The Executive Assistant

First day. 

New job. 

What does an Executive Assistant even do? 

Two weeks out of high school. Eighteen. The question sits there anyway, unanswered, because it didn’t start with a résumé.

Monday night, two days after graduation, and I am out at a club with some friends. Fresh cut, the tips of my platinum blonde hair dyed a sharp red. Gold eyeshadow with kohl smudged around my eyes, which are so pale blue they almost look white. I put some crimson lipstick on and went to raid Dad’s closet. I stole one of his vintage X-Men tees; it’s old, like from the 80s. Because Dad is such a big man, it reaches mid-thigh on me. Aggressively baggy black jeans with wide legs pooling over my black combat boots and hanging low on my hips, held up by a heavy black leather belt with a large silver skull buckle and rows of metal studs. The oversize vintage tee is tucked through the belt at the back. You would never know I played varsity football.

Jeff is fuck buddies with the manager, so he got us in, and they didn't check IDs at the bar. I have lost track of time, of Jeff, of anyone else I came with. I am on the dance floor. My mop of hair is flopping around, the faded tee looped through the back of my belt, and my baggy jeans slipping a little lower on my hips because of the dancing and how sweaty I am getting.

This guy bumps into me. His drink goes all over my back and down over my ass, and I am thinking, At least I don’t have underwear to worry about getting soaked. When I turn around... chest hair poking out through the fishnet shirt. My eyes drift down to the bulge in his latex pants. When I look up, it takes me a minute to get there. He is tall, broad through the shoulders, square jaw. Who actually has a square jaw? His eyes are dark, framed by black mascara, and his black hair spiked up. Fuck me. Tall, dark, and handsome is a real thing.

His lips are moving, but I couldn’t tell you what he said for the life of me. Then his big hand palms my waist, pulling me closer. Did his hand just slide into my pants? He leans in, breath hot against my ear. “I said, sorry about that, you okay?”

I can’t tell if the smell of alcohol is his breath or the drink soaking my back. 

“Yeah.”

He lets out this low rumble of a chuckle that makes something in me tighten. 

“Come on.” 

His hand moves me like it is nothing. 

“Let me help you get cleaned up.”

He guides me through the crowd, and it’s a good thing, because I haven’t taken my eyes off him yet. Jeff’s voice cuts somewhere behind us. I don’t turn. He leads us through a door into a back corridor that opens onto a tiled shower alcove I didn’t know existed. His hands unbuckle my belt. My jeans are loose enough to fall to the floor. Makeup. Combat boots. That’s it, and it still hasn’t landed.

I watch him bend down, the plains of his smooth, broad back sloping down toward a round ass. When he straightened up, he pulled the fishnet shirt off, tossing it aside. And when he skins his latex pants off, I think I swallowed hard, because he smiled at me. 

And in that moment, all I can remember thinking is, My back feels sticky.

His hands returned to my hips, and he walked me backward. That is what shocked me out of my awe: the shock of water hitting my back. 

“I am going to kiss you now.” That impossibly deep voice.

“Okay.” God, I sound so dumb.

The force of his kiss presses me against the tile wall. His hands take my head, tilting it exactly where he wants it while he keeps kissing me. Then they slide across my shoulders, down my chest, over my waist. When those same hands clamp firm around my thighs and he lifts me, I make a sound against his mouth that I don’t even recognize.

Fuckin hell. He just picked me up.

Like I weigh nothing. Like the fact that I used to hit people on a football field doesn’t mean shit when he is the one holding me. My legs wrap around his waist on pure instinct. My combat boots knock against the backs of his thighs. The tile is cold against my back. His skin is burning everywhere we are pressed together. 

I don’t know when or how, but I feel his lubed finger as it brushes over my hole. 

When did he—? 

How does he already have—?

It is so much. Everything is so much. I can’t even get the words out that this is my first time. Not when that finger slides in and out, slow and sure, the slick knuckle catching on my rim with every pass. Not when a second finger joins the first and the stretch burns, my hole gripping them as he works me open. Not when he scissors them just enough that I feel the pull of skin and muscle and my thighs shake around his hips. My forehead drops against the side of his neck. I can feel my own heartbeat in my throat, in my dick, everywhere.

Say something. 

Tell him. 

You’re supposed to tell him, right? 

But the only sound that comes out is a broken little noise when he pulls his fingers free, leaving me open and wet, and I feel the blunt, slick head of his cock press against my hole instead, fat and hot, smearing lube and spit over the rim.

He doesn’t shove in. He just holds there, the pressure steady and undeniable, waiting for my body to stop fighting it. I dig my fingers into his shoulders and breathe like I have forgotten how. 

Oh god. 

Oh god. 

This is happening. 

He’s actually going to— 

I nod against his neck before I even realize I am doing it. 

That seems to be enough.

He pops the ridge of his head inside me, just the head, caught right at the edge of my hole, stretching me around that thick crown until my whole back goes straight. The back of my head hits the shower wall hard enough that I see white for a second.

Fuck—

fuck— 

The slow stretch starts immediately. It is nothing like the fingers. It is thicker, hotter, the shaft forcing my hole to open around it, skin sliding tight over the flare of his head. My body tries to lock up around him, and he just waits, breathing steadily against the side of my face while I shake. The slow stretch.

Oh. 

My. 

God. 

It keeps going. Millimeter by millimeter. I can feel every bit of it, the way the head seats itself inside me and then the thicker shaft begins to follow, filling me until I can feel the drag of vein and heat along my walls. My mouth opens against his shoulder, but no sound comes out at first. Just a broken, high little breath that turns into a real sound when he gives another controlled push and more of him slides in, my rim stretched white around him.

Too much. It’s too much. 

I’m not—I can’t—

My legs tighten hard around his waist. My fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulders hard enough that it has to hurt, but he doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps that same steady pressure, letting my body take him whether it is ready or not, my hole fluttering and trying to push him out even as he feeds another inch of cock into me. Water runs down both of us. My back is still sticky from the drink. My dick is trapped between our stomachs, leaking against his skin. I can feel how full I already am, and he’s not even halfway. He pauses when the stretch borders on too sharp, forehead resting against mine, giving me three long seconds to breathe through it. I don’t tell him to stop. I don’t tell him it is my first time. I just nod again, smaller this time, and he sinks in another inch.

He sinks in another inch, and the stretch turns sharp for a second—white-hot and too deep—before it melts into something else entirely, the fat shaft grinding over my insides. My mouth opens against his shoulder, and a real sound finally comes out, high and cracked and nothing like any noise I have ever made before.

Jesus Christ. He’s still going. There’s still more of him. 

My back arches off the tile. Water runs down my chest and between us. Every muscle in my thighs is shaking around his waist. I can feel how tight I am around him, how my hole keeps trying to push him back out even while the rest of me is pulling him deeper, sucking at the slick length of him. He gives me another second. Then another controlled push. The head of him drags over something inside me that makes my whole body jolt and my vision blur at the edges, my dick jumping between our stomachs.

Oh—oh fuck—what was that—

I cling harder. My face is buried in the side of his neck now, breathing wet and open against his skin. I can feel the moment he bottoms out—hips flush to mine, balls pressed against my ass, the heavy press of him all the way inside, so deep it almost hurts in a way that makes my dick throb harder between us. He stays there. Completely still. Letting me feel every inch of how full I am, my rim stretched tight around the base of his cock. My heartbeat is everywhere. In my throat. In my stomach. Around his cock. He shifts his grip under my thighs, adjusts the angle just slightly, and then pulls back—slow, deliberate, the drag so intense my toes curl inside my boots, my hole clinging to every ridge—and thrusts back in. The sound I make is wrecked. He does it again. And again. Finding a rhythm that is steady and deep and completely in control. Every time he sinks in, that same spot lights up and my legs tighten helplessly around him. Each time he pulls back, a sense of emptiness washes over me, already feeling wrong.

I can’t—I’m not going to last—this is too much—

My forehead drops against his. Soft broken sounds come out of me every time he bottoms out, every time his cock punches that spot and my hole clenches down on him. The tile is cold against my back. His hands are burning hot under my thighs. Water keeps running over both of us until I can’t tell sweat from shower. He drives in until his hips slap wet against my ass. My body takes him easier with every thrust, opening around him like it already knows the shape.

He keeps that same relentless rhythm, deep and measured, and I stop trying to stay quiet. Every thrust drags another broken sound out of me. My boots knock against the backs of his thighs. My fingers are going to leave marks on his shoulders. I don’t care. 

So full. I’m so fucking full. 

How is he still going this deep? 

The angle shifts again, just a little, and suddenly every single stroke hits that spot inside me dead-on, the head of his cock grinding over it until my vision whites out at the edges. A helpless, high noise rips out of my throat, and my whole body clenches around him, squeezing the thick shaft. He makes a low sound against my temple as he feels it. Then he does it again. And again. Using that same angle on purpose now, grinding into it until my legs are shaking so hard I am half-afraid he will drop me.

I’m gonna—I can’t stop it— 

I try to warn him. All that comes out is a desperate, choked “please—” that doesn’t even sound like a real word. My dick is trapped between our stomachs, sliding against his skin with every thrust, so hard it almost hurts, smearing precum between us. The pressure builds low and sharp, completely out of my control. He thrusts in hard and stays there, buried to the hilt, and rolls his hips in a tight circle, his cock grinding inside me. That is what does it.

I come with a broken cry, clenching down around him so hard my thighs lock. It spills hot between us, pulse after pulse, painting his stomach while he keeps grinding into that same spot and rides me through it, my hole milking his cock. My head drops back against the tile. I can’t breathe right, can’t think. Everything is just the thick stretch of him inside me and the way my body keeps fluttering around his cock like it doesn’t know how to stop. He doesn’t give me time to come down. He starts moving again—shorter, deeper strokes now, chasing his own end—and I can only hang on, oversensitive and shaking, making soft wrecked noises every time he bottoms out and his balls slap against me. His grip on my thighs tightens. His breathing goes rough against my ear. I feel him swell even thicker inside me right before he drives in one last time and holds there, grinding deep as he comes. The heat of it is unmistakable. Thick. Pulsing. Filling me up while I am still twitching around him, each spurt warming me from the inside. He stays buried for a long moment afterward, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard under the running water. My legs are still locked around his waist. I don’t think I could unwrap them if I tried.

Holy shit. He just came inside me. 

I can feel it every time I clench. The slow drip of it starts to escape around the base of his cock when he finally, carefully, begins to pull out, my hole clinging, then gaping as the thick head pops free.

When he leaves, the space he occupied stays. He sets me on my feet and walks away, leaving me barely standing under the spray. My legs almost go out from under me the second his hands leave my thighs. I lock my knees and brace one hand against the tile. Water runs down my chest, over my stomach, and between my legs. What he left inside me starts to slip out in slow, warm trails the shower only half washes away, leaking down my balls and the inside of my thigh.

Holy shit. He just put me down and walked off.

I watch him bend to pick up his clothes. The broad, smooth line of his back. The way his ass flexes when he straightens. He turns to look at me for a moment—mascara completely ruined from the water, black streaks under his eyes—and something about that almost-soft look makes my stomach flip all over again. He picks up a desk phone I didn’t even notice was there, dials, and says something I can’t hear over the water. His voice is low and calm, like he didn’t just have me pinned to a shower wall two minutes ago. I watch him pull the fishnet shirt back on over still-damp skin, then sit in the desk chair like he owns the entire room. He pulls on his boots and laces them up with the same unhurried focus he used when he was opening me up. A knock sounds at a door I hadn’t noticed.

He stands, picks up the latex pants, and slings them over one shoulder when he looks at me again; his mouth quirks, just a little. 

“Thanks, handsome.” 

Then he turns and slips out the back door, bare-assed, fishnet shirt clinging to his skin, latex pants hanging from his fingers like an afterthought. The door clicks shut.

I stand there under the still-running water, combat boots planted on the wet tile, makeup running down my face, cum slowly leaking down the inside of one thigh, and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person. 

What the fuck just happened to me?

I somehow get my jeans back on. The belt is a fight. The tee is soaked through and clinging. I stumble back toward the main bar area because I don’t know where else to go. Jeff finds me by the rail, his face opening with relief and then tightening when he actually looks at me.

“Jesus Christ—there you are.” He stares a second too long. “You good? You look wrecked.”

I nod. My throat is still raw. Bass thumps through the rail under my palms; someone laughs two stools down; a tray of glasses rattles past like the night never broke.