Take her. You deserve it.

Just Jenna

Your head is practically swimming. Is this what going insane feels like? So much coming so fast. A secure floor that the security team can’t access. A promotion to a job that didn’t exist. Domineering women whom you have no power over. Mercy from a woman you treated with contempt. Shaming for having snooped on a woman who was snooping on you. An Amy that isn’t an Amy. A security guard overwhelmed by her insecurity. A king who scorns his kingdom. An overpowering underling.

Yet before you is the one thing that is what it seems to be. Something that makes sense. An assistant with one hell of an ass.

“You know, you might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, Jenna.”

Still crouched before you, her eyes lift to yours slowly as a thin smile creeps onto her lips. It isn’t flattered, nor is it charmed, nor even lusty. It is a smile that confirms it’s about damn time you noticed her. As if any man could see a woman like this and ignore her.

“Thank you, sir.”

She doesn’t make a move. There’s no explicit offer, nothing but patience, waiting for her boss to instruct her what he wants her to do. You could do like you did with Summer, you know, bend her right past the limits of her flexibility and break her in for you. That was fun, certainly, and you’re too new to power tripping to have worn out the novelty yet. Still, there’s something about her, some fever-dreamed nonsensical connection in the back of your brain, that makes you think of giving short shrift to a certain security guard. (Brook Lynn, or Brooklyn? Something like that.) Your Jenna Garnet might have been an elusive temp at the time, but still, maybe save the Summer treatment for Summer and the easy side pieces they were.

So you whip your dick out.

It’s not subtle, nor is it classy. As the iron rod hits the cool air of your office, you suppose you could have begun with your jacket, your shirt. Shoes, even. The simple fact of the matter is, you want to touch your dick to her in some way, and you’ve wanted it for so long that now that the decision is made, waiting is over.

Jenna studies it for a moment, her smile fixed in place. “Is that for me?”

“If you want it.” You wouldn’t be so casual if you didn’t feel confident she’d accept you. A woman like this, one did not take chances on no matter how many women waited in the wings.

She nods slowly, and you let yourself exhale. Your dick twitches softly, right in her face, as if impatient. “Can I take my clothes off for you, sir?”

Can she. Jesus Christ. “Be my quest. Err, guest.”

Her smile widens. “Yes, sir.” With fluid grace, Jenna rises to her feet, so close that her breasts rub bump into your extended cock on her way up. They’re warm. The button on her jacket is undone in an instant, the garment shrugged off her shoulders with no more fanfare than if it had been a speck of lint. No blouse, no undershirt, no bra. Just tits. They have to be fake. No woman has tits that perfect. Perky. Prominent. Evenly tanned. Nipples precisely circular, perfectly centered, hard and waiting to be sucked on. Flawless symmetrical along what feels like at least half a dozen axes.

Oh, and a belly button piercing. How did you never notice that before? Surely she’s given you the chance. Neat.

Your hands are only halfway to her tits before she’s turned around, bending, peeling her skirt down over an ass with curves that simply will not quit. There’s some kind of tattoo on one hip, something you can’t make out but don’t really care about. This body can decorate itself however it likes. Her shoes she kicks off towards her desk, bouncing a few times and flexing her toes in apparent enjoyment of the freedom from her heels. Now only a pair of stark white panties gives her the slightest modesty, and that barely. While not especially skimpy, they’re in the midst of being engulfed by Jenna’s rounded booty like it was a black hole, hungry to draw in everything in its orbit. A black hole, but pink.

Half a step back, and it’s pressing against the tip of your dick. The slightest wriggle of her hips and it goes from horizontal to vertical, a maneuver so precise, so minute, that it feels practiced. You’re not complaining though, as it nestles in between those round, tanned cheeks, the cool white cotton of her panties against the length of your cock, smooth warm skin to either side.

“I wondered how this would happen. When,” she murmurs over her shoulder, giving her hips a ghost of a wiggle.

Your hands close in on her hips. She’s not moving, but she’s letting you move her. “What took you so long?”

“Long? Sir, it’s not my place to rush you. Only to serve.”

You pull her tighter without even realizing it. God, there’s practically smoke rolling off her shoulders, she’s so hot. Nothing playful in that statement, nothing coy, nothing insincere. Fuck. “You can’t look this hot and tell me you’re not rushing me.”

Then, like her hips were made of butter, she slips from your grip and, with a twirl as if to make sure that if you preferred the view from the front, you don’t have to ask for it, makes her way to the file cabinets. Bending at the waist, she opens the bottom drawer and begins ticking off folder after folder, searching for something, with nothing in her hand. “I wondered if it would be while I was doing files Tuesday morning. Remember, in those khaki shorts?”

“Oh I remember.” They’d looked demure when she’d worn them in, not baggy, but neither were they tight. Then she’d bent over. Then she’d squatted. The woman never looked back at you once, as if to make sure you could stare as hard as you wanted without worrying over being caught. When she stands here in the present, any resistance those panties were making at escaping the pink hole is gone. It’s two bands of white fabric disappearing into a smooth, golden brown crevasse.

“Or two days ago, when I was sitting on my desk here, like this.” She perches on the corner. The surface is the perfect height. There’s no need to hop; she simply eases back to it and it’s beneath her. Once seated, her thighs spread wide, inviting. You remember perfectly the time she’s referencing, though you couldn’t have said the day. Waiting on your lunch order in her little pleated skirt, only gravity keeping it from flashing her panties. Well, flashing them too much. You changed your order three times just to keep her there, only to eventually mumble some request you couldn’t even remember that ended with a lunch that would have gone home for Mo to pick at, if he were one for eating.

“I thought you just might come over, throw me back, jerk my panties out of your way, and fuck me right then and there,” she says softly, the embers in her tone leaving no doubt her feelings on such an ending.

“I guess I should have,” you mutter. You guess you probably should now, but this rehashing of her long week of imagining when and where her boss might finally reach his breaking point and dole out the deep dicking she desperately desires, it’s too good a show. For now, you settle for taking the rest of your clothes off in preparation, though your eyes never leave her generously displayed body.

“Jeans.” The monosyllable hangs in the air as she rolls back to her feet, pivoting to sit backwards in her chair. Her back arches, squashing her breasts against the back. “I thought jeans might be a mistake. Too casual for a man like you, a man who can fuck anyone he wants, can fuck us all any time he wants. But then I could feel it, feel you watching me…” She sighs rapturously, fingers sinking into her thick mane of hair and raising it up over her head, a portrait of a woman on the brink of coming her blonde brains out. You never realized before that one side of her head is shaved on the side, concealed by the curtain of hair cascading down from her scalp. It reminds you of… Hmm. Her hips begin rocking on her seat, helplessly humping, held here by her heaping helping of hormones.

You shudder. What was–

“Even now, watching. Thinking, but not saying. Looking, but not touching. Wanting, but not taking. Owning, but not using.” Jenna sneaks one hand down the front of her panties and immediately plunges knuckles-deep in her sex. The other squeezes hard on one sublime tit, twisting her nipple like she means to tear it off.

You can only stare. She’s accusing you, yes, but you’ve never seen such… such… desperation before. More than that. Her chair creaks with the strain of its occupant’s frantic, needful humping.

“I’m hot, dammit! I’m fuckable! Aren’t I?” A whimper in her question gives the lie to her confidence. Her head twists toward you, but her eyes are squeezed shut. You stride closer. Let her keep going; this is too hot to interrupt. You can slip your dick in next time she–

“Aren’t I?! I’M FUCKING GOOD ENOUGH!” She howls this last; no more sneaking your tryst past your staff. She doesn’t stop masturbating – you’re not sure she _could _stop masturbating – but the hand on her tit slams down flat-palmed, then squeezes down on a stack of papers and hurls them in a cloud of debris around the office. As you bat away a few sheets fluttering in your face, she finds her stapler and hurls it at the far wall. It dents several inches into the drywall.

What kind of meltdown is this? It seems oddly–

One of her computer speakers flies next, bouncing off one wall and then careening into the window before shattering onto the floor..

“You’re good enough! You’re good enough!” you shout, and thrust your cock between her lips.

Her eyes open, take you in with obvious elation, then scrunch shut as her tongue launches itself into overdrive. A tear leaks out one corner. She’s not deep-throating you – OK, now she’s deep-throating you – so why… Jenna doesn’t stop playing with herself. If anything, the already intense diddling redoubles. It’s the most forceful, needful blowjob you’ve ever had. It’s loud, pops and slurps and grunts and moans. The woman’s drool is leaking down her chin like a bucket with a hole in it. When she finally pulls back it’s to suck down a huge gulp of long overdue air. She presses loving kisses up and down the slick wet length of you. “Oh thank you, sir, thank you, thank you thank you thank you!”

“Uh, thank you,” you manage only a bit awkwardly. God, the slut makes Ingrid look disinterested, or Avery hard to get.

“Oh god, if you didn’t, mmm, they would’ve, oh god…”

She sucks you back into her mouth, slapping your dick with her tongue like the thing had been made for cock-sucking more so than speaking or eating. Holy fuck, she’s dextrous with that fucking thing.

“Wait. Did you say ‘they?’”

“Mmm,” is all she says.

You shake your head. “Hang on Jenna. If I didn’t what, ‘they’ who would have what?”

But she’s still sucking. Fuck, she’s good. Whatever. You can ask your questions after. Even with her head twisted to the side, even in the midst of finger-fucking herself with shameless abandon, even preoccupied by whatever fresh commodication bizareness this is, she’s a goddamn cocksucking miracle. If Nolan King means to design a better person at Monarch, his engineers ought to start their analysis right here.

You take hold of the reins of her hair. There really is something cute about that shaved patch. Surprising, on a woman who seems otherwise so completely consumed by presenting herself as the epitome of flawlessly conventional hotness. Like it’s some secret punker story hidden beneath the façade of beauty queen perfection. It somehow makes her even hotter.

So you pull her head back and come.

“Mr. Saxon, did you not receive my message?”

The voice comes from directly behind you, but with Jenna fervently gripping your cock and jacking you off onto her brightly smiling face, you have no ability to turn toward it. Your heart is pounding so hard you couldn’t even make out the voice, but whoever it is, Jenna doesn’t care. Your cum is her reward for services well-rendered, and apparently she thinks she deserves a sizable bonus. They. Who is they?

“Mr. Saxon, I’m talking to you. You were to report to 7. Yet here you still are. It’s been over an hour.”

You now recognize Aubrey Merriman’s voice. Testy, commanding, more so than usual. “Over an hour? It’s been no such thing. And don’t you knock?” you snap. Sure, there’s part of you mortified at having been caught in such an act in front of the CEO’s secretary. Another part, though, is beyond being bashful, and swells with pride at having an audience to see Jenna still doggedly pumping your jizz out onto her tits. There’s something insanely hot about using this bitch If she’s seeming to supply a steady stream of slutty secretaries, you’re not… Um. You’re not…

“Sorry, I was… I keep… never mind.” You bump your temple with a palm, turning at last to face Aubrey. Jenna makes a last, lusty lunge at your loins – what…? – and lands one last lick – OK, that’s enough – before you see not only is Aubrey watching, her tablet held casually in front of her as if its contents are at least as interesting as the porno playing out before her, but at least a couple members of your staff peering out of their offices down the hall. Well, nothing for it now. You calmly retreat across the room and retrieve your clothes.

“You were saying? You keep…?” Aubrey asks, still looming in the doorway as if she has a perfect right to witness all this.

“What is it when you keep using the same letter?”

She seems oblivious of Jenna licking your cum off her lips, but at your question, she cocks her head to the side curiously. “Alliteration? Unless it’s vowel sounds; then it’s assonance.”

You snap your fingers, then go back to pulling your pants on. If the old bitch wants to watch, you can’t stop her. Not like you can accuse her of being inappropriate when you’re the one face-fucking your naked assistant in your office. “Alliteration, yes. Sorry. I keep thinking in alliteration. Weird.”

“Hmm. That’s a new one. Are you feeling all right?”

Your eyes flicker inadvertently to your still-naked secretary. Naked, that is, save for the gleaming white panties. Gleaming white, that is, save for where the crotch is stained with her own cum. “Feeling pretty OK, I think.” You suppose on second thought there’s everything else going on around you, but props to Jenna for making that all fade into the woodwork. The woman deserves a raise. Or at least to be fucked on the regular.

“That’s a relief,” she says, her voice devoid of any sense of having been relieved. “We can check that out for you. For now, however, you’re needed on 7. Past due, in fact.”

Jenna leans back in her chair, gazing up at the ceiling as if thanking her gods for this providence. She must assume she’s about to be fired – or released with an ample severance, beyond worrying about dignity and simply enjoying the experience before reality steps in to take her back.

Meanwhile, it’s plain that corporate doesn’t give two figs about you nailing your secretary, so you continue buttoning your shirt. “Can I ask what this is all about, at least?”

“They’ll explain it to you once you get there. Standard stuff, I assure you.”

“Fair enough. Do I get a code? I thought you needed a code.”

“Do you?” She asks, a touch of amusement in her voice.

“I mean, it’s secure, right?”

“Of course. I’ll transmit you a temporary one for this visit.” She taps at her tablet, and a moment later your phone buzzes in your pocket.

“So where do I go? Just walk around introducing myself until I find somebody who wants to meet with me?”

Aubrey’s eyes narrow, but barely. Whatever. You’re still drunk with power from Jenna’s blowjob, and quite nearly out of fucks to give with whatever’s going on with Amy, or “Amy.” Glare all you like, Aubrey. “Have a care that you don’t become too comfortable with that attitude, Mr. Saxon. Mr. King finds you interesting, but interest is not the only currency Monarch values.”

“Sure. My apologies.” You aim to avoid sounding insincere, but miss it only narrowly. “Anyway, once I’m up there…?”

“Report to 711. They know what you need.”

What, a Slurpee?” you ask, chuckling. No one else does, though Jenna’s head rolls to look at you, and it’s clear that slurping is on her mind still.

“Just don’t tarry, Mr. Saxon. I expect you in room 711” (this time she pronounces the numbers individually) “presently. Understood?” Her eyes fix on yours penetratingly.

“Understood.”

“Excellent.” With a pivot on her heel, she departs, already tapping away at her tablet. The woman could stand to loosen up, that’s for sure.

“Sorry about that,” you apologize to Jenna.

She shakes her head. It’s enough to a dribble of your cum to break free and splatter on her desk. “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”

“I hope not. Whatever happens, I’ll make sure nobody, you know, gives you any grief.”

“OK.” She pats your leg. “Good luck on 7. Hopefully I’ll see you again soon, sir.”

“Yeah.” You give her hair an affectionate stroke. “I like that little shaved thing, by the way. Never noticed before.”

“No, you didn’t,” she says softly.

You’re not sure how to reply, so you simply turn and go, careful to open and close the door as quickly as possible to preserve what’s left of her modesty. She watches you go, a distant look in her bright eyes.

Your staff is busy pretending to work as you exit the office, except for Giada, who’s watching you with flushed cheeks and an openly lustful expression. No time for that, now. Something fucking crazy is going on around Monarch, and you’re not about to take it lying down.

You check the message from Aubrey, only a few words and a number that’s clearly your pass code for 7. Like you’re stupid enough to head there, with fake Amy’s and jizz-drunk secretaries wishing you “good luck” and worrying about what “they” might do if she doesn’t blow you, with commodities and commodity groupies and the disappointingly commodity-defiant, secret floors and himbo CEO’s and their domineering assistants. No fucking way. You’re not sure where you’re headed, but it sure as shit isn’t going to be where that bitch wants you.

---

Decision time. Voting is open to the public at my patreon, but no subscription required for this one! Any and all are welcome to participate in the democratic process.

“Jenna” modeled by Nata Lee. <https://www.instagram.com/natalee.007/>

• Report to 7.
• Report to 7.
• Report to 7.
• Report to 7.