Sinful Obsession

You Can Take Whatever I Give You

I placed my palms flat on the walnut surface. The wood was cool and smooth beneath my hands, a stark contrast to the heat building in my body. I could see his reflection in the glass, standing behind me, his expression unreadable.

He was quiet for a long time. I could hear him breathing, feel the displacement of air as he moved closer. Then his hand was on the back of my neck, pressing down, forcing my upper body toward the desk until my cheek was flat against the polished surface.

"Spread your legs," he ordered.

I widened my stance, my heels scraping against the hardwood floor. The position was uncomfortable, degrading, my ass pushed out, my chest pressed against the desk. I felt exposed, vulnerable, a offering on an altar of dark walnut and city views.

He lifted the hem of my pencil skirt, the fabric whispering against my thighs as it rose. Cool air touched my bare skin—no, not bare. I was wearing underwear. A thin, lace thong, black, chosen deliberately that morning.

He paused. I felt his fingers trace the waistband, the delicate lace, the curve of my ass.

"Did you wear these for me?" he asked, his voice a low rumble behind me.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Good." His fingers hooked into the waistband and pulled, the lace sliding down my hips, over my thighs, pooling around my ankles. I stepped out of them as they fell, the movement automatic, practiced, as if I had been doing this my entire life.

He tossed the thong onto the desk beside my head. The delicate fabric lay there, a stark contrast to the leather-bound books and crystal paperweight. Evidence. A trophy.

His hand returned to my lower back, pressing me more firmly against the desk. I felt him move behind me, heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of his zipper. Then the blunt head of his c**k was pressing against my entrance, hot and insistent.

"Are you wet for me, Sophie?" he asked, his lips close to my ear.

"Yes," I breathed.

"Liar," he said again, but this time there was amusement in his voice. He slid a hand between my body and the desk, his fingers finding my c**t, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. I was already slick, my body betraying my mind as it always did, and his fingers slid easily through my folds.

"f**k," he hissed, his fingers working faster. "You're soaked. You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you?"

"Yes," I gasped, my hips rocking against his hand.

"Thinking about my c**k inside you. Thinking about me bending you over this desk and f*****g you until you can't walk."

"Yes. God, yes."

He withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his c**k, thrusting into me in one smooth, brutal motion. The air left my lungs in a rush, my body arching against the desk, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth walnut surface. The position was deep, impossibly deep, his c**k hitting the end of me with a sharp, electric pleasure that made my vision blur.

He didn't wait for me to adjust. He gripped my hips and began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one pushing deeper, testing my limits. The desk groaned beneath us, the legs scraping against the floor with each powerful stroke.

"You're going to learn," he said, his voice strained, "that disobedience has consequences."

He pulled out and slapped my ass, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet office. I cried out, the sting blooming across my skin like fire. Before the pain could fully register, he was inside me again, his c**k filling me to the brim.

"Count," he commanded.

"One," I gasped.

He pulled out again, his hand connecting with my other cheek. The impact was harder this time, the pain more acute, sending a bolt of electricity straight to my core.

"Two!" I shouted, my fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

"Good girl." He thrust back inside me, his pace increasing, his hips snapping forward with a force that made the desk slide an inch across the floor. The windows rattled in their frames, the city skyline shimmering with each impact.

The pleasure built rapidly, a coiling tension in my belly that threatened to snap. His c**k hit that deep, secret spot inside me with each thrust, sending waves of electricity through my nervous system. The pain from the spanking had morphed into something else, something hot and heavy and pulsing between my legs.

"Please," I begged, not sure what I was asking for. "Please, sir."

"Please what?" he growled, his pace becoming frantic.

"Please let me cum."

"Not yet." He reached around and pressed two fingers against my c**t, holding them still, denying me the friction I desperately needed. "You don't get to c*m until I say so."

The denial was exquisite torture. I writhed against the desk, my body seeking the release that hovered just out of reach. The pleasure coiled tighter, tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point.

"Please," I sobbed, tears of frustration streaming down my cheeks. "Please, sir. I can't take it anymore."

"You can take whatever I give you," he said, his voice a dark, hypnotic command. "And you will thank me for it."

He resumed his thrusts, his fingers finally moving against my c**t, rubbing in tight, frantic circles. The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, my entire body convulsing, my walls clenching around his c**k in rhythmic, pulsing waves. I screamed, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty office, my hands flat against the desk, my legs trembling so violently I thought they would give out.

He followed moments later, his c**k pulsing inside me, his release flooding my insides with warmth. He collapsed against my back, his chest heaving, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. His breath was hot and ragged against my skin, his heartbeat pounding against my spine.

For a long moment, we stayed like that, tangled together on the desk, the city skyline witness to our transgression. Then, slowly, he withdrew, and I felt the familiar, hollow emptiness.

He straightened, tucking himself back into his trousers. I heard him zip up, heard the rustle of his shirt as he smoothed it down. When I turned to look at him, he was adjusting his tie, his expression composed, as if we had just concluded a business meeting rather than a s****l encounter.

He picked up the lace thong from the desk, folded it neatly, and slipped it into his breast pocket. The gesture was so possessive, so deliberate, that my breath caught.

"Those are mine now," he said, his voice cool, professional. "You don't wear underwear in this house unless I give you permission."

I straightened, pulling my skirt down, smoothing my blouse. My legs were still trembling, my body still humming with the aftershocks of the orgasm. "Yes, sir."

He walked to the door and opened it, holding it for me. The professional mask was firmly in place, his expression neutral, his posture impeccable. I walked past him, into the hallway, acutely aware of the wetness between my thighs, the absence of my underwear, the collar at my throat.

He walked me to the elevator, his hand on the small of my back, a gesture that could have been interpreted as paternal by anyone watching. The receptionist glanced up as we passed, her sharp eyes taking in my flushed face, my slightly disheveled hair, the barely perceptible tremor in my hands.

"Have a good afternoon, Sophie," Marcus said, his voice warm, appropriate. "Drive safe."

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside. I turned to face him, our eyes meeting one last time before the doors slid shut between us. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with a dark, possessive fire that I felt all the way down to my bones.

The elevator descended, carrying me away from him, and I leaned against the wall, my knees weak, my heart hammering. I reached up and touched the collar at my throat, feeling the smooth leather, the cool metal of the D-ring.

My phone buzzed in my purse.

Next time you disobey me, it won't be my hand. It will be my belt. And I won't stop at five. — M

I stared at the message, my stomach flipping. The elevator reached the ground floor, the doors opening onto the lobby. I stepped out, my legs unsteady, and walked to my car on trembling legs.

I sat in the driver's seat for a long time, staring at the steering wheel, my phone clutched in my hand. The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of fire and gold. The city hummed around me, oblivious to what had just happened on the twenty-fifth floor.

I typed a response, my fingers shaking.

Yes, sir. — S

I started the car and drove home, the collar at my throat a warm, constant reminder that I belonged to someone. And for the first time in my life, the thought didn't terrify me.