The Position Pt. 04

The promise of finally getting fucked by my boss was... distracting. For the rest of the day felt like I was wading through honey. My thoughts were slow, sticky, impossible to get through without wanting to sit and taste.

I tried to work. I did. Typed emails, scheduled meetings, barked orders in his name that people jumped to obey. I smiled at clients, jotted notes, handed him reports I barely understood.

But every ten minutes I'd drift off. Back to his voice. Back to the weight of his hand on my shoulder. Back to the way he'd said we'd address my needs "after hours."

It echoed. It haunted. By noon, I was clenching so hard around nothing that my legs ached. By two, I'd gone to the bathroom just to slide two fingers into my underwear and press against the slick heat of my own frustration. Not to cum. Just to feel how wet I still was. By four, I couldn't stop picturing it: Him dragging me over his desk. Face down. Panties ripped. That cock - real, not rubber - finally shoved inside me like a punishment. Like a reward. Like I'd earned it.

I imagined him not even unbuckling fully. Just enough to use me. I imagined my moans against the desk blotter, muffled by my own underwear. I imagined his voice in my ear, reminding me I'd waited long enough. That I belonged to him now.

And still, through all that, I worked.

He said nothing. Gave no indication. Didn't even glance at me differently. Like the conversation that morning hadn't happened. Like he hadn't watched me admit what I needed with my lip trembling and my cunt aching.

But I knew he was waiting.

And so was I.

At six o'clock, the office personell began to thin. The building became quieter. He didn't call for me, I was already at my desk, in his office, waiting for the moment. I was bursting inside. After two agonising minutes, he looked up from his desk and said, "Lock the door behind you." Most days, that meant I should kneel. Of course, today of all days, I obeyed.

I didn't speak. I didn't even breathe too loudly. My thighs were already bare. I'd taken to wearing only stockings under my skirts, so I could touch myself without peeling anything down. He liked that. I was wet. Ready for him.

I looked up. Eyes pleading. He stared across at me from his desk.

But tonight... he didn't move.

And then he said:

"Stand up, Ruby. We're going out."

I blinked. "Sorry, Mr Duncan?"

He closed his laptop, slid his chair back, and stood with that slow, easy grace that still made my cunt flutter. "You're coming for dinner. With me. Proper food, not those cute little meal deals you eat over your laptop."

I hesitated. Part of me still wanted to be used, degraded, praised with a grunt in his throat and his hand in my hair. But another part - maybe the smarter part - stood.

"Yes, Mr Duncan."

"Put your outdoor shoes on, Ruby, we're not taking the car."

He was already at the door.

We walked. He didn't offer his arm. Didn't walk behind or ahead. Just next to me, tall and composed, hands in his coat pockets like we were discussing quarterly projections instead of the fact I'd been caught trying to fuck myself on a replica of his cock less than 24 hours earlier.

I didn't know what to say, so I said almost nothing until we were seated. A corner table, beside one another looking out over the room, legs angled towards one another. Low lights. Tablecloths. Not flashy, but quietly expensive. Somewhere people in this city knew to treat each other gently. They greeted him familiarly on the way in and I wondered how often he'd been here, and how often he'd brought someone like me.

He ordered wine. I declined. He didn't comment.

The silence wasn't tense. Just unfamiliar. Like he was waiting to see what kind of creature he'd made. Finally, he spoke:

"You're not the first assistant I've had, Ruby."

I paused. "No, Mr Duncan."

"There were others. Before you. One for nearly three years. She asked for a promotion, I gave it to her. She runs a tech company of her own now. The next didn't enjoy the pace of the job. Was too distracted by the sex. I had to let her go, generously of course. She became an artist using the redundancy money I provided. That piece in the lobby is hers, in fact. Buying art is an effective was to spend money on something that isn't tax."

My heart skipped. "So it isn't just about me?" He smiled. Not coldly. Not cruelly. Just enough to make me blush. "If it was just about sex with you, Ruby, I'd have bent you over that desk on the first day."

I looked down. Flushed. "Why didn't you?"

His answer was immediate. "Because I don't want to break toys. I want to build a legacy."

He let it sit. Then, as the wine arrived, he asked something I wasn't ready for.

"Tell me about your life."

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"Your life. Before this. Before me. Tell me something real."

I hesitated. But something about the calm in his voice invited honesty.

"I guess... I went to a good school. Good university. I got decent grades, didn't cause trouble. Parents divorced but they were civil about it. I never had to work retail or wait tables. I had jobs, but nothing that really made me sweat. No boyfriends that stuck. There were men, but..." I trailed off. He watched me. Not judging. Just listening. It was unnerving. "No real hardship," I admitted. "No tragedy. Just potential. I've always had potential."

"And now?" His questions were simple, direct, and that invited honesty. I wanted to be honest.

"Honestly? This job is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me. I'm being..." I paused. "I feel useful. I love it." I didn't mean to say it like that. But it was true. I looked up at him, cheeks warm. "Honestly you scare me a little, Mr Duncan. But you also make me feel excited. Alive. Like this is something I'm good at."

He nodded slowly. Not pleased. Not smug. Just absorbing.

"I have needs, Ruby," he said, his voice low. "Needs I can't ignore. You already understand that's why you're here, but maybe you don't understand the full extent of it."

I swallowed. "And when you say needs...?"

He didn't answer right away. Just swirled the wine in his glass. "I've worked with a lot of people who were talented, Ruby, but so few of them were hungry. You're hungry, Ruby. Even if you don't know what for yet."

I flushed. "Is that what this is? A test?"

He tilted his head. "It's an opportunity."

"For what?" Now he smiled, slow and unreadable.

"For power. For beauty. For truth. Whatever you're brave enough to take." He paused, then leaned forward slightly. "My mother cleaned offices like the one I sit in now. My father came here from Jamaica and did construction work, painting, gardening - menial work, until the day he dropped. They had no wealth, Ruby. They felt rich because they had each other. I have money they never dreamed of. " He leaned back to taste his wine, then continued. "But every single person who ever looked at me saw my skin first. They didn't expect me to succeed, Ruby. They expected me to serve."

I blinked. "I didn't know that."

"You wouldn't." He emptied his glass. "You're everything that I'm not supposed to have, Ruby. A middle class white girl who had everything handed to her. For me to have you, it's not something money can buy. It's..." For the first time ever, he wasn't sure where to finish a sentence. But I was. I put my hand on his thigh.

"... Transgressive."

He smiled and nodded. "I own companies that once rejected me for junior roles. I sit on boards that never had a Black man in the room before me. And every day, I still have to prove I belong. I have to be sharper, faster, more ruthless."

He looked at me with something deeper now. Something that felt like warning. Or promise.

"There are parts of me that need to be... addressed. I don't have time for therapy, and I don't have any interest in conventional relationships. It's a form of control, Ruby. Ever since you talked into that foyer and addressed me like I was 'the help'. Part of you sees me as black first and a man second."

I blushed.

"I know you're not racist, Ruby, but it IS in you, because it's in society. If you're going to be mine - properly mine - you don't just need to understand that. You need to enjoy it." He refilled his glass. "It does seem like you've been enjoying it."

"I have." I admitted. Seeing him like this - open, vulnerable, even chatty by his standards - it made me wet. I wanted to get on my knees right there.

He looked at me. "You know you're not my first assistant. But if you keep this enthusiasm up, you might be my last."

My fingers brushed across the tablecloth, found his hand where it rested by his wine glass, and closed around it--deliberate. Confident. I felt his pulse beneath his skin, steady and strong. And I looked right into his eyes.

"I don't want to be another assistant, Mr Duncan," I said, softly. "I want to be the one you remember. The one you keep." My thumb stroked across his knuckles - barely. The pitch wasn't just in my words, it was in the tone. The posture. The subtext. I knew how I looked under this light - lashes low, lips parted, cheeks flushed from wine and nerves and heat. I'd worn the lingerie he liked, of course, and I wanted him to see it. "I want to be the one who deserves to be broken."

His jaw tensed. Just slightly. Approval? A flicker of it. The ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth, and when he finally moved, it was only to turn his hand beneath mine--palm up. Accepting. Strong.

"You think you're ready?" he murmured. I was confident.

"I know I am."

We ate quickly and left without dessert.

Outside, the city glowed in soft golds and ambers, taxis hissing past on wet roads. He went to call a taxi, but some inspiration flashed in me. I pulled him back from the kerb.

"Wait. Before you call the taxi, I just wanted to say... let's not go back to yours," I said. He looked confused. "Let's go to mine." His eyebrow arched. I didn't flinch.

He let out a low, amused sound. "You want to take me home, Ruby?"

I nodded. "I want to show you where I keep all the pretty things you've bought for me. I want you to see the room I come in every night after you've dismissed me. I want to have what I was taught to fear: a big Black man in my home."

He laughed. "And what happens when I'm there?"

I licked my lips and smiled. "Something... transgressive"

He stared at me for one long, loaded beat. Then smiled. He called the car.

We fumbled the key quietly at the front door. No lights on. But laughter echoed faintly from the kitchen. Someone's TV buzzed through the wall. My heart was pounding. His hand was on my lower back, firm and unapologetic. Not possessive - protective. Like he was leading me through enemy territory.

"Straight upstairs," I whispered. We moved quickly, heels in hand, every floorboard a potential betrayal. I kept expecting one of my housemates to pop out and ask who I was sneaking in, but no one did. Second floor. End of the hall. My door.

I opened it and winced. It wasn't ready. I hadn't made the bed. There were tights hanging off the wardrobe handle, a bra tossed across the desk chair. Makeup clutter. A plate with crusted toast from this morning. Harrods bags stacked in one corner like evidence.

He stepped inside. Paused. Looked around. I waited for the disappointment. Some snark, some comment. Instead?

"You know, I lived in far worse, in my twenties," he said simply. And shut the door behind us.

His jacket was already off. Fingers working his cuffs. That slow unwrapping, like he wasn't undressing for me, but for the moment itself. I stood in the middle of the room, suddenly more exposed in my own space than I ever had been on his office carpet.

"You've been begging for this," he said, stepping close. I nodded. "So open your mouth and beg properly."

I did. Not for his cock - for his thumb. He pushed it between my lips, pressing it flat against my tongue, claiming me with a single digit like he was testing a prize beast.

"Do you think you're ready?" he asked. I sucked his thumb and moaned my assent around it. He pulled it free, wet and glistening. "Then take off your clothes."

My hands flew to my buttons. I peeled away my blouse, my skirt, bra, stockings. The lace panties I'd chosen with him in mind slid down my legs. And when I was naked, standing in my own messy room, heart racing, cunt dripping - he didn't just stare. He reached.

His big hands gripped my hips. Turned me around. Bent me over the foot of my own bed like I was his. My face in the rumpled sheets. My knees trembling. My ass round, back arched. I curved myself like a porn star, desperate to make him enjoy even looking at me.

"You've sucked my cock, Ruby. Swallowed my cum." His voice was steady. "But now..." I gasped as I felt it. The thick, hot weight of him pressed to my entrance. "... now I'm going to fuck you."

And then he pushed.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Unstoppable.

I moaned - no, cried out - as his cock slid into me, perfect, thick and unrelenting. His big black cock, stretching me in a way no toy ever could. The pressure was perfect. The new sensations as he touched parts of me no man had ever reached. My body split for him. Welcomed him.

"Yes," I whimpered. "Oh fuck yes, Mr Duncan, please."

He bottomed out. My ass flush against his pelvis. Hands digging into my hips. He held me there. Let me feel it. Let me understand it.

Then he started to fuck me.

Not rushed. Not frantic. But powerful. Measured. Every stroke like a correction, every thrust a lesson. My fingers clawed the sheets. My breath hitched on every downstroke.

"Is this what you needed, Ruby?" He growled.

"Yes!"

"Is this what your little white cunt has been aching for?"

"Yes - fuck, yes!" I was ecstatic, writhing on him, my cunt on fire. I'd never felt anything like it.

My orgasm started to build quickly. Every pump of his cock an instruction to come undone. I wanted to please him. I was going to please him. When I came I screamed into my sheets, legs shaking, cunt milking him like it was trying to keep him inside forever. He didn't stop.

"Again," he said. And I obeyed.

His rhythm didn't change. Not when I screamed. Not when I came. Not even when I collapsed forward into the sheets, my ass still high, his cock still pounding me to the hilt. He just gripped my hips tighter. Fucked deeper. He wanted more.

And I needed more.

My cunt was wrecked, soaked, stretched so wide around him I could barely feel where he ended and I began. Every thrust was a fresh violation. A deeper truth.

"You like this?" he asked, voice tight. Controlled.

"Yes, Mr Duncan," I gasped. "I love it. I need it!"

"You think this is what you were made for?"

I nodded into the pillow, moaning. "Yes, fuck, yes, I was made for this."

"Made for what?"

"For you."

He leaned over me then, his body a furnace at my back, his breath hot against my ear.

"I bet you've never taken Black cock before."

My whole body tensed. Not in fear. In recognition.

"No," I whispered. "Never."

"And now you're bent over, begging for it like a slut." I moaned.

"Say it."

"I'm begging for it."

"Begging for what?"

"Your Black cock."

"Whose cock?"

"Yours, Mr Duncan."

His hand wrapped in my hair, pulled me back so I arched like a bow. His cock buried to the base, stretching me, filling me, breaking me open.

"You needed this," he growled in my ear. "All that posh little white girl guilt... all that politeness... all that pretending."

He pulled out, slammed back in.

"You needed a Black man to ruin you."

"Yes, yes, please--"

"And you'd let me fill this pussy, wouldn't you?" I froze. My cunt clenched. My whole body locked down like it had heard the words it had been dreaming of in secret. "You'd let me breed you." A sound came out of me - animal. Feral. I didn't even recognise it.

"I'd beg you," I whispered. "Please, Mr Duncan. Please, I want it. I want you to breed me." He groaned low and dangerous, hips slamming forward, cock spearing into me so hard the bed thudded against the wall.

"You want me to knock you up like a good little office slut?" he growled.

"Yes--"

"You want to walk those halls with your stomach swelling with my child?"

"Fuck--yes--"

"You want to be my property, carrying my legacy?" I sobbed. I was gone. Body gone. Mind gone.

"Breed me, Mr Duncan. Please. I want your cum in me. I want to be full of it. Marked by it. Owned by it." I felt him throb. Hard. His breath hitched.

"You think you deserve it?"

"Yes--please--fuck me--fill me--make me yours--"

His hands locked down on my hips.

And then he snapped.

His rhythm turned brutal, relentless, cock hammering into me with pure purpose. There was no more teasing. No more control. Just intent. Just a man and the bitch who was going to take his cum. The bed screamed. The air thick with sweat, sex, his grunts, my cries. He buried himself. Balls deep. Still. His hands holding me like reins.

And I felt it. The first pulse. The second. The flood. Warm. Endless. Claiming. My mouth dropped open but no sound came out - just the shiver of an orgasm I couldn't even name. He was cumming. Inside me. Rope after rope of thick, potent cum filling my cunt. My womb. Using me for my fucking purpose. Claiming me.

When he pulled out, slow and heavy, I felt it spill down my thighs. I collapsed, trembling. Used. Wrung out. Owned. I rolled onto my back, tits heaving, eyes glazed.

He didn't say a word. He just reached for my sheets. Pulled them over me. Covered my ruined, filled, fluttering body like I was something precious. Then he lay beside me. Not touching. Not demanding. Just present.

We fell asleep like that, his body wrapped around mine. As I drifted off, I placed my hand on my belly and dreamed of what might be.