The Boss

“I’ve always thought your tits would be great to fuck” 

His breath is hot in my ear as he whispers this; hot with North London beer, fags, and arrogance. I shouldn’t let him talk to me this way, seeing as he’s my boss (actually the boss of my boss’ boss). Even though we’re off the clock in this stifling, cramped pub at the leaving party of a colleague I’ve never even met, I shouldn’t let him talk to me this way. His white shirt clings to his chest, damp with sweat and house white wine, spilled when he brusquely pushed his way past some poor intern to reach me. He went to Oxbridge and he likes telling everyone so. I shouldn’t let him talk to me this way. 

But my cunt likes it; my cunt throbs hearing what he wants and my mouth begins to water. I’ve had just enough cheap vodka to let him talk to me this way. I’ve had just enough to make the idea of fucking this cocky, very recently divorced, pig of a man extremely hot. 

And that’s why, minutes later, up against a wall outside the pub after I followed him for a fake fag break, I let him force his hand up my dress and inside my knickers. When he tries to kiss me, his lips lurching at mine, I turn to the side, guiding them instead towards my neck and collarbone. I can’t kiss him, it feels too tender and warm and familiar, and I don’t want him to get the impression that I actually like him. He slowly licks up my neck to below my ear as his fingers push their way in between my wet lips and around my clit. Just like him, they’re strong, forceful, a little clumsy, but they hit the spot I want them to and my hips grind further into them. 

He tells me how he always thought I was a filthy bitch, even though I know he’s never thought about me in his life. He tells me how he can tell I need a good fucking, as though I don’t get three every time my boyfriend comes over. He tells me something else, but it’s muffled as I push his face into my tits to shut him up. As his tongue parts my cleavage his fingers speed up, crushing my clit underneath them. I’ve had better fingerings, he’s one of those guys who thinks he doesn’t need to try, but his heavy kneading combined with the thrill of the taboo (letting this authority figure pleasure me in a dark little street round the back of a pub), quickly leads me to climax. My orgasm is short and brusque, raging through my body like a fire, and as I cum, moaning and jolting against the brick at my back, he lifts his head and grins with smug self-satisfaction. 

As I come down from my orgasm, he takes his hand from my knickers and uses it to force mine against his hard dick and tells me it’s time to make him feel good. We turn around, so his back is against the wall and his hands briefly rest on my shoulders before he exerts that familiar pressure, pushing me down to my knees. I knew it was going to happen like this, forceful and bullish and like every other privileged prick who only looks at you when they want a warm body to cum into, and I find that I really like it. The fact I shouldn’t like it makes me even wetter. The fact he thinks he’s god’s gift makes me want to show him that actually, that’s me. 

He takes his cock out as I kneel patiently on the warm concrete. I anticipated the hand around the back of my head before he even does it, but I still let him lead my open mouth onto him. I swallow his dick deep as he calls me a good girl; he tastes like fresh pre-cum and stale sweat. 

The hand on the back of my head gets more insistent whenever I pull back, but I still do it. Not only because I like drawing my lips and tongue back along his length, but because I like feeling him trying to force my throat back over his cock. Like when he was fingering me, he seems to think faster is better. How wrong these types of guys always are. To show him I know what I’m doing, I take him even deeper down my throat than before and let myself gag around him, the pulsing of my tonsils against his head makes him exclaim out in shock, and he instead uses his hand to steady himself. He then lets me go as fast as I want to, my lips sliding back and forth over his wet dick steadily, sucking hard. 

As he’d already expressed his desire to fuck my tits, I decide to give him a little taste. Pulling his twitching dick from my mouth, then my dress down to expose more of my cleavage, I sheath the head of his cock down into the soft valley between my breasts. Wrapping my hand around him, I stroke my remaining spit into his firm flesh. I can tell he’s looking down at me, but he’s uncharacteristically quiet, only making little grunting noises as I wank him. 

The grunts become more and more frequent as my hand builds him up to climax. I allow myself to feel some smugness, some pride, that I’ve reduced this ego to quivering and vulnerable in my hand. I pause to allow my spit to meet his skin and he groans as I start wanking once more. He doesn’t shout any warning before he spurts into my chest, ropes of delicious thick cum lacing my tits together. I let my hand go loose so he can thrust into my tits a few times to finish, while swearing to himself, like I’m not even there. Normally, I’d offer to suck his dick clean but instead I scoop up his cum with my finger and feed it into my thirsty mouth as he looks on, getting his breath back slumped against the wall. With a resignation, he tucks himself back into his trousers uncomfortably. 

Helping me to my feet, he pushes me to face the wall with more tenderness than I ever thought him capable of. As he leans into my back, crushing my breasts into the hard brick, I feel his cum slowly slipping down my skin inside my bra. He kisses the side of my neck so lightly it’s almost like a caress, but then his hands squeeze my arse like he owns me. 

“That felt fucking great”; I can sense the creeping smile in his voice. He says that next time, he’s going to fill my pussy instead, and, although the thought makes my cunt melt, I’m immediately sure there isn’t going to be a next time, because he’ll forget I exist by tomorrow. He’s probably starting to forget right now and I really couldn’t care less. His arm abruptly swings to slap my arse hard before walking away and into the pub, the roar of my baying colleagues bursting into the night as he opens the door. I start to walk in the opposite direction, towards the cheap hotel room he’s going to sign off on expenses at the end of the month, to finger-fuck myself to sleep. 

The next morning, he strides his way across the office to speak to someone important and doesn’t even look at me, and I grin at how delicious it is.

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