Zoe's Awaening

On Monday morning, I walk into work at 8 A.M. sharp, holding my head as high as possible, considering how incredibly inappropriate I feel. The skirt I've worn is about 4 inches shorter than the ones I wore last week, baring quite a lot of thigh for an office environment and the heels are distinctly stripper-y, not professional in the least.

My husband was certainly not on board with the new dress code. While getting dressed that morning, he kept looking me over, one eyebrow cocked. Finally, he had come out with it over breakfast.

"Uh, honey? Zoe? I think you look beautiful, of course, but that skirt is a little... tight...and, uh, short...don't you think?" He'd said, practically choking on the words.

I tried to look surprised. "Really? You think so? Do you think I've gotten fatter?" I put on my poutiest face and looked as sad as a kicked puppy dog.

He had looked incredibly embarrassed, a furious red blush creeping up from his collar. "No... no of course not, sweetheart. You look amazing. Sexy. Perfect." He'd swallowed, hard, and gone back to his toast.

I hadn't said another word, and left the house feeling like a total slut. But what the fuck else was I supposed to do? Tell my husband what I had been in high school and college? Make him hate me? What good would it do? No, much better to go along with the program and do what Mr. Page asks. He'll get bored eventually and everything will just... go away. The nightmare will end.

When I reach the office, Page beckons me in and motions for me to close the door. "The heels are good, but the skirt isn't tight enough. Let me see the underwear," he says, with absolutely no preamble, not even a simple good morning.

I stare him in the face and hike the skirt up over my thighs, exposing the tiny red scrap of fabric he'd given me on Friday. He sucks in a breath and gives a low whistle.

"Turn around," he says, and I comply, showing him my ass before quickly yanking the skirt back down. "Oh, fuck yes. That ass. I'm going to have a lot of fun with that thing...Show me the bra now." His voice is low and ragged.

I slowly unbutton my blouse and expose my bra to his burning gaze. The set, I have to admit, is gorgeous. Thin, lacy fabric in a shocking red that compliments my skin tone perfectly. To be honest, I had quite admired the way it looked when I'd put it on in the mirror this morning.

This time, a low moan escapes Page's throat. "Perfect," he murmurs, and I can see him trying to gather himself. "Well, first thing's first, go clear out your desk and move all your stuff to the desk right outside my office. You're my PA, after all, and I need you within arm's reach..." He smirks as I arrange my outfit so that I'm once again totally dressed. He hands me an empty banker's box and motions me out the door, his eyes never leaving my ass as I walk out.

I walk quickly back to my desk, where I begin clearing it off, putting things haphazardly into the box. Cindy notices my packing and rushes over to me.

"Oh my God, Zoe, what on Earth is going on?? Have you been let go? After just one week?!" She practically squeals. I hate her so much and her outburst is not helping my opinion of her. Stupid bitch.

"No, nothing like that Cindy. I'm actually going to be Mr. Page's... personal assistant." I say, between gritted teeth, spitting out his name like poison.

Cindy's eyes grow wide and her mouth forms an exaggerated 'O' and she exclaims, "Oh, girl, you are so lucky! He is soooo hot... I mean, I would not kick him outta bed, if you get what I'm saying!" The obnoxious woman winks at me, like we're sharing some fun girl talk. I hate her even more.

"I don't see it, personally. Plus, I'm happily married, Cindy." I say, which is pretty evil of me considering Cindy's recent and painful divorce, which I heard was office gossip fodder for months. Cindy gives me a little half smile and walks back to her desk, clearly pissed.

Oh well, I think, I won't have to see her too much from now on I guess.

I finish moving by lunchtime and am settling into my new desk, trying to get some work done, when Page sticks his head out of his office. "Zoe? Can you come in here? And bring a notepad, I'll need you for a bit," he winks at me and ducks back inside.

Heart hammering in my chest, I stand up and walk as calmly as possible into the office, shutting the door quietly behind me, feeling like everyone outside in the office knows our secret. I feel dirty, slutty, and, as much as it pains me to admit it, more than a little excited.

Once the door is locked, Page sinks into his big leather chair and faces me. "I didn't get a good enough look at you earlier. Strip for me. And make it pretty. I want to inspect my new property."

I roll my eyes and start unbuttoning my shirt, slowly, but with no apparent enthusiasm. My hands shake slightly and I hope he doesn't notice. I shrug out of the shirt and pull the pencil skirt down, kicking it off once it's around my ankles.

"Come here," he says, his voice daring me to disobey.

Of course, I don't, and I walk boldly over to where he sits, determined to continue holding my head high, even when I feel I can sink no lower.

"Turn around and put your arms on my desk, stick your ass up in the air for me." Page murmurs, his hand running from the back of my knee all the way up my thigh, gently squeezing my ass. I comply quickly, just wanting to get whatever he's got in mind over with. Suddenly he spanks me, hard. "That's for not undressing pretty enough. You looked bored. Next time I ask you to strip, I want you to give it some effort. I know what you can do..."

I try to remind myself that I hate him, hate this, should take absolutely no pleasure in the feel of my boss's rough, warm hands on me. My body isn't listening though, and my nipples are painfully hard, my pussy throbbing already, seeking out pleasure in the face of this terrible wrongness.

He's still rubbing my ass when he takes his other hand and slaps the inside of my thighs, hard, making me yelp. "Spread your legs apart, slut," he whispers. I obey, biting my lip to keep from groaning.

He takes his hand away from my butt and uses both hands to grab my hips from behind. Suddenly, I feel his face pressed up against my ass, nose buried in my crack, mouth almost right over the entrance of my pussy. He licks once, on the outside of my panties, a long, slow, teasing lick that lights every nerve of my traitorous body on fire. This time I can't help but moan. It makes him chuckle, a low, dark sound that has little humor in it.

"Oh, my little slut likes that, does she? Hmm." With this, Page pulls aside my panties and shoves a finger into me, meeting no resistance whatsoever. In fact, it feels like my body welcomes him in, sucking greedily, using some secret feminine muscles to pull him deeper.

He adds another finger and uses his other hand to rub tight little circles around my clit. It's insane how good it feels and soon I'm writhing and bucking on his desk. He slows down, probably wanting to prolong the torture. He leans down and whispers in my ear, still fingering me excruciatingly slowly: "Tell me about the biggest cock you ever sucked, my little whore. Tell me all about it, and I'll let you come..."

How easy it is to slide right back into the slutty mode I lived in for nearly 5 full years. So long ago now, but so simple to just let it take over. A few slaps on my ass, Page's fingers touching my pussy, and I'm panting like a bitch in heat, knowing I would do just about anything now.

Goddamnit. I hate myself in this moment, but can't stop.

The image floods my mind suddenly, of a guy I had picked up in a sleazy bar when I was 21. He was a skinny dude, bordering on scrawny, and I remember how incredibly shocked I was later that night when he dropped his pants and revealed the biggest cock I'd ever seen outside of a bad porno. It was huge, about 9 inches by my estimation, thick and veined, the head so enormous it wouldn't fit in my pussy until he used about a gallon of lube. Even then, it was a tight, painful fit. But sucking it was glorious. Choking on it, sticky ropes of spit and cum dripping from my mouth to the floor. I tell Page every single detail, including how the guy came all over my face and made me clean every drop off and swallow it before he fucked me. Telling him this while he fingers me slowly is killing me, emotionally and physically, and tears leak out of my eyes as I realize that I haven't changed at all since high school.

As big an asshole as Page is, and as much as I hate him right now, he's true to his word, and as I finish my story, I feel the tempo of his fingering increase. His hand leaves my clit and he flips me over, directing me to sit on the edge of his desk and lean back. He continues sliding two fingers in and out of me, then lowers his face to my pussy and licks, slowly at first, then faster, sucking my clit and fluttering his tongue over it. It only takes a minute of this before I'm bucking my hips into his face, panting and writhing and moaning, a constant stream of "don'tstopdon'tstopdon'tfuckingstop" spilling from my lips unbidden. He definitely doesn't stop, and I come, biting my lip so hard I taste blood in my mouth as my orgasm crashes through me.

I collapse back on his desk, chest heaving, my heart hammering in my chest so hard it feels like it could burst out of my ribcage at any moment. Page wipes his face on the inside of my thigh and stands, adjusting his erection in his pants, tucking it up under his belt, saying, "I have a meeting to attend. I'll be back in an hour. Make sure the Henderson account notes are typed and ready to go by then." And then he's gone, without so much as a backwards glance.

After he leaves, I try to gather myself in some semblance of normalcy. I try to remind myself of my new life; my husband, the home we share, the dog we will be getting together, how happy this all makes me. How happy this all should make me.

I know deep down that I'm not normal. There's something wrong with me, something fundamental missing from my genetic material. I'm supposed to enjoy making love, being held and cuddled and stroked gently. I should want sex less than my husband and be ready only when he desires me. My sexuality should fit into a nice compact little box, readily available when required, easily stored away when deemed unacceptable. That's not really how I've found it to work, though.

I get the notes Page requested together, concentrating on work as hard as possible, hoping to push all of these thoughts from my mind. He strolls back into his office exactly one hour later, as promised, and crooks a finger at me, signaling me to follow. I realize that he hadn't gotten off earlier. I guess this is it, then. The moment of truth. I sigh and follow reluctantly behind him, my shoulders slumped, face neutral.

Entering the office, I feel like I'm suddenly inside the tiger cage at the zoo. Electric, hungry energy is pouring off of Page in waves, I can feel it as solidly as the ground under me. I'm surprised when he doesn't pounce on me immediately. Instead, he situates himself rather calmly behind his desk, placing his elbows on the flat surface and forming a steeple with his fingers, staring at me. I can tell he's fighting some sort of inner battle, making a decision. He takes a deep breath, and reaches into a drawer, pulling out an official looking envelope.

Handing it to me across the desk, he says, "These are the details of your raise. You're also entitled to increased medical benefits and two more weeks paid vacation as my PA."

I must admit, I was prepared for almost anything but this. I'm caught off guard, and I keep looking at the envelope and then at Page, back and forth a few times, not sure what to believe, how to react.

Pages speaks again, and this time his voice is a growl, reflecting the wild hunger I'd sensed when he first walked in: "Now get on your knees, and suck my cock. I want to see you demonstrate your intense gratitude."

I hear what he says, but his voice sounds like it's floating from miles away. I'm already wet. My lips tingle and my mouth salivates in anticipation. A Pavlovian response, impossible to un-condition. I walk over to Page with as much decorum and confidence as I can muster at the moment and sink to my knees in front of him, trying my hardest not to look too eager. But I can't help it.

My hands tremble a little as I unhook his belt and unzip his slacks, reaching in his briefs for his already hard cock. It springs free, throbbing and angry looking. I wonder if he was hard throughout his whole meeting, looking forward to this. His cock is incredibly thick and I worry that my mouth isn't up for the task, being so out of practice.

Turns out, sucking a thick cock is like riding a bike. You just don't forget how. I look up at Page from my kneeling position and stick out my tongue, taking one long lick from the base to the head. I'm rewarded with a little twitch, and, deciding to commit wholeheartedly (the little slut in me can't deny how much she loves this), I swallow the whole shaft in one motion, gagging a little when the head touches the back of my throat. I work up a rhythm, making sure to use my hands to play with his balls and hold the base of his dick firmly. Soft wet sounds come from my mouth and a mixture of spit and precum leaks from my lips. I feel his balls tighten and suddenly he grabs my hair, first shoving my face into his pelvic bone, crushing my nose to his body and causing me to choke. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, smearing my makeup. Just as quickly, Page yanks me back off his cock and up to a standing position.

He roughly shoves a hand up my skirt, slapping the insides of my thighs, hard. "Open your legs, slut..." he snarls, and I shudder a little as I spread my legs, leaning back on the desk a little for support as I do.

Page pulls down the thin red thong I'm wearing, and slides two fingers into me easily, using the other hand to yank my head back by my hair. I hate how hot and wet I know I am, but I can't help it, it's like he has some roadmap of my inner workings, pointing directly to the places that set me on fire.

"You want it, don't you, you little slut?" He snarls, pinching my nipples over the top of my clothes, fingers working relentlessly inside me. I'm already starting to shiver, my breath quickening, I'm really close to coming, the sex crazed slut that I apparently am making herself known.

He pulls his fingers out of my pussy, and brings them to my mouth. "Lick me clean." Taken over by some wild lust, I grab his wrist and hungrily slobber all over his hand, sucking the taste of myself off of his fingers enthusiastically.

"Back on your knees." He shoves me down and starts to ruthlessly fuck my face. No subtlety, no finesse, just selfish need. I comply, opening my throat as much as possible and letting his hard length fill my mouth, breathing through my nose and concentrating on keeping my teeth covered. He comes then, deep and achingly hard, pumping spurt after spurt of hot come in the back of my throat, so much that I struggle to swallow it all. Page leaves me heaving on the office floor, zipping up and walking out, leaving the office for the evening.

"See you tomorrow, bright and early," he says as he closes the door. "Wear the black mesh stuff tomorrow, with the garters."

+++

After the blowjob in the office, I knew there was no turning back.

Page had seen me for what I was; I had utterly failed at burying my true nature. All the trappings of my perfect suburban housewife, vanilla-sex enjoying life are a farce, now exposed to his ruthless gaze. I cried the whole drive home, mostly because I had to admit that I had fucking loved every second of that little encounter earlier.

I pull up to the home Mark and I share, thanking my lucky stars that he wasn't home yet. Rushing to the master bathroom, I tear off my clothes and the slutty lingerie, chucking it in the laundry room. For the first time ever, I'm thankful that Mark doesn't do laundry. I turn the shower on the hottest setting my skin can take, hoping the water with somehow wash away the fact that I'm a whore now. In fact, it does the opposite. I can't stop thinking about having my face fucked by my boss. The sounds he made, the way his cock had thickened in my throat, his hands in my hair, crushing me, tears leaking from my eyes. And I had been so close to coming when he was fingering me... I can't help it. The showerhead is there, I'm fucking keyed up. I have to get off. I turn the detachable showerhead on "pulse" and lean against the tile of the shower, holding the stream of water about 6 inches away from my clit. It only takes about 30 seconds before I'm shaking all over and coming, my legs giving out. I feel worse instead of better. Not only am I letting Page fuck me, and enjoying it, but now I'm thinking about him when I masturbate. I'm in over my fucking head, I think as I turn the shower off and step out into the bathroom.

I give a loud scream as I realize I'm not alone. For a moment, I think it's Page, that he'd somehow broken into my house to completely ruin my life. Maybe he said, fuck the blackmail plan, I've fucked her, I'll still tell her husband. My heart thumps so hard it feels like it will pound through my chest.

"Honey? Are you in here? It's so foggy!" Mark's voice calls from the doorway.

I swallow, hard, trying to make my voice steady. "Yeah, sweetie, I'm here. I just needed a hot shower. You scared me!"

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to say hi," he says, sweetly. That's Mark. Always. So. Fucking. Sweet. I sort of hate him in this moment.

"Oh. Well, hi." I say, lamely, walking into our bedroom, drying my hair with a towel. My phone is on our bedside table and it buzzes. I stand at our dresser, putting on yoga pants and a tank top. It buzzes again, impatient for me to check a new message. Mark lifts an eyebrow at me as he unbuttons his work shirt.

"Gonna get that, Z?" He asks.

"Hm? Oh, yeah." I walk over and pick up my phone, and see Page's cell phone number with the message to meet him outside my house in 15 minutes. All of the blood drains from my face. Mark, of course, the sweet and attentive man that he is, notices.

"Everything ok? Looks like you've seen a ghost!"

I try to laugh but it sounds like I'm wheezing. "Ha. Oh. No, it's fine. It's... Cindy. From work. She wants to grab a drink. I'm gonna just tell her I'm busy tonight." I try to give Mark a playful, flirty smile. It feels like a grimace.

I lose the texting war with Page, trying to say no, but after several back and forth messages, he says he's already on his way and that I'd better be outside waiting. The whole time it's happening, I pace the bedroom like a caged animal. Mark, luckily, has taken an interest in online poker lately and retires to his office to play some Texas Hold 'em. While his wife fucks her boss. By the side of the house, in plain view of any neighbors who would care to look.

Then I'm outside, pretending to take out the trash, which has approximately 4 cotton balls and some dryer lint in it. I see Page pull up and get out of the car, looking especially predatory in this personal setting. "You seriously cannot be here," I whisper frantically, "this has to end. Please..." My pleas are cut off when he grabs me and takes me to the side of the house by force, crushing his mouth over mine once we're in the darkness of the small alley next to my garage. I don't resist. I don't really want to resist. I want him to fuck me like he hates me, which I don't verbalize, but seems to intuitively know, and he's certainly up to the task.

He turns me around, yanking my yoga pants down to my knees, pushing my head into the wall, thrusting into my pussy in one fluid motion, meeting no resistance, my warm, wet depths inviting him, driving him to fuck me relentlessly. The idea that sweet, gentle Mark is sitting at his desk inside, barely 4 meters away, while my boss fucks me relentlessly, pumping me full of come, sends me over the edge. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he made me come, so I bite his hand but give no other indication. Page orgasms violently then, muttering about filling me with come and sending me back to my husband, but I barely hear him. He slips out of me and I stand, yank my pants back up and walk away, without a single backward glance.