Addiction(10 Dark/Erotic Stories Part1)

~Claire~ I never intended to get addicted to my boss’s son's d**k. But I would be a damn liar if I said I never enjoyed each make-out session with him. I’m twenty-six with a marketing degree I paid for myself, three years bouncing between temporary contracts, a retail job that ate my nights. Two companies that ghosted me after final rounds and one that folded the week I was supposed to start. Before Whitefield Landing finally called me back for a real offer after eight months of applying. My mother has been sick for two years now, nothing that has a countdown on it, just something that needs watching, medication, and someone close by. I moved her into a real apartment the month I got hired, first time in years she wasn’t choosing between rent and prescriptions. Alex Whitfield, my boss’s son, technically the VP of operations. Three months into the job, he walked into my office without knocking and told me he wanted me. I laughed at him and said no because I thought it was a joke. He told me I would be updating my resume by Friday if I said no. I thought about my mother’s medication. The eight months of application, how long it had taken to get here. I said fine. That was the first time and it wasn’t the last. I hated him. I want that on record, because it’s true. I hated the way he looked at me across conference tables like he could see through my blouse. I hated that he never asked, only informed. I hated that after every single time, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until my throat hurt, mascara running down the drain with the water. What I hated most was what came after the crying. My body, betraying me in the dark, aching for the exact thing I’d just wept over. I didn’t understand it. Some nights I still don’t. It was like being addicted to something that was killing me slowly, and knowing it, and reaching for it anyway. I told myself it was just my body. Not me. Never me. He always shows up at my place most weekends when he can't wait till Monday at the office. And today is one of those weekends. “I’m not satisfied yet”, I said as I watched him tuck his pants in and was about to leave. He took a pause and looked at me. “You don’t get to say whether you are satisfied or not.” He gave me a dead gaze and walked out of my room. I lay back for a while, my fingers folding my p***y. The pleasure felt good. Most times I tend to help myself out anytime I don’t get satisfied from his d**k. I spread my legs wide open and imagined him inside me while I touched my c**t. I came in a few minutes and my moaning filled the room. I dipped my finger into my hole,”f**k that’s a river,” I muttered. I licked my fingers and stretched my hands to the bedside cabinet, grabbed my rose toy and second d**k. Yeah, I call it my second because it comes next after Alex. I kissed it and positioned each in its places—the rose on my c**t and the dildo inside my p***y. The feeling stimulated my whole body as I tossed it in and out of my p***y while the rose did its job on my c**t. I wished it was him going in and out of me this way. My sheets were getting soaked with my juices. The room was filled with the sound my p***y made. I was getting close to climax when I let it go, grabbing the sheets as it got showered with my squirts. I crashed right after. I stared at the wall clock. “Gosh, I have been sleeping for the past two hours.” I yanked the sheets off and headed to the bathroom. I turned the shower on and let the water pour on my body. Then the feeling of disgust came. It always did after a make-out session with him. I hate him but my body wants him. I hated how my body reacts when he is close. I was done in twenty minutes. I dried my body with the towel and turned toward the mirror. My curves stared back at me, unapologetic. I won’t lie, I would f**k me. I was that girl— full, heavy breasts, wide hips, a round, soft ass I never asked for. Five-nine height, and every inch of it the kind that turned heads I didn’t want turned. I hated the attention it brought. Always had. I got dressed quickly — jeans, an oversized hoodie, nothing that invited another set of eyes on me today. I twisted my hair up into a bun, grabbed my bag off the chair, and checked my phone. No missed calls. Good. The drive to my mom’s place always did something to my chest, tightened it a little more with every mile. I picked up her prescription on the way, the pharmacist already knew my order by heart, and grabbed a bag of the ginger biscuits she liked even though her appetite barely reached anything these days. I let myself in with my key. The living room smelled like her lavender oil, the TV murmuring low in the background, more company than entertainment. “Mom?” I called out, setting my bag down by the door. “In here, baby,” she answered from the couch, voice thinner than it used to be but still warm enough to loosen something in me. I found her tucked under the blanket I’d bought her last winter, a book open on her lap that she probably hadn’t read a page of in an hour. I dropped down beside her, resting my head on her shoulder the way I’d done since I was a kid, and for a few minutes, I let myself forget the office, forget him, forget everything except the sound of her breathing next to me. “You look tired,” she said, brushing a hand over my hair. “I’m fine, Mom.” The lie came easy. It always did with her.