Power Play. Charlotte Stein

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СКАЧАТЬ it at the base. Somehow it’s the most intimate touch he’s offered me since this whole thing began.

      ‘I think I would like you to rub your clit as I fuck you. What do you think, Ms Harding?’

      I think nothing. I’m made of nothing. All I can feel or respond to is the slow slide of this fake cock as he pushes it in and out of my ass. As it stirs all of these little nerve-endings that I didn’t know existed, everything so glossy and slick that the feeling is almost unbearable.

      ‘I think you’d like that. Now reach between your legs and find your clit.’

      I flop around for a moment, trying my best to do as I’m told. My arms feel rubbery and unresponsive, and with this fake cock working back and forth inside me it’s hard to lift my body to get at what he’s asking for.

      And it doesn’t get any easier when I finally reach my stiff little bud. Just skimming the pad of one finger over its tense surface is like a punch to the gut. It feels immense, and every touch of it burns too hotly, and then he actually makes a sound as he forces the thing into me and oh God I can’t take it, I can’t.

      I can accept something fucking my ass. I can take being bent over his desk. I can’t endure him grunting like that, as though maybe this whole thing affects him a little more than he usually lets on. Him grunting makes me imagine torrid, glorious things, like his cock all stiff and solid against the material of his impeccable trousers.

      And though I daren’t look to check, I can almost picture him stroking himself as he does this to me. One hand on his hard cock, one hand on the fake one he’s pumping in and out of my willing body, until finally he gives in and lets himself spurt all over –

      ‘Oh fuck, Mr Woods,’ I moan, because everything is just too much. The heated pulse between my finger and my clit, the feel of the fake cock fucking into me, raggedly, the idea of him coming on my upturned ass … I can’t take it.

      Instead, I press down hard on my clit and let the first trembling waves ebb through me, pushing back against the pounding he’s now doling out until said waves become a great wash of pleasure.

      ‘Yes, keep doing that, keep doing it, I’m coming – ohhhhh,’ I tell him, because by this point I’m beyond all good sense. I don’t know who I am or where I might be, and all I care about is the orgasm that’s shoving rudely through my body.

      And God, it goes on and on and on. By the time it’s finished I’m a wet, trembling mess on the desk. Perpendicular hands forgotten. Perfect clothes sweated through. Ass so sore I’ll barely be able to walk for the rest of the day.

      Though that’s not unusual, for our cold little relationship. At the very least I’m usually sitting on some red handprints in any afternoon meetings I then have – meetings that are actually going to start very soon.

      In fact, they’re going to start so soon that my real self comes back to me far quicker than usual, and I go to straighten before he’s given me permission. I try to stand, but before I can get anywhere near said position that tented hand is back on my ass. His metallic voice is back in my ear.

      ‘Stay still, Ms Harding,’ he says, only he sounds different for just a second. That metallic tone peels away and reveals something rusted and old beneath, and then I actually feel it on my skin, just as I had imagined.

      A searing stripe of something slick. And then another. And another.

      Though that’s not the shocking thing. I mean, I’ve often imagined him losing some of his control. Sometimes I’ve hungered for it, with my hand between my legs and orgasm just one wretched inch away.

      But in all of these fantasies of him breaking, I’ll confess: I never imagined him moaning something heated. The Benjamins of this world moan heated things. They let themselves go and can’t control themselves – not people like Mr Woods.

      So why does he tell me: ‘Oh yes that’s so good’ just as he’s coming? Why?

      And more than that: why does it make me feel so low?

      Chapter Two

      Of course I know something’s wrong the minute I look up and see Benjamin stood there, framed in the meeting-room doorway. He never, ever, on pain of death interrupts the Monday morning break-downs. Never. I suspect he’d rather die than let every grey face in here see him up so close, with his shirt perpetually untucked on one side and his expression always so naked, so naked.

      But he’s here, and he’s obviously waiting for me to say something. Speak, boy, I think, like some sort of ridiculous internal sneeze. Like a reflex I don’t really want to have, but which comes anyway, unbidden.

      Then I get a hold of myself, and straighten, and greet him more normally.

      ‘Yes?’ I ask, but it’s the strangest thing. Somehow it comes out sounding like speak, boy, anyway. And even worse, I think he might know it. The faintest flush spreads over his face after I’ve spoken, and when he finally manages to explain he’s all expansive and blunder-y about it.

      ‘Ms Harding,’ he says, and this time I really get a flash of something unwanted. That buzz, I think, that buzz at the start of my name, only different to the way I usually hear it. Usually I don’t know what to do with it.

      But I know right now.

      I tell everyone to take five, and walk briskly to the door. All of these strange and new parts of me very aware of how fumbly Benjamin suddenly appears. How like he’d seemed in my head when I hadn’t meant to think of him.

      ‘Uh, yeah,’ he says, the minute I’ve closed us into the narrow hallway.

      I resist the urge to tell him that those words are decidedly not the ones to use. A man of his size and stature should be clear and precise; he should tell me directly what he means. He shouldn’t be like this, all awkward and half-crouching down – though I don’t know why it suddenly bothers me so.

      It never bothered me before my last meeting with Mr Woods. Before that sense of strange lowness, of a sudden shift in the way things are between us.

      ‘Go ahead, Benjamin,’ I say, though again those aren’t the words I want to use. The real ones are in the back of my mind somewhere, being ignored until I can think about all of this more clearly.

      ‘I’m supposed to take you up to your office, Ms Harding,’ he says, and that’s when I know it. I’m not going to get the chance to think about this strange little buzz in the back of my mind at all.

      And it’s mainly because of this sudden and creeping sense of unease.

      Of course, I felt that way the moment I walked in this morning. But it’s far more obvious now, as I take in every little nervy tic of the strange man in front of me. He’s not uptight exactly – it’s not like that. He’s not wound up inside himself, unable to escape. It’s more like his insides have escaped far too much, and are currently spilling themselves all over me. The urge to brush bits of him off my vintage Yves Saint Laurent suit is strong, very strong.

      ‘I see,’ I say, though of course what I really want to do is ask him what all of this is about. He has a lot of papers in his hands – which had seemed perfectly right in my head. It’s just that it doesn’t seem perfectly СКАЧАТЬ