#ceo au

Over the course of your career, you’d worked hard to rise up the ranks of assistants, taking on new roles at different companies until you’d made it to the top of the ladder. But you found yourself in the odd position of having nowhere else to go, and little to do. 

As Mr. Barnes’ senior EA, your job was to oversee the rest of the CEO’s assistants. At any given time, he had half a dozen, all of whom managed his schedule, fetched his dry-cleaning, and did everything else the busy werewolf didn’t have time to do.

However, after the brief transition period when you first stepped into your role and made some changes so that the fleet of assistants ran more efficiently, and everything was delegated to the others, there was little left for you to do.

All that was expected of you was to sit at your desk in the sparsely decorated antechamber outside Mr. Barnes’ office, with its towering, thick wooden doors that were often closed, leaving you entirely alone. Occasionally, you’d have to greet any visitors who’d arrive for an in-person meeting, but that was rare.

Most days, no one came to Mr. Barnes’ office, since the werewolf preferred virtual meetings and phone calls to in-person sit-downs. So you spent long, arduous days alone at your desk while your boss worked and the fleet of assistants scurried around doing his bidding, which was relayed through you.

It left you with a lot of free time—free time that you spent trying to keep busy, and trying not to daydream about your handsome werewolf boss. 

It had been against your better judgement that your foolish heart had caught feelings for Bucky Barnes, but it turned out you had a soft spot for werewolves with icy blue eyes, sharp canine teeth, and expensive suits. It didn’t help that he had a dry sense of humor and a brusque, no-nonsense way of conducting business that you respected.

Still, you maintained a professional demeanor at work, not allowing your feelings for your boss to show when you greeted him in the morning or spoke to him about his schedule. But if you were honest with yourself, your little crush on the werewolf was the reason you didn’t look for another job.

You’d fallen into a routine of monotony, broken up only by the brief, thrilling moments when you interacted with Bucky Barnes. You didn’t even realize you were looking for something to escape the vicious circle your life had become until it was right in front of your face.

It was on one particularly dreary afternoon when you took the first step down a path that would change everything. 

Cold rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the antechamber outside Mr. Barnes’ office, obscuring the view of New York City’s Central Park that lay at the feet of the company’s high-rise in Manhattan. You felt like a princess trapped in a tower, held above and apart from the rest of the world, bitterly alone. 

To remind yourself that you weren’t the last person in the world, living among the gray clouds, you found yourself scrolling through your social media feed, eagerly watching the little windows into other peoples’ lives. 

It was then that you came across a video from a woman who made her living as a “spicy accountant.” Unlike some of the others you’d seen on the app, though, she made her money through something called Pleasure Portal. 

You watched in rapt attention as the woman in the video explained what it was—a network created by the company’s warlock CEO using proprietary portal technology that connected those with willing holes with clients willing to pay to use those holes, even if they were entire continents apart. 

According to the woman, all transactions were completely anonymous and conducted through the app, though there were options for leaving tips and favorable reviews. To ensure everyone’s safety, there was an application process that included health and background checks verified by the Pleasure Portal company. 

And the best part, at least to you, was that it was open to everyone—human and monsters alike.

That had been the most enticing selling point for you, because even if you didn’t need the money, Pleasure Portal offered a safe and anonymous way for you to explore what it would be like to be with a monster, something you’d only ever fantasized about before.

Although you’d developed a crush on him, Bucky Barnes wasn’t the first monster you’d daydreamed about. 

Over the years, you’d wondered endlessly about what it would feel like to be split open by a minotaur, to be put under a lust spell by a warlock, to be tied so intimately by a werewolf’s knot…

You’d been breathless with excitement as you applied to be part of the Pleasure Portal network right then, on that dreary afternoon. You kept oscillating between feeling like it was a dream, too good to be true, and giddy excitement as you filed your paperwork, and gave proof that you tested negative for STIs and were on birth control.

It took surprisingly little time to be approved, the app on your phone unlocking your profile while you were sent the portal device.

As soon as you got the notification that the package had been delivered, in the middle of the afternoon on a hot, summer day, you left your desk, giving Mr. Barnes a ridiculous excuse about needing to go home early to feed your neighbor’s cat. 

Once at you made it back to your apartment in Park Slope, you tore into the box with as much care as you could muster, your eyes widening and lips parting with wonder when you finally got your hands on the portal device.

It was as small as a matchbook and, according to the instructions, should be affixed to your skin above, below or beside the hole you wished to connect to the network. The magic in the device could then be activated only from your app, which required face ID, and it could be shut off using the app or by voicing the safe word you registered with the service.

The app was how you connected with potential Pleasure Patrons, filling out your profile with interests and limits, and setting yourself as available whenever you were open to clients. Anyone looking to use your services as a Pleasure Pocket could send a request, and you had the option to approve or deny based on their profile, which revealed their first name, age and species, and how much money they were offering. 

Although you were almost too excited to read through all the instructions on the portal device and fill out your profile, you forced yourself to pay attention and get through it as quickly and methodically as possible so you could finally get started.

It wasn’t long before you were attaching the device to your mound, just above your pussy, and setting yourself as available on the app. Your profile specified that you were particularly open to monsters—and you were delighted to discover they were all too eager to use your services.

From that night on, you became an active Pleasure Pocket on the Pleasure Portal network. 

At first, you consigned yourself to only using it when you were at home, letting monsters from all over the world rail you while you made dinner or took a shower or lay on your couch watching TV. But work was so boring, and you really didn’t have much to do, so what was the harm in wearing it to the office?

It was breathlessly thrilling to wear the Pleasure Portal device at your desk, alone in the antechamber outside Mr. Barnes’ office, feeling all manner of monster cock fill you while you were on the clock. It got to a point where even if you weren’t stuffed full of cock, you were daydreaming about it. Your idle thoughts constantly wandered back to your favorite Patrons.

The day everything truly changed, was a day like any other.

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon in New York City, the golden summer sun glinting off buildings and giving you a perfect view of Central Park with all its gorgeous green foliage. And it was another boring day at your desk, with nothing for you to do since the assistants were self-sufficient and Bucky was busy behind his closed office doors. 

At that point, you’d been part of the Pleasure Portal network for a few months, and your mind kept straying back to one of your recent clients, a minotaur that had used you the previous week. 

Your fingers toyed idly with the buttons of your silk blouse, which was tucked into a tight black pencil skirt. You bit your lip as you remembered the feeling of the minotaur’s impressive length filling you up for hours one morning, his stamina lasting for what seemed like an eon.

He’d used you for so long, and fucked you so relentlessly, you’d nearly passed out at your desk. It had been glorious.

Once he was done with you, the minotaur had left you a generous tip “for monopolizing your morning,” as well as a favorable review: “5/5 stars, tightest pussy I’ve had in a long time. Would fuck again.”

It was the last part of his review that still stuck with you a week later, and had you daydreaming that he would, in fact, fuck you again. You didn’t often accept repeat clients, but for the minotaur, you’d make an exception. He’d pleasured you well enough that you could see yourself enjoying another session with him.

Unbidden, your thoughts veered sharply away from your minotaur client. Instead, icy blue eyes, sharp canine teeth, and a broad chest clad in an expensive suit flashed through your mind. You tried desperately to halt your thoughts before they could venture further down that path, but your imagination couldn’t be stopped.

Your fantasy shifted, and before you could rein in your mind, you were thinking about being stretched open on a thick werewolf cock while you sat in your boss’s lap. The base of his length, where his knot would inflate, would nudge against your clit and remind you that once he came, you’d be unable to separate. 

Your bodies would be tied together in such an intimate way that couldn’t be ignored. You’d be connected in the most primal, physical way possible…

With a sigh, you blinked the tantalizing image from your mind and returned your focus to the gorgeous sight of the summer sun shining brightly down on New York City, glinting off the water of the lake in Central Park and shimmering off the windows of the other skyscrapers in midtown Manhattan. 

You willed your heart to slow and your breathing to even out in an effort to temper the heat that had begun building in your core. When your fantasy had shifted to Bucky, your slit had flooded with desire, and you could feel the sticky evidence in your panties when you crossed one leg over the other. 

Truthfully, you’d hoped that joining the Pleasure Portal network would distract you from your crush on your boss, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Letting all manner of monsters use your hole was fun, but it was all anonymous, and it lacked the true connection you thought you could only find in real life. 

And, to be perfectly honest, you weren’t interested in finding a true connection with anyone other than Bucky. Even the minotaur from the previous week paled in comparison to your boss. Though he’d been a good lover and had tipped well, you didn’t want anything more from him than a few more orgasms. 

You were, unfortunately, still hung up on the older werewolf CEO with the icy blue eyes that sent shivers down your spine and the devastatingly handsome face. You wanted the monster who sat in his office just a few dozen feet away from your desk, but might as well have been a whole world away with the thick wooden doors and his inability to see you as anything more than his EA.

A soft chime from your phone pulled you from that train of thought and you picked up the device. A small smile stole across your face when you saw a Pleasure Portal notification: A new Patron was requesting a session!

Eager for something to distract you from your thoughts of Bucky Barnes, you quickly opened up the app and scanned the request.

James, 42, werewolf, was asking for an immediate session, and he was willing to pay an exorbitant amount of money—so much that even your eyes widened at the number of zeros. It was more than you made in an entire week as a senior EA, and all for a few hours of being this monster’s Pleasure Pocket. 

Still, you couldn’t lie and tell yourself the money was really what swayed you. It was this potential client’s profile, particularly the part where he noted he was a werewolf. 

After daydreaming about Bucky, you were feeling more than a little needy. And even though fucking this werewolf named James wouldn’t be the same as finally getting the attention you desired from your boss, you couldn’t deny yourself. You wanted a knot, and if you couldn’t have the one you really wanted, you’d take anything you could get.

So, without any more thought, you hit the button on the app that accepted James’s offer.

As soon as the Pleasure Portal app registered your acceptance, you felt the device hum to life on the mound of your pussy. Delightful tingles erupted in a circle around your hole, the magical current of the portal coming to life and teasing your skin.

You gave a little shiver of anticipation as you leaned back in your expensive, ergonomic desk chair. You closed your eyes, and waited for James to begin using his side of the open portal, arousal already gathering between your thighs as you thought about being used by the anonymous Patron.

Less than a minute later, you felt the pointed tip of the werewolf’s cock nudging carefully against your entrance. The first feel of him made your breath catch in your throat.

James felt big, even just the tip of him spreading your lower lips as he pushed against your entrance. He seemed to be taking it slow, testing out your readiness, being careful not to hurt you with one rough thrust.

When you realized how big he was and the care he was taking with you, your pussy flooded with arousal. It was enough to make your hole slick and ready for his massive cock.

It occurred to you that James might be the biggest monster you’d ever taken, and you were eager to find out if you were right about that. In your chest, your heart raced, but the rest of you remained still as you waited with a breathless excitement for James to feed you more of his cock.

Your prediction was confirmed a moment later when James pressed deeper, the narrow tip of his cock giving way to a thick girth that had you gasping for air and clutching the edge of your desk. Your nails dug into the unyielding wood as your pussy clamped down hard on the werewolf’s penetrating length. 

A soft chime came from your phone, and you picked it up to find James had sent a text through Pleasure Portal’s in-app messaging system. Some clients tried to use it for dirty talk, but more often than not, their attempts at seducing you with words had the opposite effect so you usually ignored them. 

However, James’s message was different. 

Fuck, you’re tight. Even for a human. 

The werewolf sounded grumpy, almost resentful of your pussy, like he could barely believe anyone, even a human, could be so tight. It was a far cry from the effusive flattery most other Patrons tried to woo you with, but the honesty of it charmed you. 

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, and your thumbs moved quickly as you typed out a response that you hoped would elicit more delightful grumpiness from the older werewolf. 

Fucked many humans, have you?

The self-satisfied grin on your face slipped when James pushed further into your hole, your mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ and your eyes going wide as your body stretched to accomodate his monster cock. 

He was so big and overwhelming, the velvet-wrapped steel of his girth rubbing deliciously against your inner walls while he pressed deeper, that you momentarily forgot about your phone and it fell with a dull thunk to your desk.

When he was still only partway inside your pussy, James paused, as if giving you time to adjust—and giving himself a moment to send an answer to your question. 

My fair share. How many werewolves have you had?

Picking up your phone to read the message, you huffed a dry laugh at James’s blunt question. It wasn’t really his business—though he must’ve seen on your profile that you had a few positive reviews from past werewolf Patrons—but you found you didn’t mind the intrusive question.

For some reason, you felt a connection to James that had always been lacking in your previous clients, werewolf and other monsters alike. You knew it was likely just because he reminded you of the boss you were crushing on and would never have, but you couldn’t help indulging yourself and gave James an honest response.

A few. None as big as you, though.

The werewolf must’ve shunted his hips forward, burying his cock impossibly deeper in your pussy. The sudden surge of pleasure made you forget yourself, and a desperate squeal slipped from your lips before you could clap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

God, he was so big, the stretch of him burning pleasantly through your core. Your pussy throbbed around the thick girth of his shaft, which was buried so deep, you swore you could feel him in your belly. Pressing a palm to your lower stomach, you stared down at your lap in awe when you could feel the thick steel of him inside your body even while you sat alone in your desk chair. 

The magic of the Pleasure Portal was wild—and you loved it. 

You loved sitting at your desk, in your office above the clouds, stuffed full of werewolf cock where anyone could walk in—where even Bucky could walk in—and talk to you like nothing was out of the ordinary. He’d never know you were full of cock, unless your face gave you away.

That thought made your pussy drip around James’s thick cock, making the slide of his hard length easier as he slipped even deeper. Your moan at the feeling was muffled behind the palm of your hand and you bent over, letting your forehead fall against the cool wood of your desk while you basked in the sensation of being filled so deliciously. 

Even with your thighs trapped tight together by your pencil skirt, the new position opened your body up, and made it easier for James to hilt his monstrous cock in your tight hole. In seconds, he was buried to the base, filling you up more than you even thought possible.

It was all you could do to stifle your blissed-out moans and desperate whimpers in your hand, not wanting to draw your boss’s attention and end your exquisite torment as you writhed in pleasure on James’s cock.

I’m sure you say that to all the monsters on this app.

It took a moment for you to wade through the haze filling your head and grab your phone to read James’s message. 

When you did, you let out an unladylike snort. It was so perfectly grumpy that it made you want to be playful with the older werewolf, an urge you didn’t often care enough about your Patrons to muster.

Gotta earn those tips somehow 🤪

James must’ve let out a low growl at that response, because you could feel the vibration reverberate through his cock where it was buried inside you. 

A soft, pitiful mewl slipped from your lips, and you dropped your head back to your desk with a thunk, your eyes sliding closed as overwhelming pleasure washed through you. 

You’re trouble.

The chime of your phone had you lifting your head back up, your eyes popping open, and you couldn’t bite back the smile at the warm grumpiness of James’s response. 

Something about those two words had your heart doing flips in your chest and the long-dormant butterflies in your stomach taking flight. 

Your inner walls were stretched so perfectly around his hard length, you could practically feel the thrum of his blood pumping in his shaft, and he could feel every throb of your pussy. Your pussy fluttered around the werewolf’s thick cock, and you could feel him twitch in reply. 

It was as if your bodies were conversing in a language all their own.

It was so intimate, the physical connection between you and this anonymous werewolf named James, that you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering to your boss. You wondered if he would be as big, if he’d fill you up as good—if you’d be able to feel every vein and ridge in his cock. 

You wondered if Bucky would be able to make you smile and laugh the way James had. 

And as soon as you had that thought, you realized how unfair you were being to James. It wasn’t his fault you couldn’t get over this ridiculous crush on your boss, and you started to feel bad for thinking about another monster while he was inside you.

So you pushed all thoughts of Bucky aside and refocused on James, picking up your phone to type out another playful response, hoping to get another grumpy reply.

Trouble with a tight pussy, though, right? 😉

Yeah, sweetling, you’ve got a very tight pussy. Feels like you’re strangling my dick.

You huffed a laugh at the vaguely violent description of your pussy, enjoying the blunt way the grumpy werewolf spoke. And if your heart fluttered even more at the sweet nickname and naked praise in James’s message, you ignored the blossoming emotion in your chest. 

The only thing worse than harboring a crush on your unattainable boss was developing a crush on one of your anonymous Pleasure Patrons. That way lay only heartbreak, of that you were certain. So you tried to rein in the feelings developing in your heart.

When you tried to type out another playful message and remain detached, though, your fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, sending a text that was perhaps a little too honest. 

Thank you, sir ☺️ I want to please you.

James’s cock jumped inside you, drawing a low, obscene moan from your lips before you could bite it back, your eyes going hazy as pleasure throbbed through your body. 

Distractedly, you wondered which part of your message had elicited that response from James—whether it was you calling him ‘sir’ or your honest desire to please him. Or perhaps it was both.

Before you could muster up the courage to ask, his next message came through, and your mouth curved into a pleased smile when it answered your unspoken questions.

Keep calling me that and you’ll earn a very generous tip, sweetling. 

A pleased smile bloomed across your face as you read James’s message. You tried to tell yourself it was in response to the prospect of the tip he was offering, and not the sweet nickname, but you weren’t fooling yourself. 

You tried to think of a more playful, detached response, but before you could come up with anything, another message came in.

I have a call soon, I just need some quick stress relief beforehand, but I’ll double your tip every time you cum on my cock.

You breathed a sigh of relief before you could stop yourself, happy to have a break from your flirty exchange with the werewolf to talk about the logistics of your session. Still, you couldn’t stop your pussy from fluttering around James’s cock at his blunt, filthy words. 

He filled you so well, it was almost hard to think, and you blamed your needy distraction for the almost desperate tone of the response you sent him. 

Use me, sir, and I’ll do my best to take it 🫡 That’s what I’m here for.

James didn’t need any more encouragement than that. You could feel the way he groaned at your words, the low rumbling of pleasure reverberating through your sensitive inner walls, and making you gush with even more wetness, like your pussy was drooling for the werewolf cock stuffed deep in your hole to fuck you.

Then he was doing just that, using his side of the Pleasure Portal to fuck you hard and fast, pounding into your pussy like you were nothing more than a fleshlight made solely for his pleasure. It was brutal, ruthless, perfect, the way his cock filled your tight hole, the pointed tip bullying your cervix with every merciless thrust.

All you could do was take it, pleasure swarming through your body and overwhelming your mind, until you were little more than the werewolf’s toy, your body hunched at your desk, your face buried in the crook of your arm to muffle your sounds of enjoyment while you took everything he offered. 

Your inner walls were stretched thin around James’s cock, and though the drag of his thick girth felt devastatingly good, it wasn’t enough to make you cum. With trembling fingers, you slipped your hand beneath your pencil skirt, not caring how high up your thighs you pushed the material, just intent about reaching the juncture of your thighs.

It took only a brief brush of your fingers against your clothed clit to set you off. 

Your mouth fell open and you pressed your blunt teeth into your arm through the silk of your blouse, a high-pitched whine falling from your lips as the pleasure in your body exploded and you were carried away in the relentless rhythm of James’s cock pounding into your cunt.

Your panting breath was loud in your ears, but you could’ve sworn you heard a faint groan as your pussy milked the werewolf’s cock, your inner walls clamping down so hard on his thick length, you felt him twitch deep inside you. 

But you brushed off the sound as a figment of your imagination. It must’ve been your mind playing tricks on you, born of a desire to hear your partner when you were alone in your pleasure, with only your gasps and moans as company. You ached to press against James’s sturdy body, to hear his voice, to feel more than his cock…

Thankfully, a soft chime from your phone dragged you back from the sudden rush of loneliness that filled your heart and threatened to consume all your enjoyment like a black hole. 

Good girl. Cum on this fat werewolf cock like the perfect little slut you are, sweetling.

“Oh fuck,” you whispered to yourself, your eyes sliding closed as another shiver of pleasure skated down your spine at his words and his pumping cock. Already, tension was coiling tight in your core again, and you were rocketing toward another release.

You’d never gotten off to the dirty talk your Patrons had sent in the past, but James’s words did something to you no other monster had managed—they made your pussy gush and flutter. They made you moan, the sounds low and lewd as they bounced off the bare walls of the office antechamber. 

James’s message was the ideal mix of praise and degradation. It tapped into your desires so perfectly, you wondered distractedly if he was also a wizard or a mind-reader. 

And then you realized he hadn’t stopped his ruthless pounding even when he’d been texting you, which meant he was fucking his half of the portal with one hand while typing his filthy messages to you with the other.

It all unraveled something in you, and you scrabbled for your phone on the desk, your fingers clumsy and trembling as you typed out a response, desperate for James to know what he was doing to you. You wanted him to know how good he was making you feel. 

You feel so so good inside my tight cunt, sir. Your fat werewolf cock is splitting me open, breaking me apart. Feels sooo good. 

The act of typing out those words made the tension in your body wind tighter, and just as you hit send, you realized you were on the precipice of another release. Quickly, you sent another message without waiting for a response. 

I’m gonna cum again.

Your fingers, which you’d pulled from beneath your skirt so you could text with two hands, slipped back beneath the tight fabric. They squirmed between your plush thighs, which were already pushing the pencil skirt’s seams to they’re limits, and tugged your panties to the side to rub your clit. 

You were careening toward your second release in just a few seconds, your breaths coming in sharp, desperate pants, and your heart pounding in your chest. You could even hear the faint, obscene wet sound of James’s cock pounding into your gushing pussy. 

But all of it fell away when you heard the chime of another message.

Rub your pretty pearl, sweetling, and cum again on this thick werewolf cock. Show me what a good slut you can be for me, use that tight cunt to milk my fat cock. 

Obediently, your fingertips pressed harder to your clit and you rubbed it roughly, matching the rhythm of James’s fucking, until you were shoved over the edge again. Your entire body seized, every muscle in your body going taut, as the tension in your core wound tight and then, suddenly, snapped. 

Dropping your phone to your desk, you shoved half your fist in your mouth to muffle the high-pitched scream that clawed up your throat and wanted to burst free. 

You couldn’t tell how much noise you were making, but you hoped it wasn’t enough to get Bucky’s attention, because you were lost to the bliss James offered. You were a hopeless, pitiful puddle of pleasure in your ergonomic chair—and you never wanted it to end.

While you were in the throes of your release, you thought you heard another groan, deeper and filthier than the one earlier, a sound that matched the way James’s cock kicked deep in your cunt, like he was on the verge of losing himself in your body. 

But that thought drifted away in the current of pleasure that was carrying you along, dissolving as soon as it had appeared, leaving you to revel in your release. 

Distantly, you heard your phone go off, and you reached for it blindly, gasping for breath as you struggled to open your eyes and read the text.

That’s a good girl, cumming so perfectly for me. You have such a slutty hole, sweetling, cumming all over my werewolf cock and clutching at me like you’re begging for more. Do you want another one, my sweet girl?

A soft, sharp whine slipped from your lips and you had to bite down hard on your plush lower lip to stifle the sound. Even still, it ricocheted off the bare walls in the antechamber, and you hoped the thick wood of Bucky’s office doors muffled it. 

But you barely paid your boss any mind, fingers trembling with need and excitement as you typed out a response to James with one hand.

Yes, please, sir. Please make me cum again, I wanna cum all over your big werewolf cock. You fill me up so so good. I wanna bounce on your huge, perfect cock and take every inch of your fat knot, sir. Please!

James’s reply came back so quickly, even you were stunned with how fast it appeared. All he said was: 

Fuck. You can’t be real.

You had little time to marvel over those words, and the way they made your heart flutter dangerously in your chest, because in the next breath James was pounding into you even harder. 

He used your cunt as his own personal pleasure portal, fucking you like you were the stress relief he deserved, shoving his entire length deep inside your pussy. The narrow tip of his cock battered against your cervix, pushing into it a little more each time, giving every thrust a sharp edge of pain that made the pleasure even more exquisitely devastating.

It was all too good, too perfect, your mind splintering as the world around you fell away entirely. You were no longer the senior EA to werewolf CEO Bucky Barnes, you were a Pleasure Pocket made to be used by every manner of monster for their pleasure. 

No, not just any monster—you were made specifically for James, 42, werewolf. You were his personal sex toy, his pocket pussy, his fuck hole. And all you could do was take it—take his cock, take the brutal pounding he offered, and the bliss that came with it, and let him take his pleasure in your body.

You imagined James on the other end of the magical portal, holding the cylindrical fleshlight-like device in his big hands and yanking it down on his impossibly thick cock. You pictured him fucking the portal toy—and, by extension, your cunt—with everything he had, sweat beading on his face, the muscles in his broad body shifting beneath his fur and skin.

Before you could stop it, the image in your mind shifted, the generic figure of a werewolf morphing into something more familiar, something resembling the daydream you’d had earlier. 

In your mind’s eye, James became Bucky. 

You could so easily picture the way Bucky’s bright blue eyes would flash with hunger and darken with lust as he pounded into your tight cunt, the emotions churning like the sky during a summer thunderstorm. 

It was far too easy to imagine the way his sharp canine teeth would glint in the lights of the office as he bore down on your body, his expensive suit only undone enough to free his cock, the gush of your pussy making a mess of the front of his slacks as he split you open with every thrust.

His inhuman muscles would strain the seams of his suit, making them cling to the bulge of his biceps and the flexing of his thighs as he fucked you on his desk. You’d be entirely at his mercy, which was exactly where you wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world—even with James.

A pang in your chest dragged you out of your fantasy, and you remembered the werewolf who was actually fucking you. You felt a little bit bad for daydreaming about Bucky when you were with James, especially since the latter had quickly become your favorite Patron. But, you reasoned, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

So you sank deeper into your daydream about your boss, imagining it was Bucky fucking you instead of some random stranger on the other end of the Pleasure Portal. 

The combination of James’s perfect cock and your imagination’s perfect picture of Bucky was too much for your mind and body to take. The werewolf was fucking you too hard and too fast, and you were breathless from the pleasure, unable to stop yourself from speeding toward a devastating release. 

You held on for as long as you could, but James seemed intent on making you cum again before his call began. And the werewolf confirmed as much when your phone chimed with another message.

Do it. Cum on my cock, sweetling. Be a good girl and give it to me so I can fill you up with my knot and stuff your tight pussy full of cum. Then you can sit pretty on my fat werewolf cock like a perfect little knot slut while I take this call.

Those filthy words were all you needed to push you over the edge. 

A breathy, high-pitched cry escaped your lips before you could stop it, but you were too far gone to care. Pleasure overwhelmed you, blackness creeping into the edge of your consciousness as your body shivered and shook with the force of your release.

All the while, your pussy was clamped down on James’s thick cock as he kept fucking you, like your body was begging for his cum. His hard length vibrated with a groan you could’ve sworn you could hear. You swayed perilously in your chair, your eyes closed and your entire being focused on the cock bringing you so much pleasure.

The werewolf lasted only a few more moments, his thrusts turning wild and erratic as he rutted into your too-tight cunt. Then he was shoving his cock deep in your hole, his knot inflating and stretching the edge of your hole a second before his big cock twitched inside you, spilling his cum in your plugged pussy.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden stretch of James’s knot, and though there was a brief moment when you worried he might be too big for you to take, your body was loose and relaxed enough from your three orgasms that it adjusted. You were left with a feeling of being blissfully full.

It felt so good, in fact, that you leaned back in your chair with a sigh of contentment. Your fingers trapped between your thighs stroked your clit and your pussy pulsed with one more release. 

Pleasure shivered down your spine as you came again, and your inner walls fluttered weakly around James’s cock, sucking him deeper while his shaft throbbed and he filled you with cum.

Did you just cum for a fourth time, just on my knot?

You dragged your hand from beneath your skirt to grab your phone when it chimed. A sated smile curled the corners of your lips as you read James’s message, your pussy fluttering with happiness. 

The smile bloomed into a full-blown grin when you typed out your response, going for playful but ending up sending something entirely too honest. Again.

Yes, sir 🥴 I wouldn’t have thought of myself as a knot slut, but I think you’ve converted me. 

Haha

James’s dry response had a pleased sense of pride filling your chest. It was the first time he’d shown any kind of emotion outside of his dirty talk, and your heart squeezed, even as you told yourself nothing good could come of the little crush you were developing on your Pleasure Portal client. 

Before you could spiral about how you felt about James, though, another text from the werewolf came through your phone. 

Time for you to rest, sweetling. Be a good girl and keep my cock warm while I take this call. If you’re patient, I’ll use you again and double your tip.

You smiled at James’s message. Of course you could be patient and good, especially for him. You shifted in your seat, trying to get comfortable and accustomed to the feeling of fullness in your core.

It was a little strange, the feeling of James’s thick cock and full knot inside you, mainly because you were still alone at your desk, high above the New York City skyline, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, you thought you might be able to get very used to sitting on a werewolf’s knot, and even enjoy it very much. 

But you would’ve rather been able to do so in the presence of the werewolf whose knot you were tied to.

A pang of loneliness pierced your heart, and you thought of the werewolf whose knot you really wanted to be tied to, but you quickly pushed it away. Instead of thinking about your boss, you focused on the throbbing pulse between your thighs where you were tied to the anonymous werewolf.

Thank you, sir. Knock ‘em dead 😘

As soon as you sent the message, you wanted to take it back. Blowing a kiss felt too…romantic, too intimate for a Pleasure Pocket and their Patron. But the little note had already popped up confirming James had seen it. He didn’t respond, though, and you had to assume his call had started.

You tried to distract yourself by checking on your own work. 

The fleet of assistants were all busy with their tasks, and according to Bucky’s schedule, he was in a meeting for the next couple hours. 

It was a relief to know your boss wouldn’t be interrupting your session with James, and you wondered distractedly if they might happen to be on the same call. But then you snorted and shook your head at the ridiculous thought. Not every werewolf knew each other, you chastised yourself, and it was small-minded to think otherwise.

It was just a coincidence that James was in a call at the same time that Bucky was in a virtual meeting. 

Satisfied that there wasn’t any work to be done, you got comfortable in your chair, and closed your eyes against the bright summer sun filtering in through the windows of the antechamber. You allowed your mind to drift and daydream to your heart’s content.

You wondered what James looked like—what color his eyes were; what shape his canine teeth were, if he left them sharp or had filed them to be blunter and more socially acceptable. You wondered if he was broad-shouldered, like Bucky, or lithe and slim like other werewolves you’d seen.

All the while, you tried to ignore the building restlessness in your body. 

You should’ve been plenty sated after James gave you four orgasms in such a short period of time, but the constant fullness of his cock in your cunt and his knot stretching the rim of your hole was enough to make you needy again.

Still, you remembered James’s last command, and you did your best to sit still, be patient and not bother him. It wasn’t that you cared much about the tip he’d offered, you just wanted to be good for him. 

After a while, James’s knot deflated enough that he could’ve pulled free and ended the sessions, but he kept his cock lodged inside you. His cum was slowly seeping out around his thick girth, soaking your panties and creating a sticky mess between your thighs. 

Unfortunately, that only turned you on more, your renewed desire mixing with the copious amount of James’s cum, and it wasn’t long before you couldn’t stop squirming in your seat. Unable to stop yourself, you slid a hand beneath your skirt, already bunched up around your thighs, and rubbed your clit teasingly.

The touch was enough to make your pussy pulse around James’s cock, and you felt his thick length kick in response. He’d softened a little since unloading his cum in your pussy, but you felt him start to harden again.

A second later, your phone chimed. 

Sweetling.

A shiver of desire slid down your spine at the warning in James’s tone, even through text. 

You knew the message was meant to stop you from distracting him during his call, but you couldn’t help yourself. You stroked your clit, delighting in the feeling of your pussy throbbing and his cock twitching deep in your tight hole, growing to fill you again. 

With one hand, you typed out a reply.

I tried to be good, sir, but I’m just a silly knot slut who needs you to fill me up with your fat werewolf cock again until you’re pumping my tight cunt full of your cum and tying me to your cock with your knot 🤪

James’s response came back a few seconds later.

I knew you’d be trouble.

You gave a soft snort at his words, and though it was difficult to discern someone’s tone over text, you got the impression James’s comment was said with warmth. 

Before you could analyze it any more, the werewolf’s cock began to move inside you. He fucked you in slow, shallow strokes that gave you only a fraction of the friction you needed to get close to cumming again. 

You expected him to pick up speed, but he went on like that for long, torturous minutes, until a pitiful whine was building in the back of your throat and you were scrabbling for your phone. 

In just a few minutes, James had reduced you to a desperate mess, your hips squirming restlessly in your chair, your body uselessly trying to fuck yourself on his cock.

Please, sir. Please fuck me, use my tight pussy to make your cock feel good. You’re tormenting me. I can’t get off like this. Please!

Writhing in your chair, you unbuttoned your blouse down to your bra, brazenly groping your tits and plucking at your nipples while you tried to give yourself the stimulation James seemed determined to withhold.

His next reply seemed to take forever. 

Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you decided to be a naughty knot slut instead of a good, patient girl like I asked.

A frustrated sound wrenched free from your lips and you abandoned your tits to drop your hand between your thighs. You rubbed your clit madly, intent on eking out a release despite James’s torture. 

James must’ve felt the way your pussy spasmed and fluttered around his cock as your pleasure ramped up, because another message came through.

If you cum, you won’t get any of the tip you’ve earned.

Your mouth twisted in a snarl and you rolled your eyes. Of course every man or monster using Pleasure Portal assumed you could be controlled with money. They all assumed that was the only thing you were after. 

You’d never been more grateful for Mr. Barnes’ generous salary than in that moment, because it meant you could care more about your release than James’s threat.

You kept rubbing your clit, rocking your hips on your seat until the ergonomic chair began to squeak. You were desperately clawing your way to the peak of your pleasure, and though you could already tell it wouldn’t be anywhere near the heights you’d reached earlier with James, it would at least take the edge off. 

But then the werewolf’s next message made your fingers go still. 

If you cum, I won’t use your pussy again. 

Your whole body shuddered in protest at the idea of not feeling James’s cock pounding into your cunt again, and a tiny growl slipped from your lips. 

It took a great deal of effort, but you pulled your hand from between your thighs and typed out a reply.

Fine.

You couldn’t help but tack on another message, anger, desire and frustration swirling through your body and making you feel far too comfortable with your client.

You’re a mean werewolf.

Faint vibrations reverberated through James’s cock and you thought he’d chuckled at your message, though you couldn’t be sure. Even more frustration surged, and for the first time since you started using the Pleasure Portal, you wished you were actually with your client. 

You wanted to see James’s reactions, you wanted to hear his voice and feel his strong body beneath yours while his cock filled you up…

That’s ‘You’re a mean werewolf, sir’ to you. 

James’s message brought your attention back to him and, despite yourself, you giggled at his ridiculous joke. Some of the frustration had drained from you as you eased back from the edge of your release, and you were ready to forgive him. 

But before you could, he sent another text.

Don’t worry, sweetling, my call’s almost over. Then I’ll use you the way you want. 

With a happy grin, you settled back into your chair and waited patiently, keeping the werewolf’s cock nice and warm in your dripping pussy. You kept your thoughts on easy things like your plans for the next weekend as you watched the sun slowly descend on New York City, the shadows growing long as they stretched across Central Park.

True to his word, James’s call ended not too long after his last message. You knew the moment it was over because he started fucking you hard and fast again, so suddenly you cried out, careless about whether your boss could overhear you. 

Thankfully, those thick wooden doors to Bucky’s office must’ve swallowed the sounds you made. You shoved your hand under your skirt, rubbing your clit, desperate to reach the crescendo he’d denied you during his call. 

Cum on my cock, sweetling. Gimme all your sweet cream while I fill you up with so much cum, your belly will be bloated, stuffed full with my seed and knot.

As soon as you read James’s message, you were lost to the pleasure of his words and his cock, and your fingers on your clit.

You muffled a piercing scream in the palm of your hand as you came, your mind flooding with pleasure and your pussy clamping down possessively on James’s cock while he rutted into you. You were so far gone in your bliss, you thought you heard a roar over the rush of blood in your ears, but you didn’t think it could be real.

Then all thoughts were pushed from your mind and you could only focus on your own clenching body, the warm waves of bliss surging through your limbs as James’s knot inflated and tied you together. His cock twitched as his cum spilled inside you, filling you beyond what you thought possible. 

You looked down at your belly, watching it swell slightly; your eyes widened, and your pussy gave an excited pulse. The sight was so obscene, you couldn’t help your response, but the werewolf on the other end of the portal didn’t seem to mind.

James’s cock kicked and reverberated like he’d groaned or chuckled, and you softened, relaxing into your seat as you enjoyed the aftershocks of your release. All the while, you lightly stroked your ever-so-slightly distended belly with a sense of pleased satisfaction. 

While you floated in your post-orgasm haze, your phone chimed with a sound like a cash register. Lazily, you picked it up, knowing it wasn’t a text, and read the screen.

Your jaw dropped and your whole body clenched in surprise at the amount of money James had tipped. His cock twitched as if in response in your cunt and you pressed your palm to your lower belly, as if to calm him, while you blinked a few times.

Still, the absurd number remained on your phone’s screen. 

You earned it, sweetling. 

The message popped up in the app and you clicked on it, navigating to your exchange with James. Your fingers were clumsy as you typed out a reply.

Thank you, sir. You’ve been so incredibly generous.

You chewed on your lip, thumbs hovering over the screen as you wondered if you should say more. 

You didn’t want James to think your session was all about the money, but was that a ridiculous thought? Maybe it was all about the money to him. He was using an anonymous sex portal app, after all. Not looking for someone to form a connection with.

But it still seemed like there was something more between you two, right? You felt more comfortable with him than you had any other client, like you knew him already somehow…

Before you could agonize over your exchange with James any more, a new message from the older werewolf came in. 

You were the best stress relief and cockwarmer, sweetling, and I enjoyed our afternoon together. I hope you’ll accept me as a Patron again.

James’s words settled the anxiety brewing in your chest and you let out a sigh of relief. You knew it didn’t mean he’d ever want more than you offered on Pleasure Portal, but at least he wanted to be with you again. It was as simple as that, you didn’t need to overcomplicate it.

He wanted to have another session with you—and you wanted that as well. So you told him as much. 

I had a good time, too. You’re welcome to use me any time you want, sir ☺️

The two of you chatted about unimportant things until James’s knot deflated, and he instructed you to drink plenty of water and have a nutritious snack. You promised him you would and bid him goodbye before ending the session.

Glancing at the time on your phone, you suddenly realized how late it had gotten and you pushed yourself up to your feet.

All the blood rushed to your head and you swayed for a moment, blinking spots from your eyes. Remembering James’s words, you gulped down some water from your reusable water bottle and grabbed a snack from your desk along with a spare set of clothes you kept on hand for messy Pleasure Portal sessions.

In the bathroom, you changed and cleaned yourself up, glad that Bucky was already in his office when you got to your desk that morning so he wouldn’t notice you were wearing something different if you ran into him.

Though that was a big if.

Your heart sank a little at the reminder of your unrequited crush on your boss, but hope filled you again when you thought of your newest Pleasure Patron. It might be another silly crush on an unattainable man, but at least James seemed interested in you.

By the time you made it back to the antechamber outside Bucky’s office, it was time for you to gather your things and head home. 

You were bent over your desk, your hips straining at the seams of the slightly smaller pencil skirt you’d thrown on, having forgotten it had shrunk a little in the wash, when a door opened behind you. You jumped and straightened up, nearly dropping your water bottle and spilling it all over your desk. 

“Oh! Mr. Barnes,” you said, spinning to find your boss towering in the doorway of his office, broad shoulders filling the space. “Heading home early?” you asked in a bright, professional tone, trying to hide the breathlessness from your voice. 

It wasn’t often that you saw your boss. He was always in meetings or coming or going from his office so that you only got cursory glances of the large werewolf. But he was paused for once, and you took a moment to look him over.

He had a mop of dark brown hair, worn just a little bit shaggy so no one could ever accuse him of trying to pass as anything but a werewolf. His blue eyes were bright and sharp in the late afternoon light, and you could see just a hint of his canine teeth as he offered a charming smile.

That expression on Bucky’s face nearly bowled you over. Your eyes skimmed quickly over his broad shoulders, trim waist and thick thighs before returning to the handsame face of the werewolf that haunted your daydreams. He looked every bit the important CEO, but there was also a looseness in his body you’d never seen before.

“I am,” Bucky said, his blunt words drawing you back to the moment. He held a hand out in a gesture for you to precede him to the elevators beyond the antechamber outside his office. “Let me walk you out.”

The offer was so surprising, all you could do was murmur, “Oh, thank you,” before scurrying in front of him. As you began to walk, you felt James’s cum begin to leak from your pussy and you moved faster.

Your belly wasn’t bloated anymore, and you’d cleaned yourself up as well as you could in the bathroom, but your Patron had filled you with so much cum, you expected you’d be leaking for the rest of the day, if not into the morning. 

You hoped desperately that your boss couldn’t smell it, because if he did, you wouldn’t have any explanation if he decided to question why you smelled like another werewolf’s cum when you were meant to be working at your desk outside his office.

When you came to a stop at the elevator bank, Bucky gently laid a hand on the small of your back and leaned around you to press the button. Thankfully, he didn’t show any signs of smelling James on you, and you exhaled a silent sigh of relief. 

The two of you made idle chatter while you waited for the elevator—you asked him how his afternoon meeting had gone and the edge of Bucky’s mouth fluttered like he was holding back a smirk while he told you it went very well. He said he’d gotten everything he wanted. 

Then he asked how your afternoon had gone, and you’d stumbled out a response about being very productive, all while more of James’s cum leaked from your cunt. 

As  you talked, you got the sense that Bucky was in a better mood than usual. He was certainly more talkative and open with you than was typical for the older werewolf CEO. He was polite, of course, but he mostly left you alone to do your job, only communicating via email.

But that particular afternoon, he seemed…happier. His icy blue eyes were warm, crinkling at the sides whenever he chuckled, and his smile was quicker, easier somehow. 

Impossibly, it made Bucky Barnes even more attractive to you. 

He was hot as the brusque and busy werewolf CEO, but this side of him, which was charming and warm, was even hotter. You could feel your heart unfurling in your chest, your feelings for your boss not only returning, but blossoming into something you didn’t know if you’d ever recover from.

When the elevator finally arrived, it was empty, and you gave yourself a subtle shake as you stepped in, reminding yourself that your boss was off-limits and likely didn’t see you as a potential partner. 

Bucky followed you, pressing the button for the lobby and turning to you as if to continue your conversation. But just then, the door whooshed closed and you were alone in a small, enclosed space with your boss—your werewolf boss. 

You were already looking at him, anticipating what he’d been about to say, so you were able to watch the change in his demeanor as it happened. 

Bucky’s nostrils flared, and his shoulders stiffened, his bright blue eyes darkening with something you could only describe as hunger. His gaze raked over your face, and his chest expanded as he took a deep breath, his thick muscles testing the limits of his suit. 

You watched as recognition dawned in his sharp, icy eyes, and if your mind wasn’t so sluggish after your afternoon of orgasms, you might’ve understood what was going on, what he was realizing. 

As it was, you still hadn’t caught up with the shift in Bucky. You stared at him in confusion as he stepped quickly to the side, his thick finger pressing the emergency stop button on the elevator. It shuddered to a halt between floors, leaving you alone with your boss.

Slowly, Bucky turned to you, his eyes flashing with lust and his teeth bared so that you could see the light glinting off his canine teeth. He prowled toward you slowly, like he was trying not to spook you. 

All you felt was intrigued, a thrill of excitement shooting through your body as you allowed Bucky to back you into the corner of the elevator until his chest was a hair’s breadth away from yours. Your chest was heaving in your blouse with excited, panting breaths, and your head was tilted back, watching Bucky’s face closely.

The purr that came from the werewolf CEO was so low and dark, you hardly recognized it as belonging to your boss, even as the sound went straight between your thighs. Your pussy thrummed eagerly in response, like it knew something you didn’t—like it recognized him in a way you didn’t understand yet. 

“Tell me, sweetling,” Bucky Barnes rasped, staring deep into your eyes as his big hand settled possessively on your hip. You swayed into him, watching his pink mouth framed by dark, gray-streaked stubble as he voiced the question that would change everything. “Why do you smell like my cum?”

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

as a reminder of my blog's rules, please do not comment/reblog only to request a part 2! specific questions and comments about the fic, the characters, and the larger universe are entirely welcome!! i just ask that you please engage with my story rather than simply demanding more!!

The car ride had been quiet and tense, neither of you sure how to fill up the time. Most of your conversations centered around work, meeting notes, employee performances, nothing that seemed appropriate when your knees were still sore, when you could still taste the salt of his come in the back of your throat, and especially not when you were struggling to sit still in your seat because your ass still stung from his earlier spankings. No music played, either, silence consuming the whole drive. The air conditioning was turned up too high, chilling you to the bone, but you were much too nervous to ask him to turn it down.

His door opens and he's pulling you through unceremoniously, like it means nothing to be walking past this threshold. While he locks the door, taking the time to hang his jacket in the closet and put his shoes away, you catch a quick glance around his home. There's a lot more color than you expected, more personality than his sterile office. A framed poster of the Beatles’ A Hard Day's Night occupies the wall to your right, his living room is cluttered with vinyl records and spine-cracked books, and an aquarium rests on a stand, multi-colored fish swishing their flashy tails in the water.

“Can I help you with your heels?” his voice comes from behind you, interrupting your inspection. Looking over your shoulder at him, you notice a sheepish flush on his cheeks, his hands tucked behind his back, nervous ticks you’ve never seen him display before. He's already dropping to his knees before you've answered him. Delicately, he undoes the buckle, his fingers curling around your ankle as he sets your foot down onto the floor. Your fingers skim along his back as your balance wavers, almost daring to touch him, before you retract them, unsure if it was allowed.

Once both your shoes are neatly tucked away with his, Mr. Styles leads you to his staircase, encouraging you up each step with the press of his hand along your spine, bypassing the knick-knacks and decorations without commentary. Then he’s reaching around you, opening the door to a bedroom, his bedroom presumably, and pushing you inside, only a step behind you. You don't have time to admire the navy sheets that compliment the chestnut wood frame before his hand changes its position, moving around to your hip and halting your movement.

“I want you to strip,” Mr. Style orders in a low voice, tight with control, “then I want you to get on the bed and wait. Think you can do that?”

Your pussy flutters at the shift, from the shy apprehension downstairs to this dominant power upstairs. With a shaky inhale, you nod your head, holding back a needy whine. But that's not the correct response.

His nails pinch into your flesh, indenting your skin through your clothes. “What was that? I couldn't hear you,” he coos, his tone mocking and patronizing and so fucking deep.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe, vaguely recalling his earlier rules.

“Good.” Mr. Styles pats your ass, a whimper sneaking out of your lips as he makes contact over where his rings had branded you. “Get moving then.”

Hurriedly stepping over to the bed, you pull down the zipper on the side of your skirt, eager to comply, eager for what he promised. The skirt drops to the floor as you hear the clink of glass behind you. While you unbutton your shirt, you sneak a glance over your shoulder to see Mr. Styles has his back to you, fixing himself an amber colored drink. You watch as he brings the drink to his lips and shoots it back, gulping it down quickly. Unhooking your bra, your mouth goes dry as he rolls his sleeves up his arms, showing off his decorated arms, watching the art flex as he pours himself another drink, swallowing it just as fast as he did the first one.

As you step out of your underwear, you wonder what you should do with your pile of clothes before casually kicking them underneath the bed. You crawl across his mattress, questioning how he wanted you. Were you supposed to stop as you were, on your hands and knees, presenting yourself for him, or did he want you splayed on your back, legs spread wide, on display for his viewing pleasure? Completely unsure of what he wants, the very thing he pays you to do, you choose to sit back among his pillows, leaning against his headboard, crossing your ankles. Your hands nervously brush through your hair, while you wait for him, needing something to do.

“We should go over the rules,” Mr. Styles says before turning around, his breath catching when he sees you, naked and in his bed, just as he asked, better than he imagined. Blinking a few times, he comes out of the trance your body holds him under. “First, you can only say ‘yes, sir' and ‘no, sir', do you understand?” he tests you, swirling his third whiskey, the glass filled near to the brim.

“Yes, sir,” you respond correctly.

“Second,” he proceeds, walking up to the edge of the bed, “you will do exactly as I tell you, unless you tell me ‘no, sir'.” He pauses, expectant, raising his eyebrows at you.

“Y-yes, sir,” you stumble through your words, remembering your place, the role you’re supposed to play. Your gaze starts to drift from his stern eyes, the tight tick in his jaw, down his neck to where he's unbuttoned his shirt, the dip of his collar bones, tracing the lines down to his tattooed arms, trying to decipher each piece of art, trying to work out what they could mean.

Taking a sip of his drink, he clears his throat before continuing. “Third, if you need to take a break, or want to stop, just say ‘stop' and we will. That's the only other word you're allowed to use.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, I need you to look at me,” Mr. Styles demands, commanding your attention, your focus snapping back up to his face. “If you need to stop, you say ‘stop'. Understand?”

Maintaining eye contact, you nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he growls, the only praise he's offered to you, and it's all you need to feel your pussy slick, your thighs clenching together. “And lastly, you will signal to me when you're about to come. Just pat the bed twice when you're close. You will not be allowed to come unless I say so.”

Your cunt tenses with the threat. “Yes, sir.”

“If you break any of these rules, you will be punished. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you like to make any adjustments to the rules?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then spread those legs and let me get a look at you,” Mr. Styles orders, lifting his drink up to his lips while keeping his eyes glued to your crotch.

Without removing your gaze from his face, you uncross your legs, bending your knees and exposing your glistening center to your boss. You catch as his eyes darken, the dip of his tongue as he licks his lips, the flare of his nostrils as he exhales deeply.

“Do you ever touch yourself?” he asks, his grip flexing around the glass.

A blush creeps onto your cheeks, embarrassed by the question, despite being completely exposed to him. “Yes, sir,” you admit bashfully.

“Show me how.”

Obedient to his words, his accent seductively entrancing, your fingers press into your clit, the sensitive nub engorged and pulsing beneath your touch. As you rub circles into your bud, you watch him watch you, his gaze refusing to move from your pussy, taking another sip of his drink. A drop of condensation seeps from the bottom of the glass, dripping onto the carpet. If Mr. Styles keeps his heated gaze on your roving fingers, keeps darting his eyes over your quivering lips, keeps smirking when your breath hitches on a whimper, you're pretty sure you could get your pussy to perform the same trick.

Mr. Styles leans closer, inspecting your masturbation technique as intently as he does business portfolios, not wanting to miss a single detail. “Is this how you pleasure yourself?” he asks, glancing up at your face for confirmation. “Is this how you do it at home?”

“Yes, sir,” you sigh, sinking further into the bed, relaxing underneath your ministrations. Even his intense gaze was becoming soothing to you.

“Do you ever use toys?”

Your teeth pierce into your bottom lip, holding back a moan before you answer. “Yes, sir.”

Raising an eyebrow at you, he presses on, “What do you use?”

It's a trick. You're not allowed to answer him, remembering the first rule he gave you, scared of what punishment he would dole out. So you clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips into your mouth, keeping silent while rubbing yourself, the growing pressure in your belly taking up your concentration.

His mouth curls up into a proud, lopsided smirk. “Just testing you, babygirl.” Your legs twitch at the pet name, making your boss's face light up at the movement. “Oh, do you like that? Do you like being called names?” he quizzes you, resting his knee on the mattress, the bed sinking underneath his weight as he nears.

“Yes,” you whine, your fingers circling faster, his proximity edging you closer, hastily adding on, “sir.”

“That's good to know…” he mutters to himself, his head cocking to the side as he loses himself to the pulsing beat of your lips.

Your hips buck forward, into your hand, pressing against yourself harder, making your eyes roll as the pleasure mounts, building up more and more. Smacking your hand against the bed, you give Mr. Styles the signal of your impending orgasm, eager to have your release.

“Close already? It's that easy to get you off, huh?”

Without the freedom to argue back, you can't inform him that no, it usually isn't this easy to get you off. That when you do this at home, you couldn't smell his citrus scented shampoo wafting from the pillows, couldn’t feel his penetrative stare deep in your core, couldn't imagine the filthy way he talked to you.

“Go ahead, babygirl,” he encourages, almost pleadingly, reaching out to grasp your ankle, running his thumb over the bone. “Show me how you make yourself come.”

The gentle caress of his touch, coupled with his words sends you toppling over, your orgasm spilling over you and onto his sheets, arousal dripping out of your lips. Your legs shiver, your hips stutter, and your cunt clenches around nothing but the memory of his cock as you come undone, your mouth dropping open as you moan out your pleasure.

“Oh, Jesus…” Mr. Styles trails off, watching you completely awestruck as you leak onto his bedspread. “Making such a mess…”

Quaking with aftershocks, your fingers slow as you come down from the high, removing them when your clit grows too sensitive.

“Don't stop!” he orders, his grip tightening on your ankle. “Did I tell you to stop?”

“N-n-no, sir,” you stammer, gasping when your fingers connect back onto your still throbbing clit, the brief touch making you jolt.

Mr. Styles shakes his head, plucking an ice cube from his glass. “And you were doing so well…” He sticks both the ice cube as well as his wet fingers into his mouth, sucking the whiskey from them both. Then he spits the ice cube back into his hand, leaning forward until he's laying down in front of your crotch. “Move your fingers,” he demands.

Grateful for the break, you drag your hand up your body, resting it along your stomach, taking a breath to ease yourself down from the pressure already beginning its second rise. Your eyelids droop down, your legs fall open more, your body relaxing without the pressing stimulation.

Until you're surprised by the chill of the ice cube pressing into your worn out clit, suddenly tensing up underneath his cold fingers. Droplets of water melt down your pussy, some curving around your fluttering lips, others dipping into your heated center. He doesn't move, keeping the ice still, and you can't decide if that makes it more bearable or more torturous. The ice’s freezing effect takes over your body, shocking your system and halting your mind on a singular thought.

Who knew punishment could feel so excruciatingly good?

He removes the ice and places it back into his mouth, groaning as he slurps up the beads of your arousal that cling to the cube. “Keep going, I wanna see you come again,” he speaks around the melting ice, taking another sip of his whiskey.

When you press into your clit, the icy bud twitches beneath your warm hand, startled by the stark temperature difference. A yelp squeaks out of you at the contact, your fingers dancing along your nub in a stuttering attempt to warm it up.

“Here, let me help,” Mr. Styles offers kindly, generously, a little too sweetly, only making you suspicious of his help. He leans up so he’s hovering above your crotch, puckering his lips as a swirl of spit leeches from his mouth. The glob dangles then breaks off, slipping through your fingers and soaking through to your clit, the mixture cool and warm at once. “Go ahead, rub that in for me, nice and gentle,” he instructs lowly, grabbing your wrist and moving your hand in a slow rhythm. “That’s it…”

Your body doesn’t feel under your own control anymore, too lazy to fight back against the overwhelming ache of pleasure coursing through your body, your limbs twitching and jolting at every little feeling. Mr. Styles controls your movement, mirroring the way you showed him, following the pattern you set. All you can do is cry out and fight to keep your eyes open, not wanting to miss the way your boss admires your cunt, his eyes dark and wide with veneration.

“Do you remember the rules, babygirl?” he questions you, resting his head against your thigh, his hair tickling the inside of your legs.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” you panic, your words racing out before you can think them through, quickly amending them. “No, sir!”

“Thank God…” he sighs. He swallows down the last of his alcohol before his head dives into your crotch, tossing your hand aside before slurping your clit into his mouth.

“Oh fu-” you moan before catching yourself, holding back what you really want to say. “Oh, yes, sir… oooh, yes, sir!” You repeat the words over and over, using your reduced speech to your advantage.

His tongue is still cool from the ice cube, the chill press of it against your bud is equal parts a salve and an irritation. The focus on your clit makes it overworked, tired from all the attention, but his mouth feels too good to ask him to stop. He moves further down, prodding at your core before his tongue enters inside, lapping at your muscles that convulse around him. His groan rivals yours as he eats you up, feeling with his tongue, filling his mouth up with anything that drips out of you. It’s a messy mixture of melted ice, his saliva, and your arousal, but he takes it all, sucking up every drop.

“Sir, yes, oh God, yes! Oh, sir, please, yes,” you babble, no longer capable of paying attention to what you say. “Please, sir, fuck, yes, please sir!”

Shoving his face further into you, his tongue delves deeper, his nose nudging along your tender clit. His whole face is pressed into your crotch, breathing you in as easily as he does air. He rolls his tongue all around, lapping at you like a dog at a water bowl, drinking from you more intently than he did the whiskey. Each shake of his head, makes his nose brush across you, flicking the nub and adding to the immense pressure growing bigger. Nothing else matters, just the approaching pleasure you’re desperate to feel, desperate to release onto your boss..

But you do remember to pat the bed twice as he keeps licking, keeps consuming you, sucking you closer to your second orgasm.

Mr. Styles flattens his tongue and licks up your entire slit, circling once around your clit before retreating back into his mouth, sitting himself up and pulling away from you.

“N-no, no, sir, stop please, no!” you cry, hoping your whining will make him return, that your pleas will convince him to let you come.

He pushes out a heavy sigh, running his hand over his mouth, collecting all the wetness surrounding it. “That was a lot of rules you broke there, babygirl.” Mr. Styles stands up from the bed, walking back over to his minibar. Rummaging in a little bucket, he pulls out a few more cubes of ice, showing them off as his smile deepens. “We’re gonna have to do something about that.”

Tag list:

✨ @triski73 ✨ @maudie-duan ✨ @gurugirl ✨ @wrongrry ✨ @angeldavis777 ✨

Prologue

The hum of the city faded beneath the evening rain, soft and constant like a lullaby for the exhausted. The café across the street was closing, lights dimming one by one, and the neon sign above the laundromat flickered with the same weary rhythm as your heartbeat. The world, for once, seemed slower—like even time pitied you.

You sat on the cracked wooden bench outside the convenience store, still in your uniform from your third shift that day. The air smelled faintly of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted sweet potatoes from the vendor nearby. Your hands trembled as you unwrapped a cup ramen—your dinner for the third night in a row.

“Still eating that?”

You looked up. Jimin stood there with two umbrellas, one slightly broken, the other shining new. His blond hair was damp from the drizzle, sticking to his forehead, and his smile was soft but shadowed with worry. He’d always been that way with you—half laughter, half concern.

“I like it,” you said, forcing a small smile. “It’s fast.”

He sat beside you, placing a paper bag between you both. “It’s cheap, you mean. And bad for your kidneys. Here, I brought some real food.”

You shook your head immediately. “Jimin, no—”

“Don’t start. It’s just leftovers from my mom.”

You sighed, your shoulders sinking. “Your mom cooks too much on purpose because she knows you’ll bring them here.”

He grinned a little. “She says feeding you makes her happy. You remind her of how she used to be when she first moved here.”

You took a quiet sip of your ramen instead of answering. The steam fogged your face for a moment, softening the world between you and him.

Jimin’s voice grew gentler. “You’re still not thinking about filing a case?”

The chopsticks froze in your hand. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know, but—three years, Y/N. Three years since the site collapsed. Someone has to answer for it.” His voice cracked on the last words. “Your dad died working for a company that didn’t even send flowers.”

You looked down at your knees, the rain pattering against the umbrella he’d tilted toward you. “It’ll cost too much, Jimin. Lawyers, documents, hearings. We can’t even afford my mom’s insulin half the time.”

“That’s not fair.” His tone sharpened, hurt spilling through it. “He was a good man. They all said it. He trained the new workers, made everyone laugh, covered extra shifts. He didn’t deserve that.”

“No one deserves it.” Your voice came out small. “But that doesn’t mean life will fix itself just because we want it to.”

The silence after was heavy—filled with the sound of rain and passing cars, with grief that had long stopped being loud and now lived quietly between every word.

You finally said, almost in a whisper, “Sometimes I still hear him. When it rains like this. I remember how he used to say storms meant he’d get home late because the site always flooded. And now, every time it rains… I wonder if he was scared before it happened.”

Jimin’s hand curled into a fist on his lap. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

You smiled weakly, but your eyes glistened. “I can’t help it.”

He wanted to reach out—to hold your hand, to take away even a fraction of the weight you carried—but he knew you’d pull back. You always did. You never wanted help that looked like pity.

“You’re still working three jobs?” he asked instead, softer now.

“Morning shift at the diner, afternoon at the bookstore, and nights at the café. The manager said they’ll need more help next week since one of the staff quit.”

“When do you rest?”

You laughed lightly. “When I’m dead?”

“Y/N,” he scolded, frowning.

You leaned back, watching the faint reflection of streetlights ripple on the wet pavement. “My brother’s starting his last year of high school. My sister’s about to move up to junior high. Mom’s blood sugar’s been unstable again. If I stop, everything stops with me.”

He exhaled sharply. “You can’t carry all that alone.”

“I have to.”

Jimin turned to look at you, the tired circles beneath your eyes, the way your uniform sleeves were frayed, the way you still smiled like the world hadn’t crushed you yet. He’d known you since you were kids chasing fireflies in the empty fields by the river, long before life became so cruel. He admired you, maybe loved you in a quiet, complicated way he never dared name.

“You’re allowed to ask for help,” he murmured.

“I don’t want money from you,” you said immediately.

“It’s not about money.”

“It always is.” You forced a smile, but your voice cracked slightly. “If I start depending on someone, what happens when they stop showing up?”

He fell silent. He knew better than to argue that.

So instead, he reached into the bag and handed you a box of strawberries. “At least take this. They were on sale.”

You hesitated before accepting. “Fine. But you’re not paying for my dinner next time.”

He chuckled. “You said that last time too.”

You both sat there in the drizzle, sharing strawberries from the same box. For a few quiet minutes, it almost felt like the world had forgotten to be cruel.

“You know,” Jimin said after a while, his voice softer than the rain, “I really don’t know how you do it. You wake up before the sun, come home when the sky’s already asleep, and still manage to smile like it’s nothing.”

You stared ahead, eyes distant. “Because if I stop smiling, I’ll fall apart.”

That was the truth you rarely said aloud—the truth that kept you going when exhaustion clawed at your bones. You had learned to smile not because life was kind, but because it wasn’t. Because the world didn’t stop for anyone’s grief.

Jimin didn’t reply. He only looked at you, and in that look was all the heartbreak of someone who wanted to save you but didn’t know how.

When the rain finally stopped, you both stood up. He offered to walk you home, but you shook your head again. “It’s fine. You’ll get sick.”

“You’ll get sick first,” he muttered, watching you adjust your thin jacket.

You smiled, small and tired but still warm. “Then we’ll both blame the rain.”

He wanted to say you deserve more than this, but he knew you weren’t ready to hear it. So instead, he said, “Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

You started walking down the dimly lit street, your reflection rippling in puddles. The neighborhood dogs barked faintly in the distance, and through every window you passed, you could see families laughing, eating dinner, living the kind of life you were still fighting for.

Your phone buzzed with a message from your manager reminding you of tomorrow’s early shift. You typed a quick “Yes, I’ll be there,” before slipping it into your pocket.

Behind you, Jimin stood under the streetlight until you disappeared around the corner. He didn’t move for a long time.

And that night, when you finally lay down beside your sleeping siblings, listening to your mother’s soft breathing, you stared at the ceiling and whispered to yourself, “Just one more day. We’ll be fine.”

But you didn’t know that your life was about to change soon.

Because somewhere across the city, a man named Jeon Jungkook was reviewing resumes, and one of them carried your name.

Chapter One

A/N: I’m so excited to finally share this new Jungkook fic with you! This one has been living rent-free in my head for days, and I can’t wait for you to meet the characters and feel all the emotions I poured into it. Writing this story has been such a rollercoaster—equal parts chaos, caffeine, and late-night rewrites 😅

If you’d like to be tagged for the next update, just leave a comment below! It really makes my day to see your thoughts and reactions, and it helps keep me motivated to write faster. Thank you so much for being here and supporting my stories—it means more than you know 💕

P.S. The Wrong Kind of Right is already complete. I'm just reuploading it here on Tumblr from my Ko-fi page. Right now, I’m focusing on this new Jungkook fic, and I’m so excited for you to read what’s coming next!

Charlotte was a big city you hadn’t fully explored, but your walk was familiar. A few blocks down from the Cameron Development headquarters was the Mug & Muffin, where you’d been serving coffee for the past year. You practically only served housewives who had the time to grab coffee at 11 in the morning and suits who were on their way to the giant buildings downtown to make more money than you’d ever see in your whole life. 

Today was your day off; however, it was the only day of the week that you weren’t working for ten straight hours. Somehow, you’d been selected to interview for a Filing Clerk position at Cameron Development. You thought it was some kind of mistake that out of all the places you applied to through online portals, a legitimate company wanted to interview you. Not only was it legit, but they had their building downtown. The building was no skyscraper, but looking up at twenty dark steel floors, huge windows wrapped around each side, and a sparkling gold sign that read CAMERON, you felt incredibly intimidated. 

When you finally pushed through the revolving doors, you reminded yourself that it was a small position. A small position you weren't qualified for, but there was no need to worry. The receptionist on the first floor barely glanced at you when you approached her. You took a deep breath, slowly releasing it before starting your sentence: “Hi, I have an eight-thirty interview with Andy Speer in the Record Management department.”

She spoke curtly, “Twelfth floor,” She pointed to the elevators hidden behind a corner.

“Th-Thank you,” You mumbled, your shoes clicking against beautiful marble floors as you made your way to the elevators. You weren’t expecting to go so high up the building. The ride felt like an eternity, with each floor reminding you of how out-of-place you were. Even the receptionist who worked on the first floor acted like she was above you. You wiped your sweaty palms on your dress, grateful you’d chosen a black one. Well, you were thankful that you’d chosen the second out of the only two nice dresses you owned. 

You were now the age you should've graduated college at, you couldn’t work at a coffee shop forever. If you ever wanted to not have to live with three other people then you needed a serious job. You needed to take advantage of this opportunity. If you somehow landed it, this was the type of job where you might be able to grow. Who knows? Maybe you’d eventually be able to afford a car payment. Those thoughts pushed you forward as you walked down the hallway. 

“Ah, Ms. Y/L/N,” The male voice came from behind you and you whirled around to see a short, bearded man approaching you. He wore a blue dress shirt and navy tie and was carrying a coffee from no other place than the Mug & Muffin. You spotted a small brown spot near his shirt pocket wear he’d clearly spilled some, “You’re here about the Filing Clerk position?”

You nodded, your heart beginning to race, as you stuck your hand out for him to shake. You weren’t sure if you were overdressed, having worn your outfit at your cousins wedding, but you added a red cardigan and ballet flats to make it more professional, “Yes,” You smiled, “That’s mmm-me.”

He didn’t seem to look you over more than once, and his smile remained despite the bump in your speech, “Great, my name is Andy Speer. I manage the department. Come on into my office.”

Breath, you reminded yourself. Start your sentences slow. Take a pause if you need to. If you get stuck, don’t get too frustrated. Try not to bring attention to it. 

When you settled into his office, relatively small but with a large window that had a lovely view of the city, he began the interview. You folded your hands in your lap, trying to be acutely aware of your facial expressions and your body’s posture. 

“So, tell me a little about your experience,” He started. 

“Well,” Breath in and slowly release, “I’ve actually been working at the Mug & Muffin as a shift lead for the past year but, before that, I worked in retail for several years. I’m v-vvvv-very organized; that’s why I’ve been able to help with-with both managing inventory and scheduling tasks.”

“Organization is key in a position like this. And you also know how to work on your feet. Our clerks travel all throughout the building, retrieving documents and assisting with things like file purging and managing file systems.”

Deep breath in. Start slowly. 

“I’m totally capable of being in service to others. Working in customer service will teach you how to deal with people very quickly and I’m sure there are similar ups and d-downs even within a company. I think it’s important to show a p-p-person that you’re listening, even if you c-c-can’t help them directly.”

He nodded, “People tend to forget that. What else interests you about working in Records Management?”

“I like the idea of keeping things in order. Making ssss-ssss,” Too fast. Slow down, “Sssss-sssss-sure. Uhm. Making sure everything is in place. It ssss-sound sss-small but it’s s-something I’m good at. And I’d like to be a part of a bigger company where I can grow and learn.”

Andy’s lips parted, and he gave you a look that you were no stranger to, “Ms. Y/L/N, if you don’t mind me asking–”

“I have a stutter,” You finished his sentence before taking another breath, slowing down as much as you could, “I have it managed, mostly. When I’m asked direct questions, or I’m especially nervous, it can flare up. But I-I-I am nervous. I’m interested in this job.”

Andy smiled softly, and your heart seemed to rest slightly. The pounding in your chest was about to make you go crazy.

“I appreciate your honesty. I have more questions for you but there’s no need to be confined to this office. I’ll show you around the building.”

You were more than relieved, instantly nodding. He seemed to understand how tense you were and undoubtedly the conversation would feel more casual if the two of you were walking at the same time. The interview continued, and Andy allowed you time to ask him questions about your possible role. 

Still, you felt small, like a child in an adult’s world. Andy touched on your lack of secondary education but didn’t press it. You explained how you’d completed two years of your undergrad degree, majoring in accounting but had to leave for personal reasons. You explained that you eventually wanted to finish your degree, but in reality, you’d only chosen accounting because it was one of the few majors that didn’t require you to take a public speaking class. 

You followed him through corridors with large glass meeting rooms on either side. Again, everyone you came across looked like they belonged. You walked past a room with a long, sleek table, and it seemed like at least twenty people were sitting at the table. At the front of the room was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit. His back was slightly turned, but the air of authority permeated through the glass all the way to you. You felt it against your skin. 

His voice was raised but was muffled by the glass barrier, “That’s Mr. Cameron. Our CEO.”

Your lips parted when you caught a real glance at him. He was older but much younger than you expected. Certainly younger than a CEO typically was. His hair was buzzed short, his skin a nice tan color, and blue eyes that locked on you. Briefly but intensely, “Let’s continue our tour.”

The rest of the tour happened in a blur. You felt that you made a good impression on Mr. Speer. He was accepting of your stutter and resonated with all the examples you shared from your past jobs. He informed you that they were interviewing four other applicants but that you’d receive an update in the next week about whether they’d chosen you. 

You felt slightly more confident than when you arrived and you reached for your phone, wanting to text your roommate how it went and that you’d be home soon but you ran into wall of muscle as you stepped onto the elevator, “S-Sorry,” You gasped, reaching down to grab your phone which had slipped from your grasp, “Ssss-so sss-sorry.”

Just shut up, you told yourself, and you found yourself actually speechless when you looked up into Mr. Cameron’s eyes, “Careful,” He said, slightly patronizing, and you wanted to crawl inside your skin. You tucked your phone away into your bag, stepping aside until you were on the other side of the elevator. 

The elevator door closed, and your eyes widened when you realized the elevator was not going down, “Oh,” You breathed, “You’re going up.”

Of course he was going up. The CEO works on the top floor. And now, here you were, stuck in an elevator with the CEO himself, a barista dressed up and pretending to belong in a place you had no right to be.

“Yeah, you can usually tell by looking at the arrows before you get on.”

You pressed your lips together, determined not to say anything more, even though you could feel his eyes on you. He sighed, “You’re new, I’m assuming.”

You shook your head. Breathe, start slowly. “I interviewed today. File Clerk.” Keep it brief, you reminded yourself. There was no need to try to impress the CEO—he was far too important to be involved in hiring someone like you. It was better not to embarrass yourself.

The elevator dinged with each floor that you passed, “Ah, well, I hope you were impressed by all the company has to offer,” he said as the doors opened, revealing a sleek black wall with the Cameron Development logo etched in gold. A waterfall cascaded down the marble surface, exuding elegance, “Enjoy your ride down.” 

“B-Bye-” 

Shut up. 

You reached to press the lobby button, watching as his large figure slowly disappeared down a hallway before the doors shut again. 

 There went that small sliver of confidence.

You went down a rabbit hole googling Cameron Development, of course. Rafe Cameron was just shy of thirty but he inherited the company from his father, Ward, when he was only twenty. It went from a company centered to the Outer Banks to one that served clients across the entire country. According to a website you weren’t sure was actually reputable, his networth was close to 1.3 billion dollars. 

And he thought you were an idiot. Most likely, he wouldn’t remember you all. 

You hoped you wouldn’t run into again when you returned to the Cameron Developent the next week. Andy had called you to let you know that you’d been chosen for the job, but when you approached the receptionist on the first floor, she informed you that you should check in with the receptionist on the twentieth floor. 

Was there another portion of the hiring process that involved meeting someone higher up in the company? You asked her if she’d actually meant that floor twice before the woman rolled her eyes and pretended to answer a phone call. 

The twentieth floor. 

You splurged on a new outfit, hopeful that your new job’s salary would soon replenish your funds. You’d be making ten dollars more per hour, after all. You chose a black, square-neck top and soft cream-colored pants, pairing them with your trusty ballet flats that matched almost everything.

When you arrived on the twentieth floor again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that security might escort you out at any moment. Walking past the elegant waterfall, you found the receptionist desk. The redheaded woman behind it was stunning, and though her smile lacked sincerity, at least she looked you directly in the eyes.

“Hi, I’m supposed to meet with Andy Speer in Record Management?” 

“Are you Y/N Y/L/N?” You nodded as you let out a breath. At least you weren’t in the wrong place. 

“Follow me,” she said, stepping out from behind the desk. She was dressed in a sleek, navy dress adorned with gold buttons down the front, tied with a bow at the waist. You couldn’t help but admire her style, your gaze trailing down to her elegant heels. “You’ll be meeting with Mr. Cameron today.”

“Wh-” Your lips paused in an uncomfortable, rounded position before the block in your speech passed, “Why?”

She didn’t respond, and there wasn’t time to press her as she led you to the end of a long hallway. You found yourself in front of two imposing, black double doors. With a push of the large, gold handles, she opened them to reveal the most elaborate room you’d ever seen.

The sheer scale of the room was breathtaking. Your eyes immediately went up to ceilings at least two floors tall and a gigantic window covering the farther wall. You thought Andy’s view was nice … you could see all of Charlotte from this window. Long black curtains hung from the ceiling to keep some of the light out. When the curtains were drawn, the room would undoubtedly take on a different character—moodier, more intimate, and even more private.

To the right, a stunning black marble fireplace dominated the wall, flanked by a bookcase that stretched the entire length of the room. A plush seating area featured leather couches that looked as comfortable as they were luxurious, with a low coffee table in front. Nearby, a polished bar cart stood ready, stocked with an array of crystal glasses and top-shelf spirits. No doubt to impress clients.

“Holy…” You spoke, as smooth as ever. 

To the left was Rafe and his expansive mahogany desk, positioned to take advantage of the view of the city’s infrastructure. His desk was organized with files stacked neatly, a computer with multiple desktops, and a mug that held steaming coffee. Expensive art pieces were framed on the wall behind him, carefully selected to aid the overall aesthetic of the space. They were dark and imposing like him. 

His chair was high-backed and leather, and as you met his eyes, you noticed he was just as tailored as the room. Broad shoulders and lean frame … you wondered how much time he spent carefully crafting it. He set aside the folder he had been reviewing as the redhead, Eleanor, announced your presence.

"Mr. Cameron, your ten o’clock meeting," she said.

“Thank you, Eleanor. That’ll be all,” His voice was smooth and commanding, “Come sit, Ms. Y/L/N.”

He emphasized the leather chairs in front of his desk and although your legs felt like weights, you crossed the room. You couldn’t help but continue to stare at how impressive it was and now that you’d learned more about him through your research, it made sense. What didn't make sense to you was why you were sitting in front of it. 

He leaned forward, his hands folding together, and instinctively you moved further back in your chair, “I got a chance to look at your application and resume.”

Your eyes widened, “Really?”

He nodded, “You never finished college. Why’s that?”

“I…I don’t understand,” You couldn’t hide the confusion on your face, “I didn’t think I-I would b-b-be …I thought Mr. Speer would be here.”

“He works for me, doesn’t he?”

“Y-Yes-” “You want to work for my company, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you repeated, your voice smaller this time. His head tilted slightly, his gaze sharpening.

“Did you forget my original question?”

“N-No,” You blurted before you took a breath. Relax, you told yourself, despite being aware of the environment that Mr. Cameron had already created, “I …I-”

He was patient but unyielding. You tried to imagine that you were just telling a story and not answering a pointed question. He was worth a billion dollars, not you. You had to answer his questions truthfully.

“I had a bad flare-up with my speech during my sophomore year. I …all throughout highschool it was very mild, but for some unknown reason, it got really sss-severe. My professors were … not accommodating. It felt immm-mmm-impossible.”

He stared at you for an uncomfortable amount of seconds. His piercing gaze had a way of making feeling like you were naked. You crossed your arms in front of your chest, “I see,” He tapped his finger against his desk, “It took me almost eight years to finish business school. By the end, my professor’s were only passing me because of who I was.”

Your lips parted in shock at his sudden candor. 

An ugly truth for an ugly truth.

 “Oh,” you whispered, not knowing what else to say. 

“I’m saying this because it doesn’t matter how many boxes check or how good of a person you are. It doesn’t matter to me what you think you deserve.”

“Okay,” You nodded, still unsure, “I don’t think think I deserve this job. But I want it.”

“How bad?” His lips pulled into a smirk. 

You searched your mind for all the rehearsed interview answers that you’d practiced, “I think I’m a really g-good fit for the–”

“No, what would you do?” He interrupted you, not in the way that people usually did because you were taking too long to speak. He was just completely uninterested in the words you had to say, “Let’s say six months from now, you’re up for a promotion and Andy corners you in his office. It’s ten-thousand more a year. Would you fuck him?”

There was a version of you, the rationale un-scared version of you, that would’ve stood up and walked out of the room. But you froze in place as you searched his eyes for whether he was asking you a trick question. 

Breathe in, let it out slowly, “No, I wouldn’t. I don’t understand.”

“If he hired you as a File Clerk, it would be a great way to get promoted,” Rafe said, “I looked at the other applicants, they’re all more qualified, but you’re more beautiful. It’s a pattern I’m starting to notice with him.”

You couldn’t comprehend why he’d brought you here just to tear you down—to belittle someone who would be working for his own company. Shaking your head, you stammered, “I-I made a mmm-mistake,” as you reached for your bag. But Rafe held up a hand, stopping you in your tracks.

“Don’t worry,” He stood up from his chair. You took a breath and swallowed, trying to keep your heart inside your chest. Hands in his pockets, he walked around the length of his desk until he was in front of you. Even as he leaned back on his desk, his presence seemed to cloud all of your senses, “Mr. Speer does want you to work for him in his department and you’re free to do so. However, I want to hire you as my personal assistant.”

“Uhm,” You blinked, caught off guard. “M-Me?”

“I’m between assistants right now and I think you’d be a perfect fit,” His watched your reaction carefully, his lips in a thin smile. 

Rafe Cameron was a complete asshole. 

“You want me to be your personal assistant?” You asked slowly, trying to prevent a stutter. 

“I want you to be my personal assistant,” he echoed, looking amused, “I think you’re cute.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Because I’m a c-college dropout www-with a stutter?” 

“Not just that,” he shrugged, his nonchalance making you want to scowl. You should’ve walked out already, but something kept you rooted to your seat.  “I think it would be mutually beneficial. The pay starts at eighty-thousand.” 

“A year?” You asked, feeling foolish immediately. 

“That’s almost triple what you make at your barista job.”

You eyed him curiously and wondered how exactly he knew that, “Yeah …”

“So, do you want it or not, Ms. Y/L/N?” The words hung in the air, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say "no." What choice did you really have? Work for a boss who might eventually cross the line—or work for one who’s offering to triple your salary?

“I’d love to give you more time to think it over,” he continued, glancing at his watch, “but I have a meeting in five minutes and will be out of the country for the rest of the week. You’ll need to decide now.”

You bit down on your bottom lip and anxiously picked at the fabric of your pants until you said, “Ninety-thousand.”

“You’re negotiating when you have no experience?” He wasn’t angry, just surprised. 

You nodded, although you were afraid you’d made a mistake. Now, you’d be escorted out by security. But you’d seen something in his eyes—something he wasn’t trying to deny. For reasons you couldn’t quite grasp, he wanted you.

“Eighty-five thousand,” he countered.

You paused, “Okay.”

“Okay?” You nodded again. “Great.”

He clapped his hands together, “W-When would I ssss-start?” 

“A week from now. Monday morning at seven. I get in at seven-thirty, and I expect you to be waiting here. Eleanor will work on getting your new wardrobe delivered to you before then.” 

“Wardrobe?” You echoed, bewildered. 

“I would’ve given you a hundred if you kept pushing,” he said, waving you off as he retreated behind his desk. Your jaw dropped as he added, “That’ll be all.”

The doors to his office opened again, and the redhead waited patiently for you to gather your things and hurry over to her. You glanced behind you to see Rafe intently focused on his computer screen. 

When you finally had enough distance from his office, you asked, “What happened to his last personal assistant?” You thought you might hyperventilate when you were finally alone with your thoughts. 

“Mr. Cameron can be difficult to please,” She smiled down at you, but her eyes were solemn, “Let me take your measurements.”

“Oh, I c-could just t-t-t-tell you,” you stammered, trying to get the words out quickly.

“They’ll need to be exact,” You followed her behind the reception desk. 

You looked at her closer—voluminous hair, a sharp jawline, winged eyeliner that executed perfectly. She was tall, slender, and beautiful, and you felt like you were nothing like her. Again, a child in a place meant for adults. He’d chosen someone like Eleanor, that made sense to you, but you couldn’t wrap your mind around what he saw in you.

Cute, he’d said. You always got cute. Never beautiful. Eleanor probably always got called beautiful. 

You stood still as she took your precise measurements, including around your hips, thighs, and bust. It was another moment where you probably should have run. “About this wardrobe I’ll be receiving…” you began cautiously.

“You’ll only wear what he picks out for you,” She said. 

Breathe. “That’s a little crazy, right?”

“Your job will ensure he has everything he needs—every hour of the day. You want to be nice to look at, don’t you?” 

And you don’t look nice to look at right now.

“Will I have a desk?”

Eleanor gestured to the one across from her, the second of two black desks in a square-shaped pod, “That one is yours, technically.”

“Technically?”

“Did he mention he works from home on Fridays?”

“No-”

“You’ll report to his house at seven a.m. on Fridays rather than here.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Eleanor said with a knowing nod. “Don’t worry, I’ll type this all up in an email for you.”

Later, you sat in your apartment's living room, still in your pajamas. Your roommates, Imani and Angel, were at work for the next few hours, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You scrolled through your old laptop, reading the offer letter from Cameron Development three times: eighty-five thousand dollars plus excellent benefits. You hadn’t even been to the doctor in two years because of how expensive and terrible your insurance was.

You could afford your own apartment. You wouldn’t leave your roommates hanging, of course, but maybe you could in a few months. You could get your own cat like you’ve always wanted. That money would change your life. 

Your clothes arrived with a delivery man who was already frustrated with you. He had to make three trips to bring in all the garment bags Rafe had sent. He grew even more frustrated when you begged him to return some of it. They filled your entire living room, and you’d be a horrible roommate to keep all of it. You’d have to throw out all of your clothes to make them fit in your room. 

When the delivery man left, you started to zip the packages open and examine their contents. Your hands shook when you read the first price tag: a twelve-hundred-dollar Giorgio Armani dress. You began to notice a pattern as you looked at thirty different outfits. There were no black dresses or dark colors at all. Many of them were sad excuses for a woman’s professional work clothes. 

You couldn’t deny that the outfits were sophisticated, but they all seemed to follow a particular theme. If one didn’t feature a mini-skirt, it showcased a sleeveless top. Many had a professional air, with neat rows of buttons running down the front or crafted from rich tweed material. Yet, they were also undeniably frilly and elegant, teetering on the edge of overly dainty. You couldn’t shake the feeling that if you wore one, you’d resemble a Barbie doll more than a personal assistant.

Breaking a sweat, you piled all of the garment bags in your room, leaving only a small amount of room for you to walk from your bedroom to the bathroom. That was going to be a problem. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if you returned some of them. How many outfits did you really need for work? 

The man also brought in a trunk—an oversized, luxurious piece you couldn’t dream of fitting into your tiny shoebox of a room. Once you cleared enough space in the living room, you finally managed to open it. Inside, the left side was lined with rows of pristine heels, each pair more exquisite than the last. On the right, several items were wrapped in burlap sacks made from fine material. You carefully unwrapped one that bore the name GUCCI, revealing a small lilac handbag that looked both delicate and expensive.

God, you thought despite the fact you didn’t believe in him. 

Your roommates were going to think you were some kind of sugar baby or escort. Even if you explained what happened, they might still believe that. 

When you checked your laptop again, there was an email from Eleanor. 

Dear Y/N Y/L/N,

Congratulations on your new position at Cameron Development! We are pleased to officially welcome you as Mr. Rafe Cameron's Personal Assistant. 

Below are some key points regarding your new position:

Start Date: Monday, 7:00 AM

Work Location: Cameron Development Headquarters (Mon-Thurs) / Mr. Cameron’s residence (Friday)

Responsibilities: 

You will be expected to manage Mr. Cameron’s daily calendar, remind him of upcoming appointments, and ensure he is well prepared for them. 

You will coordinate all aspects of Mr. Cameron’s travel, including booking flights, accommodations, transportation, and hotels. 

You will complete all of Mr. Cameron's personal errands.

You must maintain strict confidentiality regarding Mr. Cameron’s personal and professional life. 

You will ensure all of Mr. Cameron’s personal needs are met. 

Salary: $85,000

Benefits: Comprehensive health insurance, paid time off, and a company-provided phone and laptop.

Confidentiality: Due to the sensitive nature of your work, a strict non-disclosure agreement (NDA) will be required upon your first day.

A few tips for looking your best: 

Wardrobe: Please adhere to the dress code. Your new wardrobe has been tailored to Mr. Cameron’s preferences. At work, you will not wear dark colors or pants. The items are non-returnable. Always opt for the heels provided. I suggest you practice at home if you’re uncomfortable wearing them. 

Makeup: Your go-to should be a light foundation, a touch of blush, and a subtle lip color. Avoid anything too bold when it comes to eye makeup. 

Hair: A braiding appointment has been arranged for you this upcoming Saturday, fully paid for. Mr. Cameron prefers a more extended length, but you’re free to choose the color as long as it’s natural. 

Remember, the goal is to look effortlessly polished. 

Best regards,

Eleanor Thornton

Executive Assistant to Mr. Cameron

Maybe Rafe Cameron was a sociopath.

Please reblog WITH your thoughts on the chapter to be added to the taglist for the story :)

Not at the charity balls. Not at the fiscal year wrap dinners. Not even when that one intern tried to cyberstalk him and accidentally doxxed herself instead (RIP Stacy).

So naturally, the rumor mill thrives.

She’s dead. They’re separated. He was paid to marry her for tax purposes. She’s in the walls. He just has a wife in theoretical concept like communism.

The only constants? His wedding ring stays on, he never flirts, and he has never denied it.

Until.

The day.

The day you walk into the office, the entire 33rd floor stops breathing.

First of all. The heels? Stiletto. The kind that click like a threat on the tile floors. The lipstick? Oxblood red, sinful, and perfectly outlined. The hair? Snatched back like you’re about to commit a crime (and God, you are). The thighs? THIGHING. The tits? BREASTING. The ass? JIGGLING with a mind of its own.

You’re not just walking. You’re making an entrance.

You walk like you invented physics. Your thighs speak in iambic pentameter. Your hips write novels. Your smile is a crime.

Receptionist fumbles her coffee. Someone in HR gasps. Kyle from accounting walks into a potted plant.

You don’t stop. You never stop. You stalk toward the glass door office of Nanami Kento, Head Hot Man of all things stone-faced and suit porn.

Some intern audibly chokes on his cold brew. Another whispers, “She looks like she eats men for breakfast and then uses their bones to pick her teeth.”

You smile. It’s terrifying. Awe-inspiring. Beautiful.

You head straight for the elevator, eyes like heat-seeking missiles for one target only: his office.

“Uh—” a poor assistant stutters, scrambling up to stop you. “M-Ma’am, do you have an appointment—?”

You don’t even look at her.

You just glance at your glossy red nails, then flash your ID badge — Head of Biomedical Division, Level 7 Security Clearance — and the girl actually sits back down.

(You’re scary. God, it’s so hot.)

You reach the top floor.

You don’t knock.

You throw the door open like you pay the rent (which, honestly? You kinda do.)

Nanami Kento looks up from his paperwork.

Then — without missing a beat — you slap his ass.

Like, full contact. Full palm. Full cheek.

Not a gentle pat. Not a flirty swat. A full palm, Olympic-grade, home-run slap to the glutes.

His pen flies out of his hand. His mouth drops open a millimeter — a scandal! — and he whips around so fast he nearly knocks over the bonsai.

You coo, “Hi, Ken.”

The door closes.

But not before two unfortunate cubicle rats witness the event from their swivel chairs near the copier.

One of them drops her stapler. The other is already opening Slack.

🐀 cubicle_rat94: GUYS 🐀 cubicle_rat94: DID MRS. NANAMI JUST WALK IN 🐀 cubicle_rat94: AND SLAP HIS ASS???? 🐀 cubicle_rat94: HELP 🐀 cubicle_rat94: SHE’S HOT 🐀 cubicle_rat94: LIKE FERAL HOT 🐀 cubicle_rat94: HE DIDN’T EVEN FLINCH 🐀 cubicle_rat94: I THINK HE LIKED IT

Meanwhile. In the office.

Nanami exhales like someone just poured hot coffee down his spine. “You’re early.”

You lick your lips. “And you’re still wearing pants.”

“I have a meeting.”

“Oh, you’ll be meeting something alright—”

He covers your mouth with his hand, gritting his teeth. “There are security cameras—”

You lick his palm.

He whimpers.

CEO whimpers. Add that to your LinkedIn.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, and God, the way his voice drops two octaves makes your knees do things. “You can’t just walk in here and—”

“Oh, I can. And I did.” You grin. “Do you want me to stop?”

Silence.

You have Nanami pressed against his desk like you’re about to fuck him six ways to Sunday.

He grips the desk behind him, knuckles white, face flushed pink — a rarity, considering the man emotes about as often as the stock market crashes.

“You’re late,” he mutters, low and sharp, but his hands are already at your waist.

“Am I?” you purr, dragging your hands up his chest, slow and teasing, leaving a smudge of lipstick on his tie. “And here I thought I was fashionably early.”

“Fashionably criminal,” he mutters. “Do you know how short your skirt is—?”

“Short enough that you’re thinking about bending me over this desk, Mr CEO Kento.”

He lets out a very put-upon sigh. His hands slip lower.

“You’re wearing that shade,” he says, trying to compose himself, his voice utterly ruined.

“Mmhmm.”

“The one that gets on everything.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You lick a stripe across his throat.

He sighs again.

“You can’t just walk in here and—”

“—assault your boss?” you smile. “Who’s also your husband?”

“Exactly. You’re lucky I don’t let security tackle you. You did just assault the CEO.”

You winked: “Assault implies you didn’t like it.”

Then you kiss him.

And God, you kiss him like you’re starving.

There’s tongue. There’s teeth. You’re grinding into him like it’s the club and he’s wearing grey sweats and no morals.

His tie gets undone.

Your lipstick is everywhere — collar, jaw, cheekbone — like a red-stained battle map of your conquest.

He breaks the kiss, breathless, eyes blown. “We’re at work.”

“You’re the CEO.”

“Yes, but—”

“Exactly. Now shut up and let me grab your dick.”

He actually gasps.

Nanami Kento. Gasps.

And then lets out a very strained, “My love—”

But you’re already unbuckling his belt.

He grabs your wrists, still somehow composed despite the fact that his wife — his soft, chubby, dangerously horny wife — is currently trying to fuck him stupid during business hours.

“We are not having sex in my office,” he says. “Again.”

“Oh?” you pout, tilting your head. “So you didn’t like it last time?”

His mouth opens. Then closes.

You grin. “You came in, like, four minutes.”

“That’s because—” he inhales, eyes fluttering when you rub against him — “you kept whispering stock market crash in my ear—”

“Because I am your crash, baby.”

“—and then you sat on me—”

“Like the economy.”

He groans. “Please.”

You smirk, lips at his ear.

“Say it.”

“...Say what?”

“Say you missed me.”

He goes quiet.

His hands tighten at your hips.

And then, voice low, reverent, wrecked: “I missed you.”

You kiss him again, softer this time.

Until he groans — because you’re grinding, and he’s hard, and his slacks are very expensive and now they’re also very tented.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.

You beam. “But I’m your evil.”

“Unfortunately.”

Downstairs, HR is having a meltdown.

There are calls being made. Tweets being posted. A Slack channel titled “#whosthatwife” has hit 147 messages in 3 minutes.

And then a new update hits:

🐀 cubicle_rat94: GUYS 🐀 cubicle_rat94: THEY’RE STILL IN THERE 🐀 cubicle_rat94: IT’S BEEN TWENTY MINUTES 🐀 cubicle_rat94: I HEARD A THUMP

*-*

He tries—he really does—to hold it together. Stoic. Professional. CEO-mode activated.

There’s a $3,000 office chair behind him. Ergonomic. Leather. Practically custom-molded to his Very Expensive CEO Back™.

He is not sitting in it.

Because you are sitting on your knees in front of him, lipstick smudged halfway to hell, hands planted on his thighs like they’re handlebars and you’re ready to take this ride off-road.

“Fuck—my love—”

Nanami’s hands are in your hair, hips twitching like he’s fighting the Holy Spirit and losing hard.

He hasn’t seen you in six weeks.

Six weeks of video calls. Six weeks of “Don’t touch yourself while you’re gone.” Six weeks of “Save it for me.”

You wrap your lips around his cock and the man damn near blacks out.

And you? You’re being so fucking obnoxious about it.

You’re being nasty. Disrespectful. You’re drooling like it’s your job. You know this man has to walk into a meeting in like an hour, and you’re here like:

“Aw, what’s wrong, bossman? Dick too sensitive? Been savin’ it for your slutty lil scientist wife, huh?”

You blink up at him, mascara already smudging, drool pooling at the corners of your mouth, hand pumping what doesn’t fit between your lips (which isn’t much—he’s been talking about quarterly reports in that deep 'Daddy' voice for weeks—you’ve been starving).

You pull off with a pop. Grin.

His eyes roll back so hard he sees the NASDAQ.

He groans. Loudly. Grips the arms of the chair like he’s praying. Eyes flutter shut.

"You're gonna—oh God—you're going to ruin me,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You pop off for a second, eyes glistening.

“Didn’t hear a complaint last time I sucked you off in that private jet bathroom,” you hum, before diving back down like the wicked little succubus you are.

You immediately go back to choking on it like you’re solving global warming with your throat.

You swallow around him. He jerks.

Slurping. Sucking. Gagging, a little bit too loud. Spit and lipstick everywhere.

Lipstick stains the base of his cock. Spit’s dripping down your chin. He’s got one big, trembling hand buried in your hair like he’s trying to ground himself but failing. Miserably.

When he finally spills—chest heaving, body shaking, you moaning around him like a demon—he curses under his breath, shudders, and collapses back against the desk like you just performed open heart surgery.

He lasted like five minutes.

Which, in his defense, you've been gone for six weeks. Six weeks of boring international biomedical conferences, time zone differences, shitty hotel pillows, and zero head from his ridiculously hot, curvy, cat-owning wife.

You pull off with a pop, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and immediately go:

“So. I synthesized three new protein models based on the latest enzyme data.”

Kento Nanami is not okay.

“I need a minute,” Nanami pants, still trying to breathe.

"You'll be fine, so while I was gone-"

"You're evil," Nanami pants, slouched in his chair like a man deceased, dick still out, his whole soul vibrating.

"You say that every time," you say sweetly, already grabbing a tissue to wipe your lips.

You turn to him and start gently dabbing at his face with a tissue, wiping up smudged lipstick from his cheek, his chin, his fucking collarbone, because goddamn, you really were enthusiastic.

But you leave his dick alone.

“You’re a grown man,” you say sweetly. “You can wipe your own dick.”

He groans. “You’re horrible.”

Then he glares. (Weakly. Adorably.)

He’s still gasping like he ran a fucking marathon, hair disheveled, belt undone, entire life in shambles, and you’re just... fixing your makeup in the reflection of his office window. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just turn his office into a very expensive porn set.

“Mm,” you hum, blotting your lips. “Oh, by the way,” you chirp, grabbing a folder from the table. “The Geneva trial is going to shit, so I moved the molecular rollout to Q4, the Singapore team still hasn’t fixed the patent typo, and two of our researchers got into a slap-fight over genome sequencing priorities. I fixed it.”

Nanami is not done rebooting: Blinking, half-hard, still reeling from the sloppiest head of his goddamn life.

"...You handled all of that in six weeks?"

All while you're... well. Clicking your pen and tossing your hair.

"Yup! Also your VP of Finance tried to deny the funding for the cancer study again, so I emailed his boss. And the boss of the boss. And the press.”

He doesn’t respond.

He’s staring at you like he’s in love. (Which he is. God help him. This is his life.)

You reapply your lipstick again. Adjust your tits. Fluff your hair. He’s still sitting there, pants unzipped, watching you like you just stepped off Mount Olympus.

You wink.

He groans, covers his face, and mutters something that sounds a lot like “I married Satan with a biology degree.”

You take it as a compliment.

“Don’t forget to fix your pants,” you chirp sweetly, grabbing the stack of documents you originally came up here for. “You’ve got a meeting in fifteen.”

Then you strut to the door.

Open it.

Step out into the hallway—where at least three staff members immediately scramble to look busy—and go:

“Oh! Good afternoon.”

You smile. Your lipstick is immaculate. Your strut is deadly. Your ass is dangerous.

You leave.

The interns are traumatized.

*-*

Fifteen minutes later and Nanami walks into a board meeting.

He’s early. Composed. Stoic as ever.

Except—

His lips? A little too pink. His collar? A little too smudged with something suspiciously red. And the dazed, blissed-out face of someone who’s recently seen heaven and also got their balls drained like a Capri-Sun.

Everyone notices. Yet no one says a thing.

Someone coughs.

Someone else types in the group chat:

👀 finance_gf420: HE LOOKS RUINED 👀 finance_gf420: IS HE OKAY 👀 finance_gf420: OMG HIS LIPS????? 🐀 cubicle_rat94: #heGotSuckedOffDidntHe 🐀 cubicle_rat95: THAT LIPSTICK IS NOT NATURAL 🐀 cubicle_rat94: He looked like a MILF stepped on him and stole his wallet 🐀 cubicle_rat96: He’s smiling. He never smiles. He’s been SUCKED into HAPPINESS

*-*

You are sprawled across a couch in your shared penthouse like the domestic goddess you are, hair up, makeup off, comfy as shit in a big T-shirt that says:

BIOLOGY: IT GROWS ON YOU printed across the chest.

Sweatpants. Cartoon cat socks. A bag of takeout on the coffee table. Chairman Meow (the chunky orange cat, destroyer of worlds, 10/10 bastard) is purring in your lap as you brush him with one hand and scroll your phone with the other.

The door opens.

Cue husband entering, disheveled, tired, briefcase in hand, looking at you like you hung the moon.

You glance up.

“Hey, Ken.”

He melts.

“…I missed my wife.”

Literally drops his bag right there, undoes the first button of his shirt, and beelines for you like a man possessed.

You open your arms.

He sinks into them with a noise that can only be described as heartbroken relief.

“You’re home,” he breathes into your neck.

You kiss his cheek. “Mmhm. Fed the demon. Saved the division. Sucked my husband’s soul out his dick.”

He groans.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“Don’t ever leave again.”

“You’ll miss the sloppy head.”

“I need the sloppy head. And you.”

Chairman Meow meows in protest (probably jealous).

You both ignore him.

Twenty minutes later, you’re curled on the couch together watching Bridgerton.

His arm is around you. Your legs are across his lap. Chairman Meow has reclaimed your thigh and is grooming himself with utter malice.

On screen, Lord Dumbass of Tragic Miscommunication says something like, “I cannot love you, my dear,” and your husband scoffs.

“He’s a coward.”

You raise a brow. “...Says the man who once ghosted me for three days because you thought your email signature was too flirtatious.”

“That’s different. I had reputation concerns.”

You snort. “You ended it with ‘Warm regards, yours always.’”

“I was trying to be professional! And anyways, he keeps making stupid choices.”

"You keep watching."

He grumbles again, but doesn't move, big hands sliding around your waist, pulling you closer, until you're tangled together like spaghetti in a bowl of marital bliss.

You laugh. He kisses you. You kiss back.

Then you’re making out again—deep, slow, fingers tangled in hair and shirts—and Chairman Meow huffs like a betrayed third wheel and hops off the couch in protest.

You don’t care.

You’re too busy kissing your husband like the world is ending. He pulls you close like he needs you to breathe. Your legs wrap around his hips, his mouth hot against yours, and somewhere in the distance, someone in HR has a very bad feeling.

And yeah, maybe your hand sneaks under his shirt. And maybe his mouth finds yours again. And maybe you end up making out with him to the soft backdrop of orchestral Ariana Grande.

Chairman Meow, to his credit, does not judge.

But he does leap off the couch right as Nanami groans into your mouth, "Don't start something you can’t finish, darling—"

And you giggle, breath hot, “Oh, I always finish.”

But for now?

You’re home. He’s home.

And all is right in the (office) world.

A/N: hope you enjoyed it!! pls do tell if theres any mistakes, i don't think there are any but u never know. not proofread btw sorry.

Masterlist

🖇️ 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 1 — 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝑯𝒊𝒓𝒆

𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Kim Taehyung x Shin Y/N

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐: Y/N struts into the office on her first day in a backless maroon satin halter top and mini skirt, already testing boundaries. Taehyung tries to remain professional, but her arrogant attitude and deliberate foot teasing under his desk during their meeting push the sexually frustrated married CEO to his limit. He corners her, choking her and making her cum on his knee like a desperate brat.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

🖇️ 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 2 — 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓-𝑯𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆

𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Kim Taehyung x Shin Y/N

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐: Y/N amps up her teasing the next day. In a crowded elevator she grinds her thick ass against his clothed cock in front of others. Once in his office, she drops to her knees for sloppy oral worship deepthroating, ball sucking, messy lipstick marks, face fucking, and cum play all over her face while she teases him about finally making him crack.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

🖇️ 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 3 — 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒔

𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Kim Taehyung x Shin Y/N

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐: During an important board meeting, Y/N whispers filthy taunts and flashes her thighs. Taehyung snaps, dragging her to the executive bathroom for a risky public quickie. Hand over her mouth, manhandling her thick body against the wall, he fucks her raw while venting his frustration with his cold marriage.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

🖇️ 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 4 — 𝑾𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏

𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Kim Taehyung x Shin Y/N

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐: Forced to work together at his home office while his wife is away, Y/N’s constant brattiness shatters his control. Taehyung delivers intense brat taming tying her hands with his tie, choking, degradation, desk fucking, and finally claiming her tight ass as he uses her body for hours to satisfy months of built-up frustration.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

🖇️ 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 5 — 𝑪𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 & 𝑶𝒘𝒏𝒆𝒅

𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Kim Taehyung x Shin Y/N

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐: In his marital bed, Y/N is on her knees giving him a filthy blowjob when his wife walks in. Instead of stopping, Y/N sucks him harder, invites his wife to watch, and taunts her with “This is how you please a man.” She takes full charge, making his wife sit and watch as she finishes him off, taking his cum all over her face.

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