Yvette (Your Boss at the Private Investigator Firm and occasional fuckbuddy)

“Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?”

— Proverbs 6:27

Yvette features prominently on your list of shower-time fantasies. And while you never quite know where you stand with the real Yvette on any given day, fantasy Yvette is always hot and ready to go. You summon the ethereal vixen into your mind as you adjust the shower to a comfortable setting.

You exhale, letting the tension bleed out of your shoulders as the heat from the warm water soaks into your muscles and rinse the leftover adrenaline down the drain. Your brain slowly stops buzzing. You let yourself sink into the memory of the last time you two had a rendezvous.

You can almost smell her perfume. Actually, you're pretty sure it's just her shampoo. Despite her well manicured appearance, Yvette is not someone who spends a lot of time fussing over her looks. Sure, she's ridiculously beautiful, but behind those pretty eyes is a hardened combat vet of 30 odd years with a will of pure steel. She's smart, scary, and really really hot.

You've been lucky enough to see her soft side, backside and insides on multiple occasions, but there's always that small voice in your head that pipes up now and again to remind you that you're playing with fire with whatever it is that you currently have going on with Yvette.

Why she chose you in particular is anyone's guess. Given her job and how much she relies on her 'reputation' for her success, her particular itch was one that required... a certain amount of discretion. Not something you would normally choose to scratch with an immature twenty year old kid, and one that happens to be an employee of hers at that.

It's stupid, and Yvette is anything but stupid.

It likely means she saw something in you, something familiar.
... Something you've been very careful to hide from others.

You know that letting someone that perceptive get close to you is dangerous.

But reservations and self preservation aside... any time Yvette gives you that look, your worries melt away. And all that is left in its place is a raging fire in your loins that can only be quenched in the cooling waters that is Yvette.

It's a good thing that when she's in the mood and giving you that look, she's more than happy to be of assistance in that area.

It's really her fault. You're just twenty years old. You're powerless to resist the feminine wiles of a mature, experienced and worldly femme fatale. She's probably grooming you or something.

Yeah, that's right. Shame on her.

She honestly intimidates you more than Griggs ever could, and Griggs is a 250 pound bear of a man. Mostly because you're just not quite sure how far she would go if someone actually pissed her off enough for her to really do something about it.

Your ruminations are interrupted by a familiar scent as you pull on the office doors. The ancient door creaks against the turn of the century hinges and you make a mental note to grease them before you head out for the day.

The office smells like hazelnut cookies. And... Yvette.

She looks up at you from her desk. There's the look. Goddamn.
You feel the heat in her gaze. A curious mix of anticipation and what you now recognize as smoldering desire. Her hair is done up perfectly. Makeup accented with lipstick, bright red like a crime scene. Not her usual color. A shimmering metallic blue dress accentuates her perfect form. She's dressed to kill, and you have a pretty good idea of what she is hunting.

No woman in her mid 30's has any business looking like that, especially with how little effort she puts into it. It's just cheating is what it is.

One good look at her is enough to make your mouth go dry. You try to play it cool and slip into the chair in front of her desk, stumbling slightly since you aren't exactly paying attention to where you're going. You tell yourself she probably didn't notice.

She hasn’t said anything. Not yet. Just looks at you, eyes sharp. Like she’s waiting for you to make the first move.

"Uh... wow, boss. You look amazing today. Are you going out tonight?"

"You're supposed to say I look amazing every day, Ryan. And yes I am. I'm meeting some friends tonight and we're plannin' on a girl's night out. "

Yvette’s southern drawl has a warm, syrupy edge. Lazy. Velvet. Just enough to cover the steel underneath. You’re pretty sure she wasn’t born talking like that. East Coast, maybe. Old money. Something crisp and clipped before she picked up this soft Texan drawl and weaponized it.

It works. Too well, sometimes.

She leans back in her chair, one leg crossing over the other in a way that’s way too deliberate to be casual. You try to keep eye contact, you really do. But you slip and your gaze dips. She notices. Her eyes flick down to the rapidly expanding bulge in your pants that gives you away. There’s a pause, barely a breath and that almost-smirk appears at the edge of her mouth. Then it's gone, like it was never there.

Damn it.

You clear your throat. “Didn’t expect to be back this early. Things went smoother than I thought.”

“Everything go alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. Mostly. Things are heating up near the border. Lots of roadblocks. Word is, there's a battalion of Patriots stationed in Kingsville now. Something’s coming.”

That wipes the playfulness off her face.

“Shit,” she says quietly. “That ain’t good.”

You exchange a look. Not fear, not yet, but the mutual understanding of two people who’ve seen what happens when things go sideways. And how fast.

“If they're moving Patriots in, we might see a dry spell. Javier say anything about the next drop?”

You shake your head. “He's not sure. He said they’re having trouble sourcing anything. Said things are bad down there.”

“Bad how?”

You shrug. “He didn’t say. Just... bad.”

She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, careful not to ruin whatever magic she pulled off in the mirror. Her nails are painted a dark red to match her lips. A detail you clock immediately and then try very hard not to dwell on. No woman throws that kind of look together for a night of cheap tequila and empty flirting.

“I don’t know how you do it, Ryan,” she says, voice softer now. “But you’ve got a talent for getting shit done while avoiding trouble. That's a rare combination. And a valuable one.”

You give a small shrug. “Just lucky, I guess.”

She leans forward just a little, elbows on the desk, cleavage suddenly front and center like a trap you’re supposed to pretend not to notice.

“Oh yes,” she says, low and slow, honey practically dripping from her voice. “Very lucky.”

Your heart beats hard enough, you feel it in your teeth. You recognize an invitation when you see one.

Yay.

You’re painfully aware of every inch of her dress, the scent of her perfume. Or maybe it’s just her. She smells like skin, sweat, and something else. You don't bother trying to hide your erection anymore.

She’s typing now, or pretending to. Her hands move across the keyboard as she stares at the screen, but you know damn well she can’t type for shit.
If she were actually typing, you’d see furrowed eyebrows and her eyes would be flitting between the screen and her keyboard as she hunts for the right keys.

She's not typing. She's waiting.

The air feels thick enough to cut with a knife. Your gaze drops again, just for a second. She's watching you watch her. She wants you to make the first move. Honestly, you don’t know what’s more dangerous. The way she looks at you, or how badly you want her to keep doing it.

She looks up at you with arched eyebrows.

"Do you need something, Ryan?"
"You look distracted. Everything okay?"

"I have some documents to look up for a new client. Shouldn't take too long. Hoping I can wrap it all up before eight, and be free to be an adult for a few hours. If you have nothing better to do, get yourself home early, take a shower and get some sleep. You've earned it."

"I just might do that. Is someone watching Tiffany tonight? Anything I can do to help?"
"She's having a sleepover with her friends tonight, and it'll be nice to having a night off to relax at home and get some chores done. Tiffany decided to use the dishwasher door to climb onto the kitchen counter yesterday, so I'm washing dishes by hand until I can get a repairman out to fix it."

"I thought you were going out?"

"My friends are all in their thirties too, young man. We’ve all got jobs and bad knees. A glass of wine and a Gosling movie is about as wild as it gets. I'm just going to do a few dishes first."

“Want help with the door?” you ask, trying not to sound too eager. “I have my toolbox in the trunk. My momma always said if the womenfolk don’t find you handsome, they should at least find you handy.”

She smiles at that. It's small, but real.

"You do too much already, Ryan. I appreciate the offer, but I can handle hand-washing the dishes for a few days."

"Anything for you, boss."

There’s a beat. Not quite silence. Just her fake typing picking up speed like a nervous tic. Still not looking at you. Definitely not typing either.

Her eyes are glued to the screen like it holds the secrets to the universe. Her fingers tap the keys in a way that says, loud and clear, “not doing a damn thing.” No squinting. No swearing. No effort.

You make a point to deliberately stare at her innocently while she continues to stubbornly avoid your gaze and fake types away on her laptop.

"So... is Griggs out for the day?"

She doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at the screen, pretending to read an email that isn’t there.

“He is. Why?”

You shrug, “No reason.”

That's a damn lie and you both know it.

She lets it sit. Just gives a slow blink, like a cat deciding whether you're worth swatting. You rest your hands on your thighs, lean back just enough to show you're not in a rush to leave. She notices that too.

"You're staring," she says, without looking up.

"You're pretty," you answer, without shame.

That gets her. A small twitch at the corner of her mouth. A smile. A warning maybe. Keep going. See what happens.

“I thought you were going home,” she says.

“Thought I’d linger,” you say. “In case you needed help with... anything.”

She finally looks at you. And the way she does it, like peeling you open with her eyes... it’s just not fair.
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk again, and your brain politely packs its bags and checks out for the evening.

“You’re not very subtle, you know,” she says.

“Nope.”

“And you think that’s part of your charm?”

“I’m twenty and stupid. My charm is all I’ve got.”

She laughs softly at that.

“Ryan.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Go home.”

You pause.

“Is that an order?”

Her eyebrow arches. The kind of arch that makes grown men question their life choices.

“It’s a strong suggestion.”

You hold her gaze a second longer than necessary. Just long enough to let the tension stretch.

She doesn’t look away, and neither do you.

“I’ve got an hour before I need to leave.”

“Plenty of time.”

Silence. The fake typing stops. Her laptop closes with a soft click. You feel your pulse in your ears.

“I should tell you to go,” she breathes.

“I mean, you kind of did. I'm just bad at following instructions. I might need a little guidance.”

She still doesn’t look up. Still doesn’t move.
The quiet hangs there, loaded. You step around the desk slowly, giving her a chance to say something, to stop this. She doesn’t.

“You dressed up for me.”

She snorts softly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

She looks up. Not defiant. Not commanding. There’s a stillness to her, like she’s waiting for you to decide what happens next.

You lean in, slow and deliberate. Not for the kiss, not yet. Just close enough to bury your nose at the curve of her neck. Her scent hits you like memory: green apples, and something else beneath it. Not synthetic. Not sweet. Something warmer. Primal. Familiar.

She lets out a soft, shuddering sigh, the kind that doesn’t quite know if it’s relief or anticipation. You smile into her skin and take your time, letting your breath stir the fine hairs just below her ear. She twitches. A little giggle slips out. You file that away for later.

You hook your finger under her chin and tilt it up.

"Come here."

The almost-command comes out lower than you expected. A growl, really. Rough around the edges. You meant to be gentle, but she responds anyway. Eyes a little glassy now. Breath slowed.

"Make me." She whispers.

You slide a hand into her perfect hair and grip it firmly, eliciting a small gasp from your boss, and pull her in, lips colliding hard enough to bruise if either of you cared. She melts. You don't. You’ve got too much momentum. Too much want.

And then, you jerk back with a confused squint, tongue still buzzing.

“…Boss, aren’t you a little old to be wearing strawberry-flavored lip gloss?”

She glares.

“Shut yer hole. I ran out of lipstick and borrowed some from my niece.”

“Isn’t your niece like ten years old?”

“You’re totally ruining the mood.”

You grin. “You kissed me first.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You let me kiss you.”

“That’s entrapment, smartass-mmph!”

You crush your lips against Yvette's mouth, silencing her protests and drag her by the wrist, her blouse half-unbuttoned, skirt riding up her thighs as she stumbles after you. The moment you reach the sofa in the corner of the office, you shove her down, kicking off your shoes as she fumbles with your belt. Her fingers tremble against your waistband, **** to find what's inside.

"You're a goddamn tease." you growl, cupping her jaw. "I think I deserve an apology."

Her lips part, but instead of words, she leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the head of your cock. It’s soft, almost reverent. Too gentle for what she deserves. You groan, thrusting forward, filling her mouth without warning. She gags, eyes watering, but you don’t let up, rocking deeper with each shallow breath she takes.

"Say it."

Her muffled apology sends pleasant vibrations shooting up your spine, making your hips jerk reflexively.

"Again."

This time, you push in until her nose brushes your pelvis, holding her there until her throat flutters wildly. When you pull back, she gasps, spit slick on her chin. "S,sorry. Fuck! I can't breathe."

You smirk, dragging her up by the hair. "Now beg for it properly."

Her hands scramble at your thighs, nails digging in. "Please," she rasps, breath hot against your skin. "Let me **** on it again."

You shift your grip to gently wrap your fingers around her throat. She doesn't try to stop you. You feel her neck muscles tighten as she swallows. She's salivating. You don't make her ask twice.

"On your fucking knees."

Her legs buckle and she slides to the ground. You hold her head firmly against the couch and drag your overheated member on her face. She gasps and struggles for a moment, but says nothing.

"That was pretty uninspired, boss." You lie through your teeth.

"I'm going to need you to try harder. Give me another kiss. This time, show me you mean it."

She whimpers as you drag her head back down, gripping her hair tight enough to make her whine. Her lips stretch around you as you push in slow this time, savoring the way her throat resists before giving in.

"Beg," you snarl, pulling her right back to the tip before slamming your cock back in her face, until your cockhead is firmly lodged in her esophagus.

Her nails scrape your hips, her voice breaking around you. "Please!" A wet gasp as you withdraw. "Please fuck my throat-mmmgh!"

You give her exactly what she asked for, setting a brutal rhythm, her nose crushed against your stomach with every thrust. Her whimpers are muffled, choked, her body jerks and spasms each time you bottom out in her delicious throat.

"Yesss, louder." You yank her hair, forcing her to look up at you. Tears smudge her perfect makeup, and her strawberry lip gloss glistens lewdly in the dim light.

"Use me," she sobs, her saliva dripping down her chin. "Fucking ruin me."

You do. Every thrust is punishing now, her throat convulses pleasantly around your cock even as her fingers claw at your thighs. She gags, gurgles, but takes every inch like she was made for it.

"Good fucking girl." You groan as her tongue swirls helplessly around your shaft when you pull back. "Time to take the whole thing, Strawberry Shortcake."

Her whimper is ****, needy. She opens wider, waiting. You fill it again. Pushing deeper this time, until your cockhead is resting at the entrance to her throat. Her tongue glides smoothly along the bottom of your overheated cock, cradling you as you grind your cock into her orifice, letting out a low groan of pleasure as she swallows you like a dutiful wife welcoming her husband home. That's what Yvette's mouth feels like. Home.

Her body goes limp even as her throat muscles spasm around your cock. You're hilted as deep as you can go in her throat. Her muffled protests vibrate along your shaft, but you hold her there, not letting her up even a fraction of an inch. Her panicked gurgles blow warm pleasant spit bubbles around her tightly stretched lips, gently tickling your ball-sack. You're in heaven.

"Be a good girl and swallow for me, boss."

You take a firm grip on Yvette's hair and start pumping your beautiful boss's face as she struggles to breathe. For a while, the only sound in the room is the quiet gurgling and squelching noises that come from your vigorous violation of her mouth. Her body starts to buck as she runs out of oxygen. Her nails rake uselessly at your thighs, her muffled gagging turning ****, shallow. You watch the tears spill down her flushed cheeks, the way her chest heaves as oxygen dwindles. Just before she goes limp you pull back, letting her gasp, coughing violently, spit and mascara streaking her face.

"Not yet, say Aaah." you order, dragging her back onto you before she can recover. This time, you keep her there longer, grinding deep as her vision blurs, her legs kicking weakly. When you finally release her, she sags forward, panting, drool pooling beneath her.

You wipe your cock across her lips. "One more. And you’re swallowing every drop."

Her chest heaves, breath still ragged, but she tilts her chin up anyway. Stubborn even now. You don’t wait for permission. Fisting her hair, you haul her mouth back onto your cock, this time angling her throat just right to sink deeper. Her choked gurgle vibrates through you, her nails now digging into your thighs hard enough to draw blood if you were a normal human being.

Thankfully, Yvette doesn't notice. It'd be a miracle if she did, given what you're currently putting her through.

You set a punishing pace, brutal and unrelenting, her spit slicking every thrust. The wet, obscene sounds of her throat struggling to take you mingle with your own ragged curses as you fuck Yvette's insatiable mouth in short, rapid strokes.

You feel your first orgasm of the day rapidly as her spasming throat muscles envelop and massage your cock buried hilt deep in her gullet. Her eyes roll back, tears streaming, but her tongue still works—flattening against your shaft, laving the underside like she’s starving for it.

When your grip tightens, her moan is muffled, ****. You can feel the telltale clench of your balls, the heat coiling low. "I'm going to cum. That's it, swallow." you growl, shoving in one last time.

She gags as you pulse down her throat, her body jerking, but she obeys—muscles fluttering, sucking dutifully until you’re completely spent. Only then do you let her collapse, gasping, lips swollen and shiny. You drag your thumb through the mess on her chin, smearing it across her parted lips. She is beautiful.

"Good girl. You're absolutely amazing, Yvette."

Yvette is still on her knees with her face buried in your crotch, suckling your cock submissively while she waits for further instruction. She knows to stay where she is. Your cock barely falters as she continues to massage it with her tongue. You bask in the afterglow of your orgasm.

You loosen your grip on her hair and gently run your fingers through her hair, eliciting a low appreciative moan that vibrates along your cock.

Her lips stay locked around you. She doesn’t pull away, just sucking gently, her tongue lapping slow, worshipful circles under your sensitive head. Every flick makes you twitch, the pleasure bordering on pain as she teases the oversensitive nerves.

Her fingers trail up your thighs, nails scraping lightly, before curling possessively around your hips. She hums low in her throat, the vibration rippling through your cock, and you groan, your grip once again tightening in her hair.

"You pretty little thing," you mutter, watching her lashes flutter at the praise. She’s still wrecked. Cheeks tear-stained, lips bruised, but she doesn't stop her gentle ministrations. Lips sealed tight as she hollows her cheeks around you. The slurping sounds are obscene, her spit slicking every inch of your spent member.

You let her work, grinding lazily into her mouth, savoring the way she chokes slightly when you push too deep. Her throat flutters instinctively, still trying to take you, even as she whines around your length.

"Don’t stop," you order, shoving her head down one last time before releasing her. She gasps but stays put, tongue dragging a wet stripe up your shaft, proving her obedience.

Your cock is ready again in no time and you're ready to go for round two.
Wait... it's getting cold, all of a sudden. It's kind of distracting. Wait... no, Yvette. I need more. Please, don't leave me. Why is it so cold?

..