Under his desk

He hired me three weeks ago. A job for which I am grateful but completely unqualified. But then I am young and asian, and he is older and white, and in the course of my duties (and yeah, also in the course of my snooping) I’ve discovered the metric-fuck-ton of porn on his hard-drive featuring young asian women.

I’m far from put off by this. I mean don’t get me wrong, I have no desire to fuck my way to the top, and also I’m painfully aware of the whole white-man asian-girl power-dynamic cliche. But taking all that out of the equation, at the end of the day, would I fuck him? Not just yeah but hell yeah.

If he’d actually just come right out and said “Listen Rachel, sex is a going to be part of this job description” I would have been like “Matt do you promise?”

But he hasn’t asked. I get looks, and awkward pauses, but no invitations. No “do you wanna get a beer later”. I’ve seen him with women and he’s not timid. He knows what he’s doing. He knows what he looks like — how cool he is. He’s not seeing anybody seriously. He wants me. Here I am. So What gives?

I’m tired of waiting.

So I’m sitting under his desk. Heh. I know. Completely unlike me, but fuck it. I want to suck him off. He wants me to suck him off. Let’s get this show on the road amIrite?

The anticipation is already excruciating. He’ll be here in 30 seconds like the machine he is. And there they are, the sound of keys in the outer door. My heart pounds in my temples as the heels of his expensive shoes echo across the empty cavernous studio floor. I start to shiver as the office door opens, his laptop plonks on the table-top above me. His hip-hop pandora playlist streaming to the speakers. No turning back now. He fills his kettle, turns on the coffee grinder. The squeak of his ridiculously nostalgic old leather chair OMFG I’m going to faint.

The sight of his blue-jeans as he sits down. My hand scrapes his instep as he scoots forward. He pauses, tilting his head down, eyebrow raised. I look up at him, my lips part but no words come out. He smiles bemused, scooting back in nonchalantly .

Ok. We’re on.

The Beastie boys shout as I slide my hands up to his belt. Pulling the leather free from the prong, the button from the hole, the zipper from the top. I fish out what I’m after, giving him a stroke. His laptop opens on his desk, he’s SO cool.

I posture up, my breasts on his knees, my hair falling into his lap as I tilt my head to swallow him. His hand comes down, casually pushing me back. I pause, confused, and posture up again, this time getting so far as to kiss the bottom of his lovely hard-on.

He flicks my nose. Ow! His finger moving to the collar of my blouse. He taps it lightly. I smile, pushing my chest against his knee as I unbutton my silk blouse for him. My bra against his shin. He motions me forward, another kiss to his cock, and he stops me again. Tapping my bra. I open it for him, kissing his finger as well and move back to what I’m after.

Another flick on the nose! Ow. I pause. His hand out. Palm up expectantly. I pause for a moment, and then, understanding, shrug out of my blouse, handing it to him. A drawer opens, and it disappears. I kiss him again, his palm again. My bra follows my blouse into his desk drawer, lust wells up in my belly as he takes it. I’m stuck here until he returns my clothes. So fucking hot.

I posture up yet again, my naked breasts slide against his rough denim, and encounter his finger on my lips. I kiss it. It turns over and unfolds, that demanding palm again. I remain there, my lips at his hand, unzipping my skirt and sliding out of my undies. I hand them over, one by one. Naked under his desk. His plaything. The drawer closes, the tiny click sound it makes as he eases it shut feels dangerous. The finality of my surrender in that click.

I stay there, my cunt growing moist as I gaze at his hard-on. I’m here because I was tired of waiting, but now I wait. Things have changed. I’m his now. I’ll wait for his invitation.

His thumb moves thoughtfully across my lips, and then he makes a whirling motion with his index finger. He wants me to turn around. I obey, slowly rotating, naked in the confined space, I sit on my heels facing away from him, unable to imagine where this is going.

Momentarily, I feel the toe of his Salvatore Farragamo against the back of my head, pushing my cheek to the ground. The shin of his other leg rubbing between my butt cheeks as I raise my hips for him. My soggy cunt at his knee now, and my surprised, lusty face between the sole of his shoe and the carpet. Jesus. I don’t care how cliche this is. Fuck me Matt. Take what you want.

He guides me between his legs and I feel his weighty dick rest against my asshole as his fingers go to work on me. One hand from above, and the other, wrapped around my leg from below. He expertly attacks my labia and clitoris and I cum like a schoolgirl immediately, grunting heavily into the carpet. Gasping in the leather smell of his shoe and some errant dirt that managed to escape the clean-up crew’s vacuum. I don’t give even a teensy little fuck.

His shoe under my chin as he lifts me back up. I turn to face him and his fingers find my lips. I taste myself on him as I greedily suck, and he finally invites me to take what I wanted in the first place. I do, swallowing him hungrily all the way to the hilt. He’s not the only one who knows what he’s doing. He pats me on the chin, and I go to work running my lips up and down, pausing now and then to give the head of his cock the attention it deserves.

And then I hear it, unmistakable moaning sounds from his laptop. He’s watching porn as I kneel naked under his desk, sucking his cock. I internally have every reaction that you would expect me to have, from outrage (how fucking DARE you take your attention off me) to jealousy (is the Asian slut he’s watching getting fucked on his laptop prettier than ME?!) and I realize — his dick still lodged in my cheek — that if I push back and stand up outraged, I’ll have to ask him for my clothes back. He knows this. He’s planned it! He wants me to stand up naked and powerless in his office and beg for my clothes.

If I do, and he refuses, what then? Do I quit my awesome new job and sprint to my car naked, hoping the grip-crew hasn’t shown up yet? If I stand and he gives my clothes back, what then? Do I make coffee and go over todays schedule with him as if nothing happened? If I stay here, naked under his desk, and swallow his load like a good little bitch, does he let me up then? or does he keep me kneeling here all day, making himself hard on porn and then using my mouth like a fucktoy whenever he wants?

Before I make my choice, he starts cumming in my mouth. I try to pull away but his grip on my hair is merciless and he viciously deep-throats me instead. This is actually just exactly what I imagined when I masturbated last night thinking about this moment. How he would hold me firmly in place, his cock lodged deep in my throat as he piston-pumped his load into my stomach. In my imagination I swallowed eagerly to keep up, but right now, in real life, I don’t even need to swallow. He’s so deep in my esophagus that there’s nothing to do but kneel here helpless, my eyes tearing in his stinging, hair-pulling grip as his white-hot sperm seeps warmly down in to me. I am his cocksleeve. What I am right now, a naked, kneeling, passive, sack of meat for him to cum in.. this is what the word cocksleeve was invented to convey.

I gasp audibly as he pulls me off of him, and pause, wiping a tear from my cheek, feeling stupid, timid and small, unsure what to do next. I recoil as he scoots in, giving me barely any room to kneel, and I reflexively put a hand on his knee, as if to remind him I’m here.

A flick on my nose. Ow. The lewd, scandalous moaning of asian sluts continues above me unabated. I guess I’m staying here for a while.

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