The Position Pt. 05

When I woke, the room was still. No sunlight, just streetlamps washing faint amber through the curtain's edge. My thighs were sticky, my body sore, and the bedsheets beneath me damp and twisted with proof. Of what I'd done. Of what he'd given.

Mr Duncan was still there. On his back, one arm beneath his head, the other resting casually against my hip, like he was claiming it even in sleep. I stared at the ceiling. I didn't feel ruined. I felt alive. My cunt ached, my throat was raw, and yet all I wanted was to feel him again--inside, around, above. Not because I was addicted. Because I understood now.

It wasn't just about power. It was about truth. That deep, humiliating, ecstatic truth that only comes when you're seen as completely as he saw me.

He stirred beside me. Eyes opened slow, calm. "You're still here," he said.

I smiled faintly. "You're in my bed." He turned his head, regarded me. There was no softness, but no cruelty either. Just assessment. "And how do you feel?"

"Used." I meant it as a compliment.

His hand slid across my belly, warm and weighty. Rested there. Where he'd finished. "Good."

A long silence.

Then: "You'll be sore today."

"Yes, Mr Duncan."

"You'll report to the office anyway."

"Yes, Mr Duncan."

"And when I look at you across the conference table and ask for the quarterly earnings breakdown... you'll keep a straight face."

"I'll try." I smiled.

He leaned in and kissed me then. Not sweetly. Not romantically. But deeply. As if putting something back inside me he'd taken last night. A seal. A mark. When he pulled away, he murmured, "You're mine now. Properly."

I nodded. "Yes."

"And you'll remember that."

"Every time I walk."

He smirked. Got up. Dressed. Silent again. At the door, he paused, checked his watch. "I'll expect you at nine. You'll wear the blue blouse. No underwear. You'll know what that means."

I nodded.

"And Ruby?"

"Yes, Mr Duncan?"

He held my gaze. "Start thinking about what you want." Then he was gone.

And I lay there---still wet, still open---smiling into the pillow, aching in ways that meant something.

The rest of the day passed as normal. I did the work he needed, whatever I was told to do, and he treated me with professional distance. It wasn't until the end of the day when I entered his office that he gave any hint of what he'd been thinking.

"Ruby," he began. "I asked you this morning to think about what you want. Did you?"

I paused for a moment.

"I want everything. This, you, all of it." He smiled.

"Then this time, let's go to my place."

The elevator opened silently into the penthouse apartment -- glass walls, spotless carpet, the London skyline glittering like a circuit board beyond the pane. He didn't speak as we stepped in.

I was in the blouse. No underwear. He knew that without checking. When I faced him again, he was already walking toward me. Tie perfect. Shirt crisp. The man who built empires out of other people's fathers' money. The man who made me. He circled me once. Like an inspection.

Then he reached into his breast pocket and pulled something out.

A chain. Gold, thin, gleaming. At the end: a pendant. Black enamel. He stepped behind me and fastened it around my neck. It wasn't just a necklace. It was a badge. A tag. A collar you could wear to a board meeting.

"You'll wear this all the time," he said. "No one else will know what it means. But you will."

My breath hitched. "Yes, Mr Duncan."

"Come."

He walked to the window. Floor-to-ceiling glass. The city staring in. I followed.

"Hands on the glass. Legs apart."

I obeyed. The pane was cool beneath my palms. I could see myself faintly reflected--blouse open, nipples tight in the air, cunt already slick and hungry between parted thighs.

He stepped behind me. Pressed the head of his cock against my entrance. Already hard. Already thick.

I whimpered and moved back to take him, sliding onto that perfect black cock. But then he stopped me, his hand on my back, firm and possessive.

"Not yet," he murmured. "You need to understand what's happening."

I turned my head slightly.

"You think tonight is just about getting fucked?" he said, voice low and dangerous. "It's not. This is your promotion, Ruby." My breath caught. "You are no longer just my assistant. You are no longer being trained. You are being promoted." He grabbed my hair, wrapped it around his fist, pulled me back just enough to speak into my ear. "You're going to take this cock like a good little executive fuckdoll. And when I'm done, that's all you'll ever want to be."

Now, he shoved inside. No gentleness. No warning. Just the brutal, glorious force of inevitability. That thick black dick forcing itself into my tight pussy. I screamed, ecstatic, into the glass. My breath fogged on it instantly, smeared by my cheek. His hips slammed against my ass, his cock deeper than I remembered, like he was fucking me all the way into himself.

"You're going to remember this every time you sit in the boardroom," he growled. He fucked me hard. Each thrust shoving me against the glass, my nipples flattened, thighs shaking. Slap--his hand against my ass. Cock to the hilt. "Say it," he commanded, "say what you are," he growled, hand around my throat now, pulling me back and lifting my gaze to the reflection in the glass.

I saw her. Blouse open. Tits bouncing. Cunt dripping around a cock she was made for. Lips parted. Eyes glazed.

"I'm yours," I gasped.

He thrust harder.

"What are you, Ruby?"

"I'm your asset. Your property."

He grunted. "Wrong." A hard slap on my ass. I cried out. Cunt clenched around his dick.

"You're my fuckdoll," he hissed. "Say it."

"I'm your fuckdoll!"

"Louder."

"I'M YOUR FUCKDOLL!"

He growled like something primal had taken over. Fucked me harder. Faster. My breasts smacked the glass with every thrust. My cunt wrecked, desperate, overflowing. I was drooling, moaning, mewling like a thing, not a person. God, if anyone looked up now, they'd see me, wrecked and naked. but I didn't care. I wanted this. I wanted it to last.

"I'll do anything," I moaned. "Whatever you want. Whatever you need me for."

His voice broke, just a little, as he smiled. "Exactly what I was hoping you'd say." He didn't slow. His cock tore into me with a rhythm that felt desperate and powerful, each stroke deeper, more deliberate. My pussy was so full it hurt, stretched wide around the only thing that would ever satisfy it again. I was shaking, legs gone, the glass catching every tremble, every breathless plea.

And then I felt it: the shift. He wasn't just fucking me. He was using me. Using me to secure his future. He wasn't going to stop until I was knocked up. The thought made me cum hard. It was violent--total. My body arched, legs buckled, vision blurred. I screamed so loud I swear the glass trembled.

"Please, Mr Duncan," I begged. "Breed me again. Fill me up. Make me yours forever."

Hearing that did it. He let go. With a roar, he buried himself as deep as he could and exploded inside me--cum so hot, so thick I swear I felt it paint my womb in pulses. Throbbing. Spraying. Filling me.

I moaned against the window, nails scraping the glass. My cunt milked him, clenched down and held him there like it knew he belonged. He stayed buried inside, hips locked to mine. Didn't pull out. Just held me there. Glued to the glass. Cunt leaking. Necklace hanging between my tits like a corporate seal.

After a long moment, he whispered:

"There's a quarterly meeting at 10 a. m. I expect you showered, silent, and radiant."

"Yes, Mr Duncan," I said, tears on my cheeks, cum on my thighs, pride in my voice.

And as he stepped back, zipping up, straightening his cuffs, I looked at my reflection one last time. Not a girl. Not even an assistant or a fuckdoll. Now, I was part of his legacy.

Epilogue: Q1

The test blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then the line appeared.

Solid. Thick. Dominant.

Positive.

I stared at the stick like it was a winning lottery ticket. Knees pressed to the cold marble of our en-suite bathroom floor, tits heavy, cunt still leaking from the night before. His cum hadn't just filled me - it had taken root. My body had obeyed him. Taken his cock, swallowed his seed, and bloomed.

I was pregnant.

I felt so good. Not just proud --- possessed. I belonged to Mr Duncan now in the most permanent, biological level. My body was done being mine. I was infrastructure. A vessel. A live-in incubator for the future he chose to put inside me.

I stood slowly. My thighs stuck together, my hole still raw from the hours we spent together last night. I didn't clean up. Just smoothed my hair, applied a neutral lip, and picked the dress he liked best---black, tight, with no bra or panties beneath. Pearl studs in my ears. Hair up. A perfect executive slut.

I arrived at the conference room ten minutes early. My posture perfect. My pussy sore. My womb obedient. Every man who passed gave me that same polite nod. Every woman, a little side glance of envy. None of them knew. Not really. They didn't know that while they were chasing titles, I was carrying the heir.

He arrived last. Impeccable. Dominant. Tailored suit over a cock that had rewritten me. He looked at me once. Just once. And I knew. He knew.

The meeting began. Slides, charts, strategy. His voice smooth and commanding. And halfway through a projection on Q2 expansion, his hand slid under the table and cupped my inner thigh. I didn't flinch. I opened for him. He brushed his fingers over the slick heat between my legs. My cunt fluttered like it was answering a command. Like it missed him already. Like it was begging to be used again, even with a conference full of shareholders present.

This was my promotion. I was past titles. I was installed.

When the meeting ended, I gathered my tablet. Smoothed my dress. Walked with quiet, aching pride. As I passed him, he murmured: "Start drafting your maternity announcement."

And kept walking.

That night, I stood naked in front of the dressing room mirror. The tag gleamed on my chest. My belly was still flat, but it wouldn't be for long. I placed both hands over it. Stroked gently. Like I was cradling a signature. His signature. Inside me.

And then, for just a moment, I remembered the first time we met.

I'd just started at the company---young, nervous, overdressed-- and seen him standing by the door, tall, still, unreadable. Black. Broad-shouldered. Imposing. My brain had made that lazy, embarrassing leap. I wanted to die. Apologised. Overcompensated. Tried to recover.

But he didn't punish me for it---not then. He just watched. Logged it. Let me twist in my own discomfort. And somehow, I knew I'd be working to earn forgiveness for that moment for the rest of my life. And now I had.

As I stood there, naked, claimed, full of his future, I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I was grateful. Grateful that he didn't let me off easy. Grateful he broke me in. Grateful he used my body to burn every last trace of that soft, polite, white superiority out of me.

He didn't just fuck me.

He corrected me. Bred the prejudice out of me one load at a time. I welcomed it. Craved it. Begged for it. Because now, when I kneel between his thighs and taste the cock that remade me, I don't just feel owned. I feel purified. My guilt paid in worship. Paid in submission. Paid in the stretch of my pussy as he filled me over and over until my body knew what it was for. I press both hands to my stomach again, smiling.

And now here was proof. A merger even the board couldn't veto.

"Ruby?" I heard him call from our bedroom. "Don't keep me waiting..."

I slipped into my high heels. Tall. Expensive. I walked into our bedroom and dropped to my knees before him.

Like good executive fucktoy, I was always happy to get into the position.