Marks boss

Emma stood both hand extended holding the envelope.

Mark followed her gaze and froze.

Zack.

His boss.

The tall bastard was lounging in one of the café chairs, all six-foot-five of him, blonde hair slicked back, shoulders straining the seams of a perfectly cut suit. His grin was as smug as ever, cocksure, like the world owed him its best and he was already collecting.

Mark’s heart stopped. “No… no, no, no…” he muttered under his breath.

The giant looked up, eyes narrowing with confusion. Then recognition. Then something else — delight.

Emma didn’t speak. She held out the envelope with both hands, like an offering.

Zack frowned, took it, slid the flap open. His eyes darted to the first photo. Then the second. Then his grin spread, wolfish, white teeth flashing as he looked Emma up and down like she was a meal.

“Holy shit,” Mark whispered, stomach dropping.

Emma stood perfectly still, nipples hard under the thin fabric, her chin tilted with that posh little dare-me look. Zack laughed, low and dirty, and leaned closer to whisper something in her ear.

Mark couldn’t hear it. But he could see Emma’s face flush scarlet, see the way her thighs shifted, knees trembling.

And then, she walked off with him.

Just like that.

Mark’s knees nearly gave out.

Mark returned home not knowing what to do, feeling lost, this wasn't the plan, it was only meant to be a little bit of fun.

The front door creaked open hours later. Mark had been pacing the whole time, dread coiled tight in his stomach. When Emma finally stepped in, she was a mess, hair tangled, dress askew, lipstick smeared across her cheek. Her sandals were in her hand, her feet dirty from walking barefoot.

“Emma,” Mark rasped. “What the fuck did you—”

She smiled weakly, shut the door with her hip, and leaned against it. “Oh darling… you don’t want to know.”

“I do,” Mark snapped, voice breaking. “He’s my boss! Do you even—”

Emma pushed past him, slow, deliberate. Her perfume was stronger now, mixed with sweat, with sex. She turned, gave him that wicked little grin, and slipped her hand into his trousers without warning.

Mark gasped as her fingers wrapped around his cock, already half-hard from the adrenaline, from the dread.

She leaned up, lips brushing his ear, posh accent dripping filth.

“You want to know what your big, handsome boss did to me, Mark? How I knelt on the floor of his apartment, pulled his cock out, and begged him to use my throat? How he bent me over his glass desk, pushed this tight little dress up to my waist, and split me open while I squealed like a slut?”

Mark’s face went red. “Stop—”

Her hand stroked harder, precise, twisting, milking him. His hips betrayed him, bucking into her fist.

“No,” she purred, cruel and delighted. “You’ll listen. You’ll sit there and picture it, picture me stuffed full of his cock, tits bouncing against the desk while he laughed and told me how much better I was than his secretary. And you’ll come for me, Mark. You’ll come while I tell you every filthy little detail.”

Mark groaned, torn between rage and unbearable arousal. His cock throbbed in her grip, slick with her spit as she stroked him furiously, her posh voice never stopping, never softening, only pouring filth into his ear.