting her up onto the polished surface in one rough movement. The cool laminate seeped through her thin work slacks.
“Prove it,” he growled against her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse point. “Prove you’re really allowed.”
His hands were at the button of her trousers, yanking it open, dragging the zipper down. He shoved the material over her hips, down her thighs and onto the floor. The air, warm as it was, was a shock on her skin. He hooked his fingers in the lace of her thong—Monday was for sensible beige —and tore it aside.
He didn’t go down on her. He didn’t tease. He unfastened his own belt and fly with a ruthless efficiency, pushing his trousers and briefs down just enough to free himself. He was already hard, thick and dark and jutting angrily from his body. He spat into his palm, gave himself two rough strokes, and then notched the head of his cock at her entrance.
He looked her dead in the eyes, a challenge. “Last chance to be a good faithful girlfriend.”
She answered by wrapping her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and pulling him into her. She bit her lip and let her head fall back slightly while she felt him pushing deeper.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his composure cracking for a second as her cunt clenched around him. “You’re so fucking wet for this. For me.”
He set a punishing rhythm, hips pistoning, driving her back on the table with each slam. The surface rocked slightly on its legs, a rhythmic thud against the carpet. Lisa clutched at his arms, her head falling back, eyes squeezed shut. Every impact jolted through her, a raw, animal collision. She could smell them—starch, sweat, sex, the faint lemony polish of the table.
“Your understanding boyfriend,” Marcus grunted, his breath hot in her ear. “He know you take it like this? That you love getting fucking split open on a Monday morning?”
“Yes,” she moaned, the lie and the truth twisting together. Paul knew nothing of this animal reality yet.
“He know how tight you get when you’re guilty?” He drove deeper, and she cried out. “He know the sounds you make when you’re getting properly fucked?”
“No, he has no idea how I get when I'm properly fucked. He never has.", Lisa replied.
Marcus chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest and into hers. “Then let’s make sure you remember this one.” He slid out of her, the sudden emptiness making her gasp. “Up. Turn around.”
His hands were on her, impersonal and commanding, maneuvering her off the table. Her legs trembled as her feet found the floor. He turned her by the shoulders, facing her toward the blank expanse of the laminated wood. The city skyline, a grey geometric painting, was the only witness through the slatted blinds.
“Bend over,” he said, his palm a firm press between her shoulder blades. “Hands flat.”
She obeyed, leaning forward until her torso was parallel to the table, her cheek pressed against the cool surface. She felt his hands at her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He yanked the delicate beige strap of her thong down, not bothering to pull it off, just dragging it past her ass, down her legs until it rested in a tight band between her ankles, a hobble. The air kissed her wet, exposed cunt.
He stepped close, his thighs brushing the backs of hers. She heard the slick sound of him stroking his cock again, gathering the wetness that leaked from her to slick himself. The broad, hot head of him nudged against her opening, a blunt pressure. He pushed in, not with a single thrust, but with a relentless, conquering advance that made her suck in a sharp breath through her teeth.
He filled her completely, a deeper, more invasive angle than before. He began to move, and it was different now. This was fucking, pure and simple. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each drive back in a solid, pounding re-entry that shook her whole body forward on the table. The table legs groaned in a steady, protesting rhythm. His balls slapped against her clit with every snap of his hips, a secondary, brutal percussion.
“You think about him?” Marcus panted, his pace unrelenting. “While you’re letting me wreck this sweet cunt? You picture his sad face?”
“No,” Lisa gasped, the word shuddering out of her. It was true. Paul was a ghost, a smudged photograph in the attic of her mind. All that existed was the punishing fullness, the slap of skin, the raw grate of his zipper against her tender skin. The conference phone in the center of the table was a black, silent eye.
“Good.” He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, his mouth at her ear. His voice dropped to a filthy whisper. “You’re just a hole now. My hole. Tell me.”
“I’m your hole,” she moaned, the degradation a fuel that burned white-hot in her veins.
“Used and wet and fucking mine.” His fingers tightened on her hips, surely leaving bruises. The pace became frantic, losing any semblance of rhythm for pure, driving need. The pressure inside her coiled, a spring wound to its breaking point. It was built from friction and shame and a liberating, terrifying selfishness.
Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a silent, seizing catastrophe. Her pussy clenched around him in vicious, rhythmic spasms, milking his length. A choked scream was trapped against the table’s surface, her body bowing rigid under his. He fucked her through it, his strokes turning jagged and desperate.
She felt him swell, a telltale hardening deep inside her, and the thought sliced through her euphoria: her cream-colored blouse, her tailored trousers puddled at her feet. She couldn’t go back to her desk smelling of him, stained with him.
“Wait,” she gasped, pushing back against him with a shaky hand. “Marcus, wait.”
He grunted, a sound of pure animal protest, but he stilled, buried to the hilt. She could feel the throbbing pulse of him. “What?”
She twisted her head to look back at him, her cheek still sticky against the table. “Let me suck you. I’m desperate for it. I want to taste you. Please, let me finish you in my mouth.”
His breath hitched. He looked down at her, at the ruin he’d made of her, her ass still in the air, her thong a pathetic tether around her ankles. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Yeah? You want that filthy mouthful?”
“God, yes.” The words felt true. The idea of it, of having that power, of taking him completely, sent a fresh jolt through her spent nerves.
He pulled out of her with a wet, obscene sound. She winced at the sudden empty ache, then turned, sliding off the table. Her knees were weak. She let them buckle, sinking onto the rough industrial carpet in front of him. The thong pulled tight between her ankles. He stood over her, his cock glistening with her juices, rigid and furious.
She didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward, closing her lips over the swollen head. The taste was immediate and complex—her own tang, the musky salt of his skin, the pre-cum leaking in salty beads. She moaned, the vibration eliciting a sharp hiss from above. She took him deeper, her tongue flattening against the thick vein on the underside, her hand coming up to fist the base.
“Fuck, Lisa,” he muttered, his hands tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding on.
She worked him with a hunger that surprised her. This was nothing like the hesitant, almost clinical practice with Paul. This was devouring. She bobbed her head, taking him to the back of her throat, relaxing into the slight gag, sucking hard on the retreat. She loved the weight of him on her tongue, the way his hips began to stutter, the helpless, ragged curses that fell from his lips.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strangled.
She sucked harder, faster, her eyes closed. She wanted it. She wanted the proof, the final submission.
His orgasm erupted with a choked shout. The first hot, bitter spurt hit the back of her throat. She swallowed reflexively, pulling back to take the next pulses directly on her tongue. It was warmer, saltier, thicker than she’d imagined from her taste of Paul’s diluted remnants. She kept her mouth sealed around him, milking him with her lips and tongue until he shuddered and pushed her away, oversensitive.
She sat back on her heels, looking up at him. She swallowed again, clearing the last of it from her mouth, letting him see the motion in her throat. The taste lingered, a potent claim.
He zipped himself up, his breathing slowly evening. He looked down at her, a strange, appraising light in his eyes. “You’re full of surprises.”
She stood, her legs trembling only slightly now. She reached down, hooked her fingers under the elastic of her thong, and pulled it back up. She picked up her trousers, stepped into them, and zipped up. The fabric felt alien against her sensitive skin. She smoothed her blouse.
“I have to get back to my desk,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Me too.” He watched her collect her notepad from the floor. “This understanding of yours… it has interesting possibilities.”
She stopped at the door, her hand on the handle. She turned her head, just enough to meet his gaze. “I know.”
The door hissed shut behind her, sealing away the musk and the violation. Back at her desk, the glow of her monitor was a pale, lifeless thing compared to the memory of his weight. Her cunt ached, a hollowed-out, tender reminder with every shift in her chair, and the faint, clinging scent of him on her skin became a secret she wore under the stale office air. She replayed the ruthless angle of his hips, the slick sounds, the way the table had juddered, and a slow, private smile threatened her professional composure. The risk had been a wire live with current, and the raw fun of it thrummed in her veins, a promise of more.
The raw fun of it thrummed in her veins, a promise of more. She could still feel the specific, bruised ache inside her, a topography mapped by Marcus, and the thought of describing it to Paul—of watching his kind eyes glaze over with jealousy as she detailed the conference table, the taste, the brutal efficiency of it all—sent a jolt of pure, malicious excitement through her. She wouldn’t just tell him; she would narrate it, she decided, savoring each filthy detail over dinner, forcing him to digest every image. Her cunt, tender and well-used, pulsed almost gratefully at the prospect. This new power was a dark, sweet candy melting on her tongue.