He loves it. He reaches for my hair and he doesn’t tangle his fingers in it or drag me onto him he sets his hand on my head and sets the pace for me, guiding and taking and controlling with a steady hand and a steady authority.

I shudder beneath it, tearing my eyes from him and looking down and focusing on stroking and pleasing and ignoring the rough little ball of heat that isn’t where it’s supposed to be.

Before I met my husband I used to get off on this. I had a few months between a failed long-term relationship and the one that would become my marriage and I used to hit up clubs and get a little tipsy but pretend I was far tipsier and let men coerce me into the bathroom. I wouldn’t let them fuck me but I’d fall to my knees on the grimy floor and suck their cock and I would feel this ball of heat, this ball of desire, that settled in my belly while I did it.

It was a thrill so unlike anything else and while I sucked them I played with myself and let these strange men play with me and the ball would grow and spread and pulse into a warmth that spread through my body and grew in intensity until, by the time they were pumping their load into my waiting mouth, I was shaking and trembling and spasming from a climax of my own.

But this is wrong. The ball is centered in my chest and it’s pulsing to a wholly different rhythm and it feels different. It feels like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

I don’t know how to respond so I push away the recognition of it and I bury myself hard, choking myself on his cock until I start to spasm and I dig my nails into his balls while I do it, clenching tight enough that I know that it hurts and I know that he feels it.

I wait. I wait holding my breath for my boss to respond and it takes so long that the dark starts to creep in from the edges of my vision and the tremble in my body comes as much from oxygen deprivation as it does from the anticipatory fear of his response.

But he doesn’t punish me. As much as I might want it and as much as I might feel I deserve it he holds fast and I do as well. I wait for a grip that never comes and in the end I’m the one that breaks, falling back to gulp in great gasps of air and try to recenter myself.

I fall back on my knees and I look down at myself. My eyes are watering and my makeup must be running and a dribble of spit falls down my chin and dangles at the edge of it and he stares down at me from above and he reaches for me and pulls me to my feet.

His thumb pushes away the drop of spit dangling from my chin and then lingers on my chin and I feel in an instant he’s so close to me. I remember a kiss on the forehead and a taste unreciprocated and I wait for disappointment.

But my boss pulls me in and his lips connect with mine and I can’t help myself. I mewl and I melt into his arms and I respond to the kiss, pushing back against him while my hands drag him down into me and I need it. Oh god, I need it so much.

I don’t deserve it.

I’ve been so wrong and I’ve been so cruel and I’ve cheated. I’m a whore and a slut and I’m everything that I ought to hate and my husband, bastard though he may be, doesn’t deserve this. Does he?

I don’t know and I can’t know and I feel my boss start to move me, undressing me with his nimble fingers and slipping me down to the bed and I know that he’s going to explore my body and wind up between my thighs and that he’s going to pleasure me and I can’t bear the thought of it. It’s been so goddamn long since I had a man taste me, but I can’t let myself have that pleasure.

This can’t be all about me and that’s not the point. The fact that it’s come so close and the fact that it’s all confused just spin the uncertainty in me until it’s a roaring torrent of a rainstorm and I can’t make any sense of it and I find myself pulling back from him as he moves to lay me down and I spin, twisting and turning and falling to my knees at the edge of the bed as I bend for him and throw a glance over my shoulder.

“Fuck me,” I demand from him, “Fuck me like you hate me.”

I need it. It’s what I deserve.