The secretary's secret

chapter 8( unknown gir pov continuing)

I watch as he turns and pushed the blanket to the floor, taking advantage of the brief seconds he’s facing away to admire his back, muscles and sinew flexing with each tiny movement. Turning back to me, he gently clasps one of my ankles in each large hand, and begins to massage my calves, pressing into the muscle. Leisurely he keeps on working, his palms rubbing up and down the outside of my thighs, heating my skin until his hands fist in the delicate lace of my panties. I feel his muscles contract a moment before the sound of ripping fabric fills the otherwise quiet room. The noise makes my c**t throb, and I try to lift my hips, a silent plea for him to relieve the ache that has taken up residence there.

Kneeling between my thighs, he leans forward and presses his calloused palms into my breasts, scraping, pinching my n*****s between his fingertips and causing them to harden. I mewl, arching my back, begging for more contact, craving a firmer touch.

“I won’t be easy, darling,” he says.

Words are so far beyond me, all I can do is nod at him, mouth open, breath already bursting past my parted lips too fast.

“Now,” he murmurs, “hands on the posts behind you. Keep them there unless I instruct you otherwise, do you understand?”

“Y-Yes. —Sir.” I add hastily, moving my arms and positioning my hands as instructed. The corner of his mouth lifts in a slight smile. “Good girl.” he praises, and I feel the effects of his words where his erection teases the lips of my increasingly wet s*x. Taking himself in hand, he begins to trace the seam of my p***y with the tip of his c**k, spreading my moisture.

With no warning at all, he thrusts forward, seating himself fully inside me, and I can’t stop myself from crying out in shock. He is too big. Too thick. Jesus, it hurts. I begin to thrash unintentionally, and my hands fly to his hard chest in an effort to stay his movements.

“Shhh…” he soothes, brushing the hair from my sweat-damp forehead. “Breathe for me.”

I groan, hardly hearing his words over the roar of blood rushing in my ears, but my body begins to obey without my conscious permission. My breathing slowly evens out, and my muscles start to uncoil. It’s only when I begin to pull my hands away from where they’d been pressed against his skin that I realize what I’ve done. Slowly opening my eyes, I find him staring at my hands, now awkwardly fisted and pressed close to my own body like a shield.

“Hands. On. The. Posts,” he re-instructs. “Now.”

I feel as though I’ve been dropped in a pool of ice water. His tone is frigid, and his eyes are just as hard. Quickly and with no hesitation, I place my hands back on the posts, wrapping my fingers tightly around them and he nods once with approval.

“You’ll pay for that later, but for now, I plan to enjoy you,” he says, sharply flexing his hips once for emphasis, and a ragged moan escapes my lips. I can already feel the soreness this will leave behind, but I crave it; enjoy it. He begins to withdraw, and I immediately miss the too-full sensation, but he’s back before I can form a protest. He sets a rhythm, fast, forceful, jarring my body with each of his thrusts, filling me to capacity, and withdrawing again. My mouth opens on a silent scream. I try to speak, but his mouth devours mine, swallowing my incoherent pleas for more, and faster. His lips glance off the side of my mouth, beard stubble scraping my jaw, and finally, finally, his teeth are nipping sharply at my neck. I hear myself gasping and crying out, but I’m not forming words.

Much too soon, a familiar pressure begins to build low in my belly. White hot sensation spreads, radiating from the place where he hits the end of me on each inward stroke, and I know I have to get myself together enough to speak. I try to even out my breathing, force my brain to cooperate with my mouth.

“Pl-ease…” I stutter.

“Please, who?”

“Pl-ease, Sir,” I beg, my words breathy and strained as I continue to absorb the force of his body thrusting into mine. “I’m so close.”

“You need it, don’t you?” He taunts harshly.

“Yesss” I hiss. I’m so afraid I won’t be able to stop myself, and I tighten my hands on the posts behind my head, fingers going numb in my effort to maintain a modicum of control.

“You want to c*m, darling?” he asks casually.

“Yes, Sir, please.”

“You disobeyed me,” he says, slowing slightly and lessening the force of his movements. “Young ladies who don’t follow orders don’t get to cum.”

Nooo!

Suddenly he pulls out completely, and I’m left gasping, teetering on the edge of oblivion. I try to pull my legs together to hold in the sensation, alleviate the hollowness of his absence, but he braces my thighs apart with his hands on my knees.

“Turn over, ass in the air, resting on your elbows. Do not c*m, darling, or you’ll regret it.”

Turn over. Turn over. Turn over. I’m chanting in my mind, trying to remember what the words mean. My brain is jumbled and refusing to cooperate with my limbs.

WHACK! A hard slap lands high on my thigh, and finally everything clicks. My body begins to respond to his dictate, and before I know it, I find myself positioned exactly how he wants me, ass in the air, knees spread, face turned into the mattress in the direction of the headboard with my forearms supporting most of my weight. I feel him move off the bed, my hearing acute now that he’s out of my sight. A drawer opens and shuts, and I hear something tear. Velcro?

“Girls who can’t keep their hands to themselves must be restrained,” he says as he kneels next to me on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and I feel my heart thunder with the anxiety of not knowing what he’ll do next. He fastens a black cuff around each of my wrists, and hastily clips my now bound hands to a link attached to the bed. Oh god. I’m trapped. The realization dawns on me, and instinctively, I check the security of my bonds. I hear a low chuckle as He rises from the bed and moves behind me.