Chapter 5: Overtime Seduction
The smell of sawdust and coffee had turned stale in the empty office. Carol Hamilton’s fingers ached from sorting invoices, the rustle of paper the only sound under the fluorescent hum. She needed this job. The thought was a desperate, looping tape in her mind. The rent, the car note, Bill’s sullen silence on the couch at home. She jumped when a shadow filled the doorway.
Malcolm McGuire leaned against the frame, his tie loose, the top button of his shirt undone. He held a heavy glass tumbler of amber liquid. “Hard worker,” he said, his voice grating like gravel on concrete.
“Just finishing up, Mr. McGuire,” she said, forcing a smile, her hands trembling as she stacked the papers.
He pushed off the doorjamb and walked in, the scent of bourbon and a sharper, unfamiliar perfume trailing him. He circled behind her chair. His big, calloused hands landed on her shoulders, not gently. They kneaded the tense muscle there, a mockery of a massage. She froze.
“You know what I do to hard workers?” he murmured, his breath hot on her neck. His lips brushed her skin. One hand slid down from her shoulder, over the front of her crisp blouse, his fingers finding the top button. He popped it open.
“Mr. McGuire, I—” The protest was a whisper, dried up by fear and a jolt of something else, a shocking, unwanted thrill.
“I reward them.” He undid the next button, and the next, his hand pushing the fabric aside. His palm was rough against the lace of her bra. He cupped her breast, squeezing, then his fingers pinched her nipple through the lace, hard. A sharp gasp escaped her. He spun her chair around to face him.
His eyes were dark, appraising. He dropped to his knees, his hands going to her hips. “Spread your legs for your boss, Carol.”
Her mind screamed no, but her body, wired with terror and a strange, submissive curiosity, obeyed. She let her knees fall apart. He pushed her skirt up her thighs, past her hips, bunching it at her waist. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties.
“Lift up,” he commanded.
She lifted her hips off the chair, and he dragged her panties down her legs, tossing the flimsy cotton aside. He buried his face between her thighs without ceremony.
His tongue plunged into her wetness. She gasped, her back arching, her hands flying to his head, gripping his short, clipped hair. He ate her with a savage hunger, his tongue a thick, ruthless intruder, lapping and thrusting. The sound was obscene—wet, slurping growls that vibrated against her most sensitive flesh. He held her open, his stubble scraping the tender skin of her inner thighs, his nose pressed against her. The sensation was too much, a brutal overload. She couldn’t breathe. A tension coiled, snapped, and broke. She came with a choked, sobbing cry, her hips bucking against his relentless mouth.
He pulled back, his chin glistening. He stood, looming over her, and unzipped his pants. He pulled out his thick, hard cock. It was monstrous, veined and heavy, curving upwards. “Have you ever had a cock this big?”
She shook her head, no. Her eyes were wide, glued to it. She was so wet, dripping from his mouth and her own orgasm, but she didn’t think it would fit. It couldn’t.
“Stand up,” he said. “Get those clothes off. All of them.”
Her fingers fumbled. She stood on shaky legs, shedding her blouse, her bra, her skirt, until she was naked in the cool office air, her bufont hair mussed. He watched, shucking his own clothes, his broad, hairy chest and heavy gut revealed. He sat back in her office chair, his cock jutting from the thatch of dark brown hair.
“Come here. Sit on it.”
She approached, hesitating. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down onto his lap, guiding himself to her entrance. The broad head pressed against her. He looked up at her. “You do it. You take it.”
Biting her lip, she lowered herself. He slid in slow. She watched, mesmerized and horrified, as her body stretched to accommodate the invading thickness. An inch. Another. A burning, exquisite pressure. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. He let her control the descent, his hands on her hips. When he was halfway in, she stopped, panting. “I can’t, Mr. McGuire.”
“Yes, you can. You’re so fucking wet for it.” He pulled her down the rest of the way in one firm, slow yank.
She cried out, her head falling back. He was completely embedded, a solid, unbelievable fullness. She could feel the heavy weight of his balls pressed against her. He was in so deep it stole her breath.
“See? Fits just fine.” He began to move her on him, lifting her hips with his hands until just the head remained inside, then sinking her back down onto the full, penetrating length. He began the slowest fucking she could imagine, a deliberate, torturous rise and fall. One of his hands left her hip to fondle her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple. She moaned, the pain-pleasure mix blurring the lines.
Then he pulled her face down to his and kissed her. His tongue pushed into her mouth, tasting of bourbon and her own secret salt. It was a dominating, wet exploration. She kissed him back, her tongue tentatively meeting his. She was moaning into his mouth, her hips beginning to move on their own, seeking more of that devastating friction.
He taught her the rhythm with his hands on her ass. “That’s it. Ride that big cock. You’re gonna get a lot of it.” His voice was a greedy rumble against her lips.
The initial shock melted into a pooling, deep heat. The slow grind ignited every nerve. She braced her hands on the back of the chair, moving faster, taking him deeper with each drop of her hips. Her moans grew louder, less hesitant. The coil wound tight again, deeper this time, born from the relentless stretch and fill.
He gripped her ass hard, his fingers digging into the flesh, and began driving up into her, meeting her downward strokes. The slow tease shattered. He fucked her up into her chair, his hips pistoning, the chair slamming against the filing cabinet with each thrust. The sound was brutal: skin slapping skin, his grunts, her high, desperate cries.
“Come on, you tight little secretary, come on my cock!” he snarled.
It tipped her over the edge. Her second orgasm ripped through her, violent and all-consuming, her inner muscles clenching and milking his shaft in rhythmic pulses. She screamed, her body convulsing around him.
Feeling her climax, he lost his control. With a final, brutal series of drives, he shoved her down hard and held her there, buried to the hilt. A raw, guttural shout tore from his throat. She felt the hot, pulsing flood of his release filling her, jet after jet, deep inside. He shuddered through it, his body racked with spasms.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The hum of the lights. The smell of sex and sweat and sawdust. He was still inside her, softening. His hold on her hips loosened.
She was slumped against his chest, breathing raggedly, feeling the wet trickle between her thighs. She felt raw, used, and utterly, profoundly shaken. A part of her was horrified. Another part, a newly awakened, shameful part, thrummed with a dark, sated energy.
He patted her ass, a dismissive, familiar gesture. “Good girl. Now get cleaned up. The wife expects me home for dinner.”