recoil

nc-17 | sexual content

Whenever she had fantasized about Andrew, she always envisioned him taking her from behind. Never face-to-face. And they were never kissing.

That, really, should have been a clue.

He wasn't an attractive man. Too skinny, too scrawny. Losing his hair before his time, he had a growing bald spot on the top of his head. His teeth were stained - much like his fingers - from the disgusting cigarettes that he smoked. When he smiled, his crooked teeth mocked her. He always either smelled like too much cologne or too much sweat; the latter should made her think he was rugged and manly, she supposed, but it just made her cringe.

It wasn't that she was shallow or snobbish. It really wasn't. She just had . . . standards. He didn't meet them.

And yet, here she was.

He wasn't kissing her. Not her mouth, anyway. He worked on her neck for a bit before moving on to her shoulder. Once her shirt was off, he abandoned that task altogether. His hands - his thick, rough, stained hands - groped her breasts, twisting her nipples harder than others before him had dared. Earlier in the evening, he had threatened to bend her over his desk, but he hadn't made good on that yet.

There couldn't possibly be surveillance cameras in here, she thought. (Hoped.) She looked up, checking each corner and wait, in that one, that dark blob -

"I turned them off," he grunted, and she froze. He didn't seem to notice: "God, Donna, you're so fucking beautiful."

"Could you get fired? If they found us here?"

"You're the one who would get fired," he said matter-of-factly. "They're not going to fire me. I make the company too much money. You, on the other hand - God, Donna, your tits are fucking fantastic."

Tits. Forget his appearance; she wasn't the kind of girl who slept with men who would call her breasts 'tits'.

And yet, here she was.

It was okay, she assured herself as he unzipped her skirt, because he wasn't actually, technically, her supervisor. She answered to Benjamin, and he was the one who signed off on her evaluations - not that she had been here long enough to have an evaluation - so it was okay that she was here with Andrew, in his office, which may or may not have surveillance cameras.

Why would they have cameras in here? It made no sense.

"God, you're nice and wet, aren't you?"

She was, she really was. She should have been utterly repulsed by this man, but he turned her on. He was hard, firm against her, and she was a clichéd, quivering mass of jelly, unable to move as he slid his hand between her legs. He pinched her clit, rolling it between his fingers, and then two of those fingers were inside her. She was tight, too tight, and she winced as he penetrated her.

"It's been a while," she said, even though it was a lie. He didn't respond, but he finally gave into his threat and bent her over the desk. There was the sound of foil ripping and then:

"Don't move."

She wasn't the kind of girl who slept with (fucked) her boss (not really) on his desk (bent over it, not on it, really), and she certainly wasn't the kind of girl who fell for guys who thought 'don't move' was the appropriate phrase to utter before lovemaking (fucking).

And yet.

Maybe she was on the rebound and maybe it was just because the sex with Eric (Doctor Eric, now) had been rather non-spectacular (not bad, really, just not Earth-shattering) or maybe it was just because of the whole illicit nature of the damn thing, but she was enjoying it. It was hard and fast and nothing like anything she had ever done before and he was touching her clit again and -



God.

"Mmm, Donna, you've got an amazing ass."

She was already planning how to give her two weeks notice.

(fin.)