The command sliced through the air like a blade—sharp, unyielding. ”Open.” His lips parted before the word had even fully left her mouth, jaw slackening in obedient surrender, as if his body had been wired to respond to her voice alone. Jemma didn’t hesitate. With the precision of a surgeon, she slid two fingers past his lips, pressing them deep until they brushed the back of his throat. His gag reflex kicked in instantly, a violent spasm that sent saliva dripping down his chin in glistening ropes. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. Not when her gaze held him captive, not when every fiber of his being ached to please her.

Jemma watched him with something akin to amusement, though her smile wasn’t the cold, calculating curve she wore in board meetings. This was softer, almost tender—maternal, even, in the way a lioness might regard her cub after teaching it to hunt. She wiped his chin with the flat of her palm, the gesture oddly intimate, before delivering a soft slap to his cheek. Not a punishment. A reward. ”Good boy,” she crooned, her voice a velvet purr that coiled around his spine. ”You’re almost done.”

Her phone was already in her hand, thumb hovering over the screen as she checked the time, lips pursed in concentration. Efficiency was her religion, and she timed this session with the same ruthless precision she applied to business proposals. Max’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, the chain between the clamps at his nipples jostling with every twitch of his muscles, sending jolts of pain-pleasure ricocheting through his nerves. His eyes rolled back, lost in the haze of sensation, but he didn’t dare make a sound. Not yet.

I was painfully hard, my cock straining against the tailored fabric of my suit like a caged animal desperate to break free. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each inhale a battle against the suffocating weight of my own arousal. I pressed my palm flat against the front of my trousers, a futile attempt to conceal the evidence of my desire—as if the mere act of touching myself could somehow make the throbbing less obvious, less obscene. The shame was a living thing, slithering through my veins, sweet and intoxicating, a drug I couldn’t resist.

Jemma’s inspection of the table was swift, almost ceremonial. She ran a single finger along the polished surface, lifted it to her mouth, and tasted the air above it with a slow, deliberate flick of her tongue. A nod. Satisfied. ”Well done,” she murmured, her voice a low hum that vibrated through the room. The words weren’t just for Max. They were for me, too—a taunt, a challenge, a silent acknowledgment that she knew I was watching. ”You want your reward, don’t you?” question was rhetorical, but the implication was clear. She wasn’t just offering him release. She was offering me a lesson.

With a sudden, fluid motion, she yanked the cock ring free. Max’s body jerked as if she’d touched him with a live wire, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. His cock, freed from its restraint, twitched violently, veins bulging, the head already glistening with precome. Jemma rolled a condom down his length with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before—her fingers deft, almost bored, as if she were signing merger documents instead of preparing to fuck a man half her size. Then, without a word, she climbed onto the conference table, straddling Max’s waist with the same effortless grace she used to command a room.

Her thighs squeezed his hips like a vice, and she reached between them, guiding the head of his cock to her entrance with a single, deliberate motion. The moment he breached her, she sank down in one fluid movement, taking him to the hilt in a single, primal thrust. A gasp tore from her lips—not of pain, but of raw, unfiltered pleasure. Max stared up at her with abject wonder, as if he’d never seen a woman before, as if she were some divine being descended from the heavens just to wreck him.

Jemma’s rhythm was brutal, relentless. She rode him with the same ferocity she brought to every aspect of her life—her heels braced against the edge of the table, her body slamming down onto his with enough force to rattle the papers scattered across the surface. The slap of their flesh echoed through the room, a wet, rhythmic symphony that made my own cock ache in response. Each time she bottomed out, the impact sent a shockwave through the table, scattering documents like confetti. Max’s hands scrabbled at the polished wood, his knuckles white, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

”You’re not allowed to cum,” Jemma commanded, her voice husky but clear, each word a whip crack of authority. ”You do, and I’ll have the janitor clean up the mess.” The threat was real, and the fear in Max’s eyes only made it hotter. I could see it—the way his body trembled on the edge, the way his muscles coiled with the effort of holding back. He didn’t want to share this moment with anyone, not even the faceless janitor who might one day mop up his failure.

I couldn’t look away. My mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—shame, desire, a twisted sense of longing that gnawed at my gut. I tried to imagine what Bridgette would say if she caught me here, pressed against the door like a pervert, my cock throbbing, my underwear soaked with precum. Would she scream? Laugh? Or would she, God forbid, understand? The thought sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over me, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was trapped in this moment, in this grotesque, beautiful tableau, like a fly in amber.

Jemma’s hips slammed down onto Max’s with a force that made the table groan beneath them. The sound of their bodies colliding was a wet, obscene symphony, each thrust sending papers fluttering to the floor like flying birds. One of her hands left his mouth, fingers glistening with his saliva, and moved between her thighs. She found her clit with unerring precision, rubbing tight, furious circles that made her breath hitch. ”I’m going to cum,” she gasped, her voice ragged, thick with need. She paused just long enough to let him taste her urgency, her fingers still slick from his mouth. ”You’ve been such a good boy… hold it. Don’t cum yet.” There was no room for negotiation in her tone—only command, only control.

Max’s entire body tensed, his muscles straining as he fought to obey. ”Uhhhnn…” The sound that tore from his throat was raw, desperate, the cry of a man teetering on the edge of oblivion. Jemma’s eyes darkened, her lips curling into a smirk. Then, without warning, she halted mid-thrust and slapped him hard across the cheek. The crack of her palm against his skin reverberated through the room, sharp and sudden. Max gasped, his body jerking as if she’d electrocuted him, his cock throbbing inside her. ”No,” she growled, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. ”Please.” His desperation was a tangible thing, thick in the air between them.

”Yes, Master,” Max whispered, the words dripping with submission, with reverence. The sound of it made Jemma’s pulse visibly thrum at the base of her throat, her power over him a drug more potent than any aphrodisiac.

She sank down onto him again, her thighs clamping around his hips like a vise, and began to fuck him with renewed ferocity. Every thrust was a declaration, a punishment, a reward. Max’s body trembled beneath her, his hands clawing at the table as if he could anchor himself to something, anything, to keep from being swept away by the storm of her desire. His cock twitched inside her, each movement sending sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through his nerves.

”Your cock is so fucking hard,” Jemma moaned, her voice low and dripping with satisfaction. She bit her lower lip, eyes half-lidded, her hips rolling in a rhythm that was both savage and sinful. ”Now you cum.”

At her permission, Max’s body convulsed, his back arching off the table as if he’d been struck by lightning. A choked cry tore from his throat, his release spilling into her in hot, desperate pulses. ”Uuuuhhhnnnn… I’m cumming, Master,” he groaned, each word a testament to the wave of bliss crashing over him. Jemma rode out his orgasm with a ferocity that bordered on violent, her own climax building like a tidal wave. Her head fell back, red hair fanning out against her shoulders, her mouth parted in a silent, ecstatic gasp as pleasure ripped through her.

I stood there, frozen, my hand pressed against the door as if I could absorb the heat of their passion through the wood. The sounds of their fucking had seeped beneath the door—wet, smacking flesh, the sharp crack of a slap, Max’s choked, desperate cries. My cock throbbed, my underwear soaked with precum, the fabric clinging to me in a way that was both maddening and exquisite. I could feel my pulse in every inch of my body, a relentless drumbeat of need that refused to be ignored.

Jemma’s body stilled above Max, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she rode out the last waves of her orgasm. Her thighs trembled, her fingers digging into his hips as if she could meld their bodies together. Max lay beneath her, spent, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed with the kind of bliss that only comes from complete and total surrender.

And me? I was still hard. Still aching. Still trapped in the purgatory of my own desire, my hand still pressed against the door, my body still thrumming with the echoes of their passion. I didn’t know how I was supposed to walk away from this. I didn’t know if I even wanted to.