Celine was a boss, through and through. She had risen through the ranks of Boss Girls Productions with a cold, calculating ease that left many of her contemporaries in awe. Today, she found herself perched upon the edge of a desk, one perfectly manicured leg swinging carefree in the air as she surveyed her domain.
Her assistant, a nameless drone in a cheap suit, trembled before her. He had been put in his place early on in their association—Celine was the one calling the shots, and he existed only to facilitate her every whim. It was a role he loathed, but one he couldn't escape.
"Celine," he stammered, attempting to make eye contact with his superior. "There's a problem with the—"
But before he could finish his sentence, Celine's cold gaze fell upon him. "I don't care," she spat, her tone like ice. "Just make it work."
With that, she turned her back on him, hiking up her skirt to reveal a pair of freshly laundered, pink cotton panties. The scent of her expensive perfume wafted over to him, taunting his senses. He watched, helpless, as she slowly lowered herself onto the desk, her soft underwear crinkling in the silence.
His mind flashed back to the first time she'd made him service her like this—on the cold, hard concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse. She'd been wearing a pair of black leather pants then, her sandy blonde hair tied up in a tight bun. She'd been in control then, too, but there was something different about her now.
Shifting slightly, he caught a glimpse of what it was: a mischievous grin playing about her lips. It sent a shiver down his spine. Celine wasn't just dominant; she was sadistic. And she loved to torment him, right before his very eyes.
With that thought in mind, he watched as she spread her legs wide, giving him a clear view of her pussy. Her red lace thong barely covered it, leaving little to the imagination. His cock twitched in his pants, aching for a taste of her. But Celine wasn't known for giving her slaves what they wanted—she was all about taking, and taking plenty.
Suddenly, she leaned forward, her hands planted firmly on the desk as she arched her back in invitation. "Come on," she purred, her voice a low growl. "I know you want it."
And he did. He wanted to taste her, to feel her reprimand him with a slap across the face. He wanted her to make him beg for it, to plead with her to let him worship her perfect body. But he knew better than to move without permission.
"Stay put," she snapped, finally looking over her shoulder at him. Her gaze held him in place, pinning him to the spot like a butterfly on a board. "I'm in charge here, remember?"
With that, she pushed herself off the desk, rising gracefully to her feet. Her pink jeans, clinging tightly to her ass, screamed "FUCK ME!" even as they taunted him. And then she was gone, leaving him there to clean up the mess she'd made.
Flexing his sore jaw, he finished gathering up the papers scattered across the floor and placed them neatly on the desk. Celine was an enigma, one that he didn't think he'd ever understand. But he knew one thing for sure: he'd always come back for more. Because despite the pain, the humiliation, and the emasculation, there was something about serving her that made him feel alive.
