Chapter 1: Meeting Distractions
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the tall office windows, catching dust motes dancing in the stale air. Josh Scott rubbed his temples, the drone of the Zoom meeting buzzing in his ears like a trapped fly. Quarterly projections. Market volatility. Karen’s sharp voice slicing through the speakerphone from Chicago, dissecting logistics with surgical precision. The polished mahogany desk felt cold under his elbows. Karen’s side of the office was pristine, organized chaos. His felt like entropy was winning. A tower of manila folders threatened to topple near his elbow. He needed air. He needed silence. He needed this damn call to end.
Upstairs, the faint thump-thump-thump of Ben’s sneakers echoed down the hall, punctuated by Sophie’s higher-pitched shriek of laughter. Gail was supposed to be keeping them occupied. Usually, she did. Reliably. Quietly. Lately, though, the quiet felt… loaded.
The heavy oak door eased open without a knock. Gail slipped in, a vision of calculated innocence in her uniform-of-choice: that impossibly short denim skirt riding high on her thighs, the tight white spaghetti-strap top showcasing small, firm breasts pushed up by a lace-edged demi-cup bra he’d glimpsed once bending over the dishwasher. The denim crop jacket hung open, framing the sliver of bare midriff above her low-slung pink belt. Ankle boots clicked softly on the hardwood. Today, a slim black velvet choker hugged her throat, tight against the pale column of her neck. Josh’s gaze snagged on it for a split second too long before jerking back to his screen. Fuck. It reminded him of what he’d glimpsed months ago, purely by accident, while searching Karen’s closet for a missing suitcase: the discreet cabinet nestled behind her winter coats. The polished leather, the gleaming steel… things Karen rarely brought out anymore. Not since the kids. Things Gail shouldn’t know existed.
"Thought you might need a refill, Mr. Scott," Gail murmured, her voice soft as brushed silk. She held a steaming mug of black coffee – his usual, brewed strong. The scent, rich and bitter, momentarily overpowered the sterile office smell. She moved with a liquid grace that shouldn’t belong in a nanny, her hips swaying subtly beneath the denim. Setting the mug deliberately on the coaster beside his mousepad, her pink-painted fingers brushed his knuckles. A jolt, hot and unwelcome, shot up his arm. He clenched his jaw.
"Thanks, Gail," he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the spreadsheet gridlocked on his screen. Column F stubbornly refused to reconcile with Column G. Karen’s voice snapped through the speaker: "...Josh? Did you hear me? The Frankfurt numbers?"
"Uh, yes, Karen. Frankfurt. Analyzing." He stabbed a key. Wrong column. He felt Gail hovering beside his chair, radiating warmth and that damn perfume – vanilla and something darker, muskier than Karen’s citrusy Chanel. More deliberate. Like an open invitation whispered in the dark.
"Sophie’s masterpiece," Gail breathed, leaning in slightly. Her breath tickled his ear. Her breast brushed his shoulder blade. He froze. "...She painted a dinosaur. Purple. With glitter. It's... ambitious."
He cleared his throat, shifting minutely away. "Great. Put it on the fridge." His voice sounded strained. On screen, Karen’s pixelated brow furrowed. "Josh, are you listening? The margin projections for Q3 are untenable without..."
Gail didn’t move. He could feel her gaze tracing the line of his jaw, down his throat. "Ben’s building a fort," she continued, undeterred, her voice dropping lower, intimate. "Demanded all the couch cushions. Told him ten minutes, then homework."She paused. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. "Seems awfully quiet in here otherwise..."
He finally risked a glance sideways. She was looking at him, her blue eyes wide, guileless… but with a heat simmering beneath the surface he couldn’t ignore. The black velvet choker seemed tighter suddenly. Defiant. He remembered the dark gleam of the items in Karen’s cabinet. A collar, not unlike that choker. Matching cuffs. A slender, tapered plug with a delicate silver ring at its base. His throat went dry. He forced his eyes back to the screen. "Yeah. Conference call."
"Oh! Of course." She sounded chastened, but he didn't buy it. She took a half-step back, then stopped abruptly, her gaze dropping to the floor near his feet. "Mr.Scott? You dropped your pen."
He blinked. Followed her gaze. His expensive silver fountain pen – Karen’s anniversary gift – lay glinting on the dark wood floor just beside the castor wheel of his leather chair. "Huh. Must have knocked it off." He started to lean down, his mind already halfway back to Frankfurt margins.
"No, no! I've got it!" Her voice was bright, helpful. Too helpful.
Before he could react, she bent forward from the waist directly in front of him. Not a squat. Not a kneel. A deep, deliberate bend at the hips, her back ramrod straight, her denim-clad ass thrusting back towards him as she reached for the pen. The short skirt, already stretched taut across her rounded cheeks, rode up instantly, shockingly high. It exposed the smooth, creamy backs of her thighs, the delicate curve where thigh met ass… and there, nestled perfectly between the firm globes of her bare cheeks, gleaming darkly under the soft glow of the desk lamp, was the unmistakable, polished black obsidian sphere of a butt plug. A thin silver chain, attached to a small ring embedded in its base, trailed down like a perverse jewel, disappearing into the shadowed cleft beneath.
Time stopped. Karen’s voice faded to static. The spreadsheet pixels dissolved into meaningless noise. Josh’s breath caught violently in his chest, choking him. His fingers, hovering over the keyboard, trembled. Heat flooded his face, then roared southwards, pooling low and heavy in his groin with terrifying intensity. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't accidental. It was brazen. An obscene display staged just for him. His eyes were locked on the glinting obsidian sphere, the intimate stretch of her smooth skin around it, the vulnerable exposure. The plug looked large. Deliberately chosen. He remembered the size variations in Karen’s cabinet. This was not a beginner’s toy.
Gail straightened slowly, languidly, taking her time. The skirt slid back down, covering the obscene jewel, but the image was seared onto Josh’s retinas. She held out his pen, her face flushed a becoming pink, her chest rising and falling just a little too fast. Her blue eyes, however, held his with unnerving steadiness.
Josh stared at the pen in her outstretched hand, frozen. The obsidian plug’s phantom gleam burned behind his eyelids. His cock throbbed violently against the restrictive wool of his trousers, a traitorous, aching pulse that defied the cold dread tightening his chest. Frankfurt, margins, Karen’s voice – they were distant radio static drowned out by the roaring in his ears and the thick, vanilla-musk scent clinging to Gail. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn't tear his gaze from her unnervingly steady blue eyes. She knew. Of course she fucking knew.
The desk lamp highlighted the flush creeping up her neck, visible just above the tight velvet choker. Her pink lips curved into a tiny, knowing smirk as her gaze deliberately dropped. It lingered on the pronounced bulge tenting the front of his trousers, the fabric straining obscenely over his rigid length. Her smirk deepened.
"Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Scott?" Her voice was a husky purr, barely louder than the hum of his computer. Her hand, still holding the pen, drifted down. Not towards the desk. Her cool fingertips brushed the outside of his thigh through the fine wool, a feather-light touch that electrocuted him. He flinched, a full-body tremor he couldn’t suppress. On the screen, Karen’s pixelated face frowned slightly.
"Josh? Are you reviewing the variance report? I need confirmation on the Frankfurt adjustments now."
He opened his mouth, a strangled noise escaping. "Variance. Yes. Frankfurt. Adjusting." The words felt like gravel in his throat. His knuckles were white where they gripped the armrests.
Gail’s touch grew bolder. Her small hand slid further up his tense thigh, fingers splaying possessively. "Anything at all?" she murmured, leaning in fractionally closer. Her breath was warm against his temple. Her gaze locked onto his, that challenging heat burning brighter as her fingertips traced the unmistakable, rigid outline of his cock through his trousers. She pressed down slightly, exploring the thick shaft from root to tip with deliberate, excruciating slowness. The pressure was agony and ecstasy. He bit back a groan, sweat beading on his upper lip. Her nail grazed the swollen head trapped beneath layers of fabric.
"Maybe," she whispered, her lips almost touching his ear, the words a hot, intimate promise, "add some spice to this boring call?"
The blatant proposition, the sheer fucking audacity of it while Karen’s face stared unseeingly from the monitor, shattered the last shred of his control. Fear, lust, and a terrifying wave of reckless abandon crashed over him. He was rock-hard, aching, drowning in her scent and the image of that obsidian plug nestled between her bare cheeks. His hand shot out, not to push her away, but to grasp her wrist – hard. His grip was bruising, pulling her probing hand away from his cock, but only to yank her closer. He twisted in his chair, his other hand grabbing a fistful of her denim jacket at the hip, hauling her small frame roughly onto his lap.
Gail gasped, a sharp intake of breath that wasn’t entirely surprise. She landed half-straddling him, the short skirt riding up again, exposing creamy thigh. The heat of her body, the soft weight pressing against his erection, was maddening. Her blue eyes were wide, pupils dilated, her chest heaving against the thin white fabric of her top. She didn’t struggle. She braced her free hand on his shoulder, her painted lips parted, waiting.
"For God's sake, Josh! Are you even listening? The entire Q3 forecast hinges on this! What is wrong with you today?" Karen’s tinny voice snapped from the speaker, sharper now, laced with frustration.
He ignored it. All he saw was the pulse hammering in Gail’s throat above the black velvet collar. All he felt was the desperate need to possess, to silence that knowing smirk, to bury himself in the tight heat he knew awaited him beneath that tiny skirt. His grip on her hip tightened, pulling her center flush against the aching ridge in his trousers. She whimpered, a low, needy sound that went straight to his balls. His other hand, still clamped on her wrist, dragged it down, forcing her palm flat against the raging hardness trapped beneath his zipper. He ground his hips up against her hand, against the softness between her legs, a crude, demanding thrust.
"Do it," he growled, his voice thick, guttural, barely recognizable. His gaze burned into hers, demanding submission, obliterating any pretense. "Show me how helpful you really want to be." He could feel the damp heat of her through the denim skirt, smell the sharpening scent of her arousal mingling with perfume. The plug was there, hidden, a secret he craved to discover. He was past thinking, past consequences. The only reality was the nanny on his lap, the wife on the screen, and the unbearable pressure demanding release. His free hand fumbled blindly for his belt buckle, the metallic clink obscenely loud in the tense silence broken only by Karen’s frustrated sigh filtering through the speakers and the frantic pounding of his own heart.
The metallic clink of his belt buckle echoed like a gunshot in the hushed tension. Karen’s voice, sharp and tinny, sliced through the air from the monitor. "Joshua Scott! Answer me! Are you having a stroke over there? Frankfurt!" Her pixelated eyes seemed to bore into the side of his head, oblivious to the molten reality unfolding inches away.
He ignored her. All cognitive pathways were rerouted, flooded with adrenaline, bourbon, and the desperate, throbbing ache in his cock. Gail’s wrist was still locked in his iron grip, her small hand crushed against the rigid outline of his erection straining against his trousers. Her other hand braced on his shoulder, fingers digging into the expensive cotton of his shirt. Her blue eyes, wide but devoid of fear, held his – a challenge, a dare. That fucking smirk still played on her pink lips.
"Show me," Josh growled, his voice a guttural rasp scraped raw. He ground his hips up again, the friction against her denim-covered mound electric, feeling the answering damp heat even through the layers. "Show me how fucking helpful you are, Gail." His free hand abandoned the belt buckle, snaking up her bare thigh beneath the bunched denim skirt. Skin like cool silk met his feverish touch. He traced higher, fingers brushing the crease of her ass, seeking confirmation of what he’d seen. His thumb found it – the smooth, cool sphere of the plug nestled tight between her cheeks, the thin chain a whisper against his knuckle. A savage groan ripped from his throat. She wore it for this. For him.
Gail gasped, a sharp, needy sound that wasn’t protest. Her hips rolled instinctively against his, grinding her covered core against his trapped cock. "Like this?" she breathed, her voice thick with want, leaning in so her breasts pressed against his chest, her lips brushing his jaw. "Am I helping, Mr. Scott?" The title, uttered like that, was pure filth.
The combination – the plug, the choker, the scent of her arousal cutting through her vanilla musk, the mocking title, Karen’s furious voice demanding attention from the screen – shattered the last vestige of his restraint. Rational thought evaporated. Possession, raw and violent, surged through him. This insolent little tease, parading in his office, under his wife’s virtual nose… she demanded reckoning.
With a surge of brute strength fueled by lust and fury, he wrenched the hand holding her wrist down and shoved. Not gently. Not guiding. A hard, brutal push downwards, leveraging his weight against her slight frame.
Gail gasped, a startled yelp escaping her as her knees buckled. Her boots scraped loudly on the polished hardwood floor as she was driven down forcefully. She landed hard on her knees between his spread thighs, the impact jolting through her. Her denim jacket hung open, the white top stretched taut over her heaving breasts. The short skirt rode up completely now, bunched around her waist, offering him an unobstructed view: the creamy swell of her ass, the delicate pink lace of her thong swallowed by her cleft, and nestled above it, the stark, dark obsidian plug gleaming obscenely under the desk lamp. The silver chain trailed down, a perverse leash.
Josh loomed over her, breathing hard, his cock a brutal ridge tenting his open fly. The leather chair creaked under his tension. He grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair near the roots, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to jerk her head up, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown black, lips parted, flushed. Dazed, but not afraid. Aroused. Utterly fucking compliant.
"Open your fucking mouth," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous, barely audible over Karen’s escalating tirade about profit margins. His other hand fumbled frantically with the button of his trousers, then the zipper, the sound harsh in the charged air. He shoved the fabric down his hips just enough to free his cock – thick, angry red, fully erect, the head slick with pre-cum. The musky scent of his arousal mingled pungently with hers.
Gail didn't hesitate. Her pink lips parted obediently, tongue darting out to wet them, her gaze fixed on the swollen head inches from her face. She understood the assignment. Leaning forward, she took him into her mouth slowly, deliberately. Her hot, wet tongue swirled around the sensitive crown, tasting him, before she sank down, taking him deeper. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, applying perfect, sinful pressure. A low, animal groan tore from Josh’s chest. He tightened his grip in her hair, guiding her rhythm, forcing her head down further, feeling the head of his cock bump the back of her throat. She gagged softly, tears springing to her eyes, but didn’t pull away. Her small hands came up to grip his thighs, nails digging in through the wool as she surrendered to his control.
Above them, Karen’s voice snapped, "Josh! If you can't focus, we'll reconvene when you've pulled yourself together!" The screen abruptly went black as she ended the call. The sudden silence was deafening, filled only by the slick, rhythmic sounds of Gail's mouth working his cock, her soft gags, and Josh's ragged breathing. The glow of the monitor died, plunging the polished mahogany office into deeper shadow, lit only by the single desk lamp – a spotlight on the depravity at knee level. Josh threw his head back against the leather headrest, eyes squeezed shut for a second, overwhelmed by the sensation, the power, the sheer fucking taboo of it. His grip on her hair tightened, pulling her completely onto him, forcing her to take him deeper still.
The slick, wet sounds filled the sudden silence left by Karen’s disconnected call. Gail’s throat worked around him, a tight, hot vise swallowing him whole. Tears streaked her flushed cheeks, mascara smudging beneath her wide, glazed eyes. Her gag reflex hitched her shoulders, but she didn’t stop, her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, her tongue swirling relentlessly. Josh’s groan was raw, primal, his fingers tangled painfully tight in her blonde hair, holding her head still as he fucked her mouth with short, brutal thrusts. The velvet choker dug into her throat under his grip.
"Fuck… yes… take it," he rasped, his hips pistoning. He could feel the head of his cock bumping the back of her throat, the tight constriction sending jolts of pure fire up his spine. Her small hands clawed at his thighs, nails biting through the wool trousers. The sight of her on her knees, skirt bunched around her waist, the obsidian plug gleaming between her bare ass cheeks, the sheer fucking debasement of it… it was gasoline on the inferno inside him. He was close, so close, the pressure building like a dam about to burst.
But pulling out of that wet heat felt like tearing himself apart. He needed more. Needed deeper. Needed to claim her completely.
With a savage grunt, he hauled her head back by her hair. His cock sprang free from her mouth with a wet pop, slick and glistening. Gail gasped for air, coughing, saliva slicking her chin. Her eyes, dazed and watery, met his, filled with a desperate hunger that mirrored his own.
"Not like this," he growled, his voice thick with lust. He released her hair, grabbing her upper arms instead, hauling her roughly to her feet. She stumbled, unsteady on her knees, but he didn’t give her time to recover. He spun her around, facing the deep leather couch tucked against the far wall of the office, beneath a row of framed accolades he suddenly couldn’t give a shit about.
"Move," he commanded, shoving her forward.
Gail staggered the few steps, her breath coming in ragged pants. She didn’t resist. She braced her hands on the cool, smooth leather back of the couch, leaning forward, presenting herself. The short denim skirt was already rucked up around her waist, exposing the full, creamy curve of her ass, the delicate pink lace thong swallowed by her cleft, and above it, the dark, polished obsidian plug nestled snugly between her cheeks. The silver chain dangled like a forbidden lure.
Josh was on her instantly. He kicked her ankles wider apart with a rough nudge of his shoe. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the waistband of her thong. He didn’t bother pulling the skirt up further; it was already irrelevant. His cock, slick with her saliva, throbbed angrily against her lace-covered mound. He could feel the heat radiating from her core, smell the heady musk of her arousal mixed with the sharp tang of his own pre-cum.
He fumbled with the flimsy lace barrier, tearing the thong aside with a sharp rip of fabric. Gail gasped, pushing her ass back towards him in blatant invitation. Her wetness glistened in the lamplight, slick and ready. Josh lined himself up, the swollen head of his cock nudging against her slick entrance. He paused for a heartbeat, staring down at the obscene jewel buried in her ass, the symbol of her deliberate seduction.
Then, with a guttural groan that ripped from his chest, he drove into her in one brutal, unyielding thrust.
"FUCK!" Gail screamed, her back arching sharply, her fingers scrabbling against the leather. Her inner walls clenched around him, impossibly tight, hot, and wet, gripping his invading length like a velvet fist. He was buried to the hilt in one stroke, her body yielding violently to his invasion.
He didn’t pause. Didn’t give her time to adjust. The dam broke. He pulled back almost to the tip, then slammed forward again, setting a punishing rhythm. Each thrust was deep, hard, driving her body forward against the couch arm with bruising force. The wet slap of flesh on flesh echoed sharply in the quiet office, punctuated by Gail’s sharp cries that morphed into ragged moans. Her ass jiggled with each powerful impact.
His gaze remained locked on the plug. As he pistoned into her dripping cunt, he lifted his right hand from her hip. His thumb, slick with her wetness from where he’d gripped her, found the cool, smooth surface of the obsidian sphere. He pressed down. Not gently. He applied firm, insistent pressure, grinding the plug deeper into her asshole as he simultaneously thrust his cock deeper into her pussy.
Gail’s reaction was instantaneous and electric. Her whole body convulsed, a choked scream tearing from her throat. Her inner muscles clamped down on his cock with shocking intensity, a vice-like spasm that milked him brutally. Her knees buckled, but he held her upright, his hand on her hip anchoring her as he continued to fuck her hard and deep, his thumb relentlessly pressing the plug.
"Oh god! Oh fuck! JOSH!" she wailed, her voice breaking. Her head dropped forward, blonde hair cascading over the leather. "Yes! Like that! Fuck me! Use me!"
Her words, raw and filthy, spurred him on. He increased the pressure of his thumb, feeling the plug shift inside her, stretching her tight ring as he simultaneously buried his cock to the root in her pulsing cunt. The dual penetration, the sheer violation of both her holes while he dominated her bent-over body, unleashed something feral. He fucked her like he wanted to break her, like he wanted to brand himself inside her. The leather couch groaned under the assault. His balls slapped against her wetness with each deep plunge.
He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth finding the sensitive skin below her ear, biting down hard enough to mark. "You wanted this, you little slut," he snarled against her skin, his breath hot and ragged. "Parading around with that plug… begging for my cock…"
"Yes!" she sobbed, pushing back frantically against him, meeting his thrusts. "Wanted you… wanted you to fuck me… use me… please!"
The pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter in his groin. The visual of her stretched around him, the feel of her tight heat milking his cock, the obscene pressure of his thumb on the plug buried in her ass… it was too much. His thrusts became erratic, desperate, losing rhythm as the peak crashed over him.
With a roar that echoed off the mahogany bookshelves, Josh buried himself to the hilt one final time. His hips jerked violently as his cock pulsed deep inside her, unloading thick, hot ropes of cum into her clenching channel. Gail cried out again, her body shuddering violently against his as her own climax ripped through her, triggered by his release and the relentless pressure on the plug. Her inner walls fluttered wildly around his still-spurting cock, milking him dry.
He stayed buried inside her, panting heavily, his forehead resting against her sweat-slicked back, his thumb still pressing possessively against the obsidian plug. Gail trembled beneath him, her breathing ragged, small whimpers escaping her lips. The air hung thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and leather. Outside the office door, faintly, came the sound of Ben’s laughter drifting down the hall. Reality, cold and sharp, began to seep back into the edges of the haze.