Maya, office worker - Wellness Protocol

I let out a slow breath, but it hitched at the end. The soft chime from my phone seemed to vibrate in the quiet room, announcing my 2:30 pm Wellness Protocol. The app’s serene voice filled my headphones.

Phase One: Ocular Reset. Please fix your gaze on the designated focal point.

That was Mr. Thorne today. He’d lingered after the budget meeting, offering to stay. For oversight, he’d said. His tie had a small, intricate spiral pattern right at the center knot. As I stared, my vision softened. The dark silk spiral seemed to pulse, to slowly rotate, pulling my focus down to where his collar lay against the strong line of his throat. A warmth, distinct from the protocol’s promised calm, began to pool low in my stomach.

Phase Two: Proprioceptive Calibration. Permission for tactile adjustment of primary tension nodes.

The voice was a hypnotic sigh. I found myself giving Mr. Thorne a smile that felt too pliant. “I’m ready for tactile adjustment,” I said, my own voice a low murmur.

“Of course, Maya.” He stood and rounded my desk. My internal dialogue sharpened as he moved. I don’t like the way he’s casually perching on the edge of my desk, settling in. The deliberate manspreading, the positioning… why does he need his crotch at my eye level?

Yet, when his hands landed—a part of my mind noted that might be a good thing about him. One settled firmly on the slope of my shoulder, his thumb finding a knot of tension that made me gasp softly. The other hand didn’t hesitate. It cupped the full weight of my left breast through the thin silk of my blouse. A slow, deliberate squeeze.

What is he waiting for? The protocol demanded efficiency. He knew we couldn't finish the calibration until he performed all necessary procedures. But his thumb just circled, rasping over the nipple that had tightened to a hard peak, while his other hand merely stroked my shoulder and neck. He was drawing it out, savoring the control.

A spike of impatience, laced with anger, cut through the haze. "Mr. Thorne, if you don't mind, can we speed up?" I reached up and moved his hand from my shoulder to the top button of my blouse. "I have a lot of work to do."

His smile was slow, victorious. "By all means." His fingers made quick work of the buttons, but his care was solely for access. He pushed the silk aside, pulled my bra down without ceremony, and gave my breasts a firm, assessing squeeze. UGH, why does every single guy in this office have such practiced, confident hands? Why can't my boyfriend make me feel this ****, make me want to tie his hands to my nipples and never let go?

The thought was shaming, even as his skilled fingers traced my areolas, pinching just shy of pain, rolling the sensitive peaks until my breath came in short pants.

"Mr. Thorne, please," I breathed out, the words sounding strained and needy even to me. Why do I sound like such a slut in front of him? "Can we please go to the next stage already?"

"Ooh, eager for the next phase?" He gave a sharp, warning pinch that made me jump. Such an asshole. But then he bent his head, finally, and took a stiffened nipple into his mouth. The heat, the suction, the flick of his tongue were so devastatingly precise that a shudder of intense, unwanted pleasure wracked me. As if on cue, the serene voice in my headphones announced the next step.

Phase Three: Oral Cavity Pressure Release. Maintain an open, receptive posture.

Mr. Thorne leaned back, bracing his hands on the desk behind him, and opened his legs in a deliberate, wide V. The implicit command was clear. The space between his thighs was my new focal point. With a stiffness I hoped he’d mistake for protocol-induced compliance, I slid from my chair and onto my knees on the plush office carpet. The scent of his expensive cologne and something uniquely, muskily him intensified as I leaned forward, letting my forehead come to rest against the fine wool of his trousers, right over the swell of his crotch.

God, I hate this part sooo much. The **** stillness, the simmering anticipation while he watches me just… nuzzle there like some obedient pet. Why do I have to wait for permission? The fabric was smooth and warm against my cheek. I turned my head slightly, inhaling unconsciously, my nose tracing the seam of his zipper. The scent was maddening. A low, pathetic sound escaped me, half-moan, half-frustration. "Uh, uuhh, give it to—" I caught myself, humiliation heating my face. No, I am not just some needy slut. It’s just procedure. "Mr. Thorne, please may I suck your dick?" Damn, that still sounded like I am some **** slut.

His chuckle was a dark, rich sound above me. "Since you ask so nicely, but no hands."

Fine. Jokes on him. I haven’t used my hands to suck a dick almost since they hired me. I pressed my face more firmly into his groin, rubbing my cheek back and forth like a cat, feeling the hardening shape of him beneath the layers. My lips sought the metal of his zipper pull. It was cool against my mouth. I caught it between my teeth, tugging down with careful precision. The sound was obscenely loud. Next, the button. This was trickier; I had to use my teeth and the flat of my tongue to worry it through the stiff buttonhole, a slow, wet process that had him shifting above me with a sharp intake of breath. Finally, I hooked my teeth into the waistband of his trousers and his fitted boxer briefs together and pulled down, a clumsy, graceless motion that somehow felt like I shouldn't really be doing to anyone but my boyfriend.

Bump. His cock, already half-hard, sprang free and slapped against my forehead with a soft, solid thud. FUCK, why do I love it so much? That sudden impact, the weight of him against my skin, the demonstration of my job done well. I froze for a second, breathing in the scent now blooming unfiltered before me. Damn, why does he smell so good? Clean, musky, intensely male. I’d blown my boyfriend yesterday, and I hadn't been half as aroused as I am now, kneeling in my own office, my blouse hanging open. Stop it! You need to get to sucking now.

I nuzzled the length of him with my face, from the thick base to the flushed, smooth head, using my nose and lips to coax him to full hardness. He thickened beautifully under my attention. When he was rigid, I took the elastic of his boxers in my teeth again and dragged them down further, freeing his balls. Then, without using my hands to guide him, I opened my mouth and took him in.

"Oh damn, Maya," his voice floated down, strained and approving. "You are a talented cock sucker, aren't you?"

His hands finally left the desk and fisted in my hair. Okay, I had to just say something that would make him cum fast in my mouth. I pulled off, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening tip. I looked up, meeting his hooded gaze. "Sir," I said, my voice dripping with a submission these guys craved, and not all cause it made me cum a bit, "can you please let this talented cock sucker service your cock?"

I didn’t wait for an answer. I surged forward, taking him deep in one smooth, practiced motion. His cockhead pushed past my gag reflex, settling in the tight channel of my throat. I almost gagged, but practice—with other office cocks, and with that dildo I’d convinced my boyfriend was a hot idea—had made me proficient. I held him there, my nose buried in the crisp hair at his base, my tongue flat against the throbbing underside. I could feel his balls against my chin. I fluttered my throat muscles around him and was rewarded with a guttural groan.

My eyes watered as I pulled back, then plunged down again, establishing a ruthless rhythm. One of my hands came up, not to touch him, but to find his wrist where it gripped my hair. I pulled his other hand down, placing it firmly on the back of my head, silently begging for more, for him to take over. With a growl, his fingers tightened in my scalp and he began to fuck my face in earnest, driving himself deep into my throat with each piston-like thrust.

I looked up, my vision blurry with tears. Fuck, how I love their strong hands just using me for release, why do I never let my boyfriend do it? I doubled down, relaxing my throat completely, letting him use me, each impact a jolt that traveled straight to my own aching core. The sounds were filthy: wet, choked, rhythmic, and his ragged breathing.

"Gonna—Maya, fuck—" was all the warning I got. He slammed in one last time, hilted himself, and released. Hot, bitter pulses flooded my throat. I choked a bit, the sheer volume overwhelming for a second. I felt the **** of it, some of the seed escaping to trickle from my stuffed nostrils. I probably looked like a $20 whore, used and messy, with cum on my face and in my nose. But a distant, triumphant part of me knew: guys like it. I kept my mouth sealed around him, swallowing convulsively until he softened, until his grip on my hair loosened from a claw to a caress.

Finally, he slipped from my lips with a soft, wet sound.I straightened up on unsteady legs, pulling my clothing back into place with fingers that trembled. Mr. Thorne zipped his suit, his face a mask of composed professionalism, but his eyes were dark, satisfied smolders.

I stayed on my knees, catching my breath, as the serene voice returned to my headphones.

Protocol complete. You are aligned, efficient, and satiated. Re-integration in 3… 2… 1.

A soft chime. The world crashed back in pieces: the smell of sex and sandalwood, the ache in my muscles, the stunning, hollow emptiness as he withdrew.

“Feeling better, Maya?” he asked, his voice rougher than before. He adjusted his spiral-patterned tie, the fabric now carrying a secret crease.

A deep, languid satisfaction hummed in my veins. “Much better, thank you,” I said, my voice throaty. I felt fantastically used, focused, and **** for tomorrow. “The new protocol is… profoundly effective.”

“Yes it is,” he said, snapping his briefcase shut with definitive finality.

As he left, I sank into my chair, my body feeling ready to work for the next 4 hours straight. It was just another modern wellness benefit. But as I tried to focus on the budget figures, there was one thing that really drove me crazy... Why do I feel like there is a money shot on my face?