The Position Pt. 03

Two weeks. That's all it took. Fourteen days ago, I walked into this place in a £6 Primark blouse and called the CEO a security guard because I was a sheltered, awkward white girl who hadn't really been out in the world.

Now? Now I walk past reception and people stand. My wardrobe is a blur of soft leathers, structured silks, heels that say don't speak unless you're sure, and lingerie that costs more than my rent. I wear perfumes whose name I can't pronounce. A man's name on my lips opens doors faster than any keycard.

Mr Duncan would like that signed before lunch.

Mr Duncan said this doesn't leave the building.

Mr Duncan needs you to speak plainly or not at all.

This morning, I reach the office early. I do that now. At Uni I used to wake up at 8:30 and be on the tube by 8:45, out of breath, unwashed, messy ponytail and loungewear hiding my shame. Now my body wakes me at 6:30am so that I can prepare. Hair straightened and tied back into a perfect ponytail. Moisturised head to toe. Makeup perfect. My office shoes are polished until they shine. No scuffs. No wear. If I'm going to be his instrument, then I have to be like he is. Perfect. Precise.

My friends have noticed. They say, Ruby, you look so professional now, or Ruby, you've really turned your style around. They don't realise what I'm wearing costs more than they earn in a month. They don't see me throwing out another pair of silk stockings because I've ruined the knees from dropping onto the carpet too quickly, lips parted, cunt dripping.

I feel powerful. Out there, anyway. In his office... he reminds me that all of this can all be taken away.

The truth is, Mr Duncan barely speaks to me. He doesn't need to. He watches. He nods. Sometimes he smiles - just barely, like he doesn't want to spoil my appetite - And every time he does, I eat it up hungrily. I never know when he's watching, but when he sees me? God, I get so wet.

Sometimes he congratulates me in his way. A hand on my shoulder. A raised eyebrow when I shut someone down in a meeting. One time, he brushed a speck of lint off my sleeve and said, simply, "That was handled well." I came that night with three fingers in my cunt and my face pressed to the bedsheets like he'd ordered it.

But here's the thing...

He hasn't fucked me. Not once. Every evening, I return to his office. The routine is unspoken now. Doors locked. Dress peeled away. Heels stay on. I kneel, I serve, I swallow every drop. It's not just my duty, it's my pleasure. To relieve his stress. I imagine him shooting it down my throat like I'm his personal fleshlight. His cock is so big, so black, and I ache to feel it harden in my dumb little mouth.

But he only ever uses my mouth. He doesn't touch my pussy. Doesn't let me cum. Doesn't fuck me.

It is driving.

Me.

Insane.

I sit at my desk during the day, crossing and uncrossing my legs like a nurse with a vibrator under her uniform. I nod through calls and presentations while my cunt throbs like it's missing something. When I sit on a chair next to him in a meeting, I worry I'll leave a damp patch.

At home, I've started fantasising about his body. Not just his cock - his hands. Thick and veined and strong. Pressing into me. Stretching me. Filling me until I forget what words are. When I cum, I instinctively babble his name.

"Yes, Mr. Duncan!"

"Thank you, Mr Duncan!"

"Anything you want, Mr. Duncan!"

I wonder if this is the point. If he's training me without saying so. Keeping me hungry. Keeping me his. Because if he ever does fuck me - really fuck me, like I want - I don't know that I'd ever stop.

The day was interminable, as ever. I carried out his orders. I managed his calendar. I reminded everyone I spoke to that as far as they're concerned, my words are his words. My shoes made me taller than most of the men around here, and all of the women. Secretly, I think they love being bossed around by me. By a powerful bitch in designer wear. I bet they go home and touch themselves to the thought of my heels on their chest, hating themselves for being so turned on by this bitch who didn't even work here a month ago.

They don't know this is all an act that ends at 6pm every day, when I turn into that same desperate, panting girl whose confidence gets stripped away with the clothes.

He was already sitting when I stepped into the office. Jacket off. Tie loosened. Shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. The door clicked shut behind me. I didn't speak. He didn't ask. I just knelt.

As I said, it had become automatic. My knees hit the soft carpet, my shoulders pulled back, my back straight--not out of obedience anymore, but devotion. He looked at me like he always did. Calm. Silent. Like I was a perfect machine running exactly as programmed.

But I wasn't. I was begging. Not with words - with my eyes.

I undid his belt slowly, precisely, like I was unwrapping a fragile gift. His cock was already hard - thick, dark, beautiful - and my cunt clenched just from seeing it. From knowing what was coming. And what wasn't. Because despite everything - my good work, my perfect outfits, my expert mouth - he still, still, still hadn't fucked me.

This evening, as I took his beautiful black penis into my mouth, I promised myself one thing: today I'm going to make him want it as much as I do.

I wrapped my lips around his shaft with a moan, deep and needy, like I was trying to sing into his cock. Took him slow at first, eyes on his, then deeper. I gagged, letting it happen, so he could see that I wasn't holding back. Let my throat stretch, let the spit spill down my chin. I was drooling, moaning, swallowing him like it was the last thing I'd ever get to taste.

And then I went further.

I slipped my fingers between my thighs. Not to cum. Just to show him. Just to offer. I pushed the soaked lace aside, slid two fingers inside, shallow, slow, showing him how wet I was. How desperate. I wiped my juices on him, slick and hot, as I whimpered. He didn't say anything, just groaned appreciatively.

I kept sucking. Harder now. Throat aching. Eyes streaming. Fingers still inside me, not chasing anything - just begging. Inside my mind. Please. Please, Mr Duncan. Fuck me. Use me. Break me. My hands slick, my mouth full, my soul cracked wide open like a gift.

As he got closer, he grabbed my hair. Hard. Fisted it at the base of my skull and began to fuck my face. Slow. Controlled. Brutal. My nose pressed to his abdomen, my eyes rolled back, my makeup destroyed. Spit and juices snorted out of me as I let him take everything. My fingers rubbing my clit furiously, toes curling, eyes rolling back.

Come on, you bastard, I thought, you can have me. Why won't you have me?

I thought about him throwing me across his desk, pinning my neck against it, then forcing himself into me... into my cunt. Into my ass. And telling me what a dirty slut I was for wanting it like this. A stupid slut. A dumb little white girl desperate to get fucked by a big... black...

I came before I could finish the thought, my muffled screams straining against his cock. That did it for him. I'd swear he growled. Not a word - just a sound, animal and beautiful. He was cumming right down my throat -- thick, hot, endless - I swallowed like it was my purpose. Like it was proof. Proof that I'd done enough.

That he'd seen me. That I'd become what he wanted. His fuckdoll.

I sat back on my heels, chin slick, eyes glassy, body vibrating with want. I looked up at him - ruined, radiant - and prayed he'd finally take me. Like a girl waiting to be told she'd done a good job, I waited for the next step, the next command, the next step in my degradation.

Instead, he smoothed his shirt. Fastened his belt. Adjusted his cuffs with mechanical grace. Then, finally, he said it:

"Thank you, Ruby, that will be all."

Like I'd brought him coffee. Like I hadn't just throatfucked myself into a feral little mess for his pleasure.

"You can go home now."

I blinked. My cunt clenched. My heart dropped.

Another day where he hadn't fucked me.

Why hadn't he fucked me??

"I don't..."

He looked, pointedly.

"I mean... Yes, Mr. Duncan."

I stood up slowly, humiliated and dripping, every nerve under my skin begging for more. Wiped my face and tits clean. Redressed.

Picked up my bag. Walked to the door on trembling legs.

Behind me, his voice - perfectly even:

"If there's anything you ever need, Ruby, remember you only have to ask."

He knew.

He knew!

I didn't go straight home.

I walked to Soho, cunt wet with spit and frustration. I passed restaurants, bars, the shimmer of nightlife catching on every window. I turned into the first sex shop I found. Not a classy one. Not hidden. One with neon lighting on the exterior and racks of cocks and chains and leather around the walls.

I went straight to the dildos.

The big ones.

The big black ones.

I found the biggest, most obscene, most humiliatingly perfect one in the display. Nine and a half inches. Dark, veiny, shiny as sin. A suction base, no vibe, just weight. Sculpted realistically - as much like him as I could find. I took it to the counter. Pulled out the black card.

The woman at the till raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Just scanned it. Bagged it. Handed it over with a smirk like she knew exactly what kind of desperate little cow I was, coming straight here in my work outfit to buy one specific cock. To be fair, she was right.

I clutched the bag to my chest like it was contraband and walked the rest of the way back to Shoreditch with my cunt fluttering like it was anticipating him anyway.

But it wouldn't be him.

Not yet.

Not unless I made it him.

I slammed the front door behind me, kicked off my shoes in the hallway, didn't even greet my flatmates. I went straight to my room. The bags from the past two weeks - Harrods, Selfridges, Coco De Mer - were strewn around the floor like empty crisp packets. Clothes I'd never dreamed of. Lingerie that barely existed. Shoes worn by celebrities. But none of them was more important right now than this one: A single, unbranded black paper bag, sitting in the middle of my bed like it had something to prove.

I undressed without thinking. Bra, thong, everything stripped down and tossed into one corner. Suddenly I wasn't just naked - I FELT naked. Intimidated. Maybe this was a mistake, I wondered. And then I realised what was wrong. I pulled out my office shoes - shining black leather, still-perfect red soles that had only ever touched carpet - and I slipped them on. My posture changed. My ass rounded, my shoulders back made my tits curve invitingly. NOW I felt ready for it.

I pulled the dildo from its packaging. It looked even bigger now. Heavy in my hand. Shiny. Unforgiving. My cunt was slick - a mess before I even touched myself. I turned on the lamp. Sat on the edge of the bed. Spread my thighs. And I thought about him.

About the way he never rushed.

Never touched me where I needed.

The way he owned me without even using me properly.

I pressed the tip to my entrance. Big, brown, heavy - just like him. I shivered. Then pushed. It stretched me - deliciously at first, then with a beautiful ache. The slick slide of it made me groan. I held my breath. This is him, I told myself. He's finally fucking you.

I rocked forward. Closed my eyes. Imagined his hands on my hips, pulling me down onto him. His voice telling me to take it all. His cock buried in me, stretching me open until I begged. Take it, Ruby. Take your boss's cock.

My hand worked harder. My legs started to shake.

I whispered it out loud - "Yes, Mr Duncan, please," and tried to believe it.

But it wasn't him. It was silicone. It wasn't ever going to congratulate me no matter how deep I took it. No hand on my throat. No voice in my ear. No weight pinning me to the mattress like I belonged there.

Just me. Alone. Sweating. Fucking myself with something shaped like the man I wanted, but nothing close to his presence.

I moaned anyway. Lied to myself with every thrust. Tried to get there. Tried to come. But the edge never arrived.

Eventually I slowed. Stopped. Slid it out with a pathetic whimper and curled up on the bed, sticky thighs pressed together, cunt aching with unfinished heat. I wanted him. Not his shape. Not his echo. Him. He'd gotten so inside my head that the only orgasms I'd had in the last week were with his dick in my throat. I felt like the same stupid white ditz that had walked into that building two weeks ago with no idea of what was going to happen to me.

I fell asleep like that, naked in bed, a huge black dildo pressed against my face.

The next day was a blur. I dressed, washed, primped and manicured myself the same as ever. I entered the office early, took my assignments, got to work. My brain was foggy with lust and restless sleep. More than once I looked at the security guard - the ACTUAL security guard - and wondered if he might be enough.

But no. I wasn't going to risk my job by touching anyone else. He hadn't said I couldn't, obviously, but I was his. I knew what that meant.

The unexpected summons came just before midday. Just one line in the internal messenger. No subject. No fluff.

Mr Duncan: Bring your tablet. Come to my office.

I stared at it for a moment too long. My pulse kicked up. My cunt still hadn't forgiven me for last night's failure. My thighs clenched like they already knew. I excused myself from the finance meeting and stood. Straightened the hem of my skirt. Adjusted my blouse, made sure the lace beneath it was intentional. Hair tucked. Heels tight. The tablet in hand.

I didn't knock. I knew better now. The door shut behind me. He was seated, fingers steepled, watching me like I was data he was already halfway through analysing.

"Sit," he said. I sat. Silence. He turned the tablet toward me. It wasn't mine. It was his.

On the screen: a receipt. Time-stamped. Branded.

Soho Adult Trading. 8:12pm. £64.95.

Next to it, a photo of my, buying the dildo. Huge and black in its clear bubble packaging.

My heart stopped. He waited.

"I..." My voice failed. My mouth was dry.

"You used the company card," he said, voice smooth. "To buy a sex toy." He paused. "From a shop which uses our own security systems."

I swallowed. "Yes, Mr. Duncan."

"And did you think we wouldn't find out?"

"No, Mr. Duncan. It was... I wasn't thinking straight."

I blushed. Not just blushed - panicked. My face felt crimson. Oh god, I didn't realise... I was so used to spending on that card, I hadn't thought...

He raised an eyebrow. "That was a very specific kind of toy you bought, Ruby."

"It was, Mr. Duncan."

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked, not looking up.

"I tried, Mr. Duncan."

"That's not what I asked."

"No," I said softly. "It wasn't... it wasn't real enough." Now he looked directly at me. Eyes heavy. Calculating.

"And what were you thinking about while you fucked yourself with this?" I could barely breathe. My thighs rubbed together on the chair. My cunt on fire.

"You, Mr. Duncan" I whispered. He stood. Slowly. Walked around the desk. Stopped behind me and bent down.

"That's what I thought." His hand came down on my shoulder. Firm. Claiming. "We'll address this properly after hours," he said. I nodded. My heart was fluttering.

"Oh... Yes, yes please, Mr Duncan."

Then, he winked at me.

And for the first time, I wondered if buying that dildo hadn't been a mistake...