Heathens in Masks

The noise of her phone on wood, so hard against the desk that she garnered a stare from just the man she was trying to avoid. She cursed mentally for not acting faster. She was new here- a few months in, but still new- and somehow her boss had an extrasensory instinct on when to walk by her desk: every time she was looking at her phone. Clicking through today's reports on the old Windows, she wondered what he must be thinking. Fuckit, she said mentally, and went back on Spotify to queue up a podcast. Yet again, the bearded man turned around and walked past her. Yet again, casting a subtle but definite glance towards her. Yet again, her face flushed, but she didn't try to hide the phone this time- she'd seen other people do it, why not her? It wasn't a busy day and she had nothing to hide. Maybe he'd even ask what she's listening to. Her boss's nickname was the Mountain Man. He didn't fit in in this sterilized office, rows of cubicles and cute nicknames for coworkers you wouldn't have one drink with in real life. He didn't fit in to his button down shirts, into his role here. He played it well, but she saw it for what it was- a role. And all roles are masks, archetypes, characters, games we play for society so we can be free on our own. Mountain Man had an impressive beard, physique, and indeterminable age; he was at least 26, but not over 34. At 20, she had a precise ability to gage men in her sweet spot range. A few hours later, he walked past her again. But this time, he came up to her desk with something to say. Her eyes turned into saucers for a quick moment and she yanked her earphones out with almost too much force. "Hey," he said calmly, as if his presence hadn't turned her into a little girl lusting after her 10th grade, scrawny but tatted history teacher. "Would you just make sure to note the times you spend on your reports, for your work breakdown?" He stared at her with unwavering eye contact. "Sure." She let the word out with a higher pitched intonation than she liked. "Thanks," he said, and left her alone again. What the fuck was her problem? She was confident. She wasn't scared of shit. She definitely didn't talk that high pitched, ever. Keep it fucking cool next time, or else, she threatened herself mentally. The weekend passed. A couple hours into Monday morning, was in a bouncy mood, listening to her mix of old rock and roll and D12, wearing a black minidress with her traditional knee high Doc Martens. She was following dress code, and she was even wearing a cardigan. A fucking cardigan, she thought to herself, trying not to sing along to the end of "Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell." Fuck. Right as she looked down to maybe pick another album, her boss was starting to walk by her desk- she kept her face turned away, playing cool, doing her job- but he didn't pass her. This time he stopped at her desk. Remembering last week's embarrassment, she pulled her earphones out more slowly this time, calling out the cool, collected bitch woman that men typically saw her as. Reminding herself that he had a simple question and she had a simple answer. Data. Codes to be approved, emails to write. Logic wasn't entirely applicable here. "Megan, would you come with me?" He asked, staring directly at her. He had taken one cursory glance at her v neckline- not long enough to be called a stare, but she knew it was enough to memorize her cleavage. This had been explained to her by men before. Maybe it was too much for work, she had thought when getting dressed, but it wasn't that revealing and definitely more modest than her usual garb. Either way, this was odd. There was no email about a meeting today. Maybe she had missed it? "Okay, no problem," she said. "Thank you," he said briskly. "Follow me." Following him down the hallway, she asked if there was a meeting today she hadn't been aware of. "No," he said simply, normally, and turned a corner to a door not far from their row of cubicles. "After you," he said, opening the door to what was either a very small break room or a very large closet. A gentleman. Leading her where? Confused, she watched as he shut the door after them. Was he locking it? "Sit down, Megan," he said, pulling up a chair for her, directly across from where he sat- legs sprawled out in the pose of a confident alpha. She obeyed, waiting for explanation. "We need to talk about your professional conduct, as it were." he said dryly, now staring directly at her cleavage. She breathed in deeply, not sure what was coming. "Why do you think that is?" "Well, I know you keep seeing me on my phone. I swear, I'm not on it all the time- I just like listening to podcasts while I-" "Stop," he cut her off simply. "We can't have a conversation about professional conduct while you're wearing that dress, heaving every time I ask you a question. The fact that you thought it was acceptable to wear here shows a serious lack of judgment. Take it off. Now." She panicked- but she wasn't just nervous from confusion anymore. The hot, pulsing spot between her legs was starting to betray her and she couldn't have him see that. She was wearing a black thong, and he would see if he looked even from a distance. How long had she fantasized about him? "Did you hear me?" He pulled her out of her daze. "Yes, Sir," she said, taking off her cardigan an unzipping herself from the form flattering dress. She didn't see it, but old fashioned title coming out of her mouth pleased him on a deep, visceral level, and started to make him hard without one touch. A moment of silence passed. "Walk towards me, and get across my lap." Eyes wide again, she followed her boss' order. "Don't even think about arguing or going to HR," he said. "You brought this on yourself. And nobody's going to hear you in here." Without anther second pausing, he brought his right hand down on her ass, left hand holding her in place. "You think it's okay to be on your phone every time I walk by? This is a place of business, not high school," he said, obvious restraint tugging at his voice. "Do you understand that?" "Yes, Sir," she said as he spanked her ass over and over, painfully. It stung so much, that she started to wince. "Don't you make a sound or complain once, little girl. You wear this revealing shit in my office and act like you can do whatever you want-" "No, I don't," she finally argued. "I don't-" "What the fuck did you just say to me? Get off of me. Face the fucking wall. Now." She scampered off immediately, placing her hands on the wall and facing away from him. "You disrespect my office and then you lie to me. Don't move a muscle, little girl." "I'm not a girl," she said, frustrated. "You're not? You're about to tell me you're a woman, carrying on like this?" She felt the touch of rough skin against the tiny, thin fabric of the thong against her pulsating cunt. "Are you really going to lie to me when you're like this? Do I need to make you take these off and smell how wet you are?" "No, Sir," she said, desperately trying to hang on to what dignity she had left. His perfectly pressed khakis became slightly more pressed than before, and if she was facing him, she definitely would have noticed this time. "You're right," he said. "I don't need to take this slutty bullshit off to do this." She heard a clicking and un-clicking noise, like a pen opening and closing. And then she felt it. It was a pen opening and closing. He had slid a closed ballpoint pen up her wet cunt, her underwear too skimpy to offer any resistance. "You wanton fucking whore," he said in her ear. "You see how easily it goes inside you?" He pushed it further and deeper inside her, her dripping wet pussy accepting it eagerly, wishing it was something else but not caring enough to fight or speak. "Is this what you want?" He asked. "No," she pleaded, half lie and half truth. "What is it that you want, then?" He shoved the pen hard now, enough to make her cry out. "I- I don't want a pen inside me," she said. He laughed. "You have two options. One, I fuck you with whatever I want. Pens, staplers, highlighters, white out. Your desperate cunt will take anything I want." She gulped, knowing it was true. "Second, you take that bra off and show me what you've been teasing me all day with like the whore you are, and I'll spare you the objects." She immediately spun around to face him, starting to unhook her bra. "Jesus fuck. No. You don't understand, do you?" he admonished her. "Do I really have to spell this out for you?" She paused for a moment, the challenge- not far from the feeling of contempt- and arousal building. "I would like to proceed with the second option, Sir," she said coolly, focusing her glare directly into his. "You will learn to remember professional conduct with me," he said firmly. "You will wait for my okay every time. Now you may continue." Not breaking her stare, she went back to removing the black lace. He bit his lip. "How big are those?" He got up off his chair, starting to circle her like a wolf around a cornered animal. "32 triple D. Sir," she said clearly. "Arms up. Now," he said, not taking his eyes off her exposed tits once. No sooner did she raise her arms in a stretch, did she feel his rugged hands squeezing her tits with no restraint. "What do you call me, Megan?" She answered without hesitation. "Sir." "You are not to show these tits in any capacity during work hours again. Do you understand? No cleavage. No nothing. Answer me, whore." "I understand, Sir." "Actually, allow me to correct myself. You are not to show these tits to anyone but me before, during or after work hours. Do you still understand?" She smirked, starting to wonder how realistic he was being and what he assumed or didn't assume of her life. If he caught this, he didn't comment. "I still understand, Sir." She had noticed by now the hard bulge against his crotch. It wasn't short or small. It was a man's cock. He didn't miss her stare, despite her attempt at making it quick. "If you so much as think about what you're looking at, you will follow everything I tell you, in this room and at your desk. Every second of every day. Now bend over and touch your toes." Again, she didn't hesitate. From behind, she felt him pull her thong to the side and touch her cunt with his fingers. She whimpered, feeling herself ovulating acutely at his touch. She waited for his fingers to enter her, but they didn't. Instead, he retracted his touch and slapped her cunt. Reeling, she had no words, but knew that if he did it again, she would cum right here and now, squirting all over the tile floor. But he didn't. He yanked her panties down, roughly. "Remain in that position," he ordered simply. She complied. Still touching her toes, she felt something enter her. Something cold and metal. "What the-" she said, grimacing as she realized he had broken his word. Her swollen, pulsing cunt was being fucked by a metal stapler, and there was nothing she could do about it. "You told me you wouldn't," she pleaded unconvincingly. This caused him to fuck her with the stapler even harder. "What I told you was that you had two options." Harder. Faster. "Not what I wou-" suddenly, the forceful penetration was too much, and she squirted. If anyone had walked in, it would have looked like she had just peed all over the floor. "Jesus Christ, you like this?" he interrupted himself, the penetration unceasing. "You know, most girls- civilized girls- don't like being fucked hard with foreign objects. Most girls don't like being penetrated enough to fuck up my floors," and she came again and again from the hard, rough force. "I wasn't going to fuck you today," he said, breaking character. "But your body is begging to be fucked. Your body is begging to be violated and penetrated and defiled, isn't it? Do you even cum from your clit?" She shook her head, no. The words "It's too sensitive" escaped her lips. "You're too sensitive to handle a normal orgasm, but you're not too sensitive to be a fucking animal," he said, taking the stapler out of her vagina and staring at the mess on the floor. "There's no such thing as a civilized orgasm," she spat at him, her personality coming out again. For the first time, he smiled. "Are you on birth control?" He asked, not bothering to stopping to reply to the statement that aroused his fucking soul. She nodded a yes. She knew where this was going now. Or she thought she did. And it wasn't a lie. "Good. Because you are going to walk around this office with my seed spilling out of you any time I see fit. Do you understand that?" She nodded, but somehow almost wanting to bare her teeth and growl. The stare between them was a recognition of animal between animal. Masks vanished, equals among equals. "Get on your hands and knees." She followed the order and got down on the floor. "No. There," he said, gesturing toward the spot she had soiled. The smirk started to return to her lips. He began to remove his belt, and she readied herself for the enormous cock she had only seen the shadow of. Wanting it, craving it, she reverted to the notorious submissive pose- face down, ass up. "Wanton fucking whore," he said, eyeing this as a carnivore eyes his next meal. "Stay like that." Then, she heard the crack of leather snapping. A moment later, her boss was beating her ass enough that it would soon be bleeding. "Filthy-fucking-whore-" left his mouth with every strike, a growl starting to rise in his tone. She took every strike with grace, poise, and pain. Exquisite pain, she thought to herself, wanting to thank him for every strike. That want became reality when it accidentally slipped out of her mouth, no longer able to resist the impulse. "Thank you, Sir," she whispered as he broke skin. He knew if he didn't fuck her soon, she was going to make him spill in his pants like a high school boy. He had to stay in charge- so his next and final strike landed directly on her cunt. She yelped and again an orgasm escaped her heathen pussy. "That's it," were the only words he managed as he shed his shoes, pants and boxers, getting down on the floor behind her, seizing her waist and entering his seven and a half inches straight into her. His cock slid freely into her, a bitch in heat. She clenched around him, starting to cum over and over from being fucked like the animal they both were. He slammed into her, against the walls inside her, in too much pain and pleasure to form words anymore. "Is this how you want it?" he asked, seizing her hair and thrusting harder, harder. Her orgasm answered for her, drenching his cock with her cum. "Then I'll remember that. Get the fuck up. I need to see your fucking eyes. On the counter," he said, and watched as she tried to get up. She struggled, unable to coax her body into rising, so he picked her up in both arms and set her down on the counter himself. "Open your legs," he said, staring into her stare. "No. Wider," he said, and spread them himself. "Look at me while I take you. Look- at-me-" and he was inside her again, hurting her small frame with his cock, trying to find the words for this beast bitch. Failing miserably. He was fucking her to her core, and if he fucked her any harder he would punch her cervix. "I- want-it," she finally achieved. "I-fucking-want-it-" He couldn't take this. "So take it," he growled, and came inside of her, their orgasms joining, her moan timed perfectly to his release. Looking down, she stared at his perfect cock inside of her. He looked at her looking, and grabbed her by the hair. "This is going to happen again, any way I want, any time I want," he instructed. She smirked as if she already knew, and despite his years, his position, and the fact that he initiated this- he didn't know how he was going keep the reins on this.

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