Her Fiancé's Boss Becomes Her Beloved Bull

Rosa was twenty-one, and she had never been shy about what her body wanted. At a hundred and fifty-five centimeters she had to tilt her chin to meet most men’s eyes, but the rest of her made up for the height: a plush, narrow-waisted figure, heavy 34DD breasts that shifted under silk when she walked, and a river of curly scarlet-red hair that spilled past her waist and kept going, the ends brushing the tops of her thighs beneath the curve of her ass. She wore it loose on purpose. She liked the weight of it. She liked the way people looked and then looked again.

She loved Xavier. That was the simple truth under everything else. He was twenty-seven, kind in the way that didn’t perform kindness, and he worked five corporate levels below the general manager’s suite in the same downtown tower. She had said yes to his proposal because she wanted a life with him, not a performance of one. She also knew, with the same clear honesty, that her body had started answering to someone else.

Franklin was fifty-five. He had been her father’s best friend since before she could remember, a broad-shouldered man with silver at his temples and a voice that settled low in a room. He was not her father. He had never been anything but a family friend who shook her hand at holidays and asked about her classes once she was grown. The want had not existed before she was an adult; it had arrived this year, sharp and specific, the first time she watched him roll his sleeves in the executive conference room and felt her thighs press together under the table. He could have been old enough to father her fiancé. He was not. He was simply the man whose cock she had started dreaming about with embarrassing clarity.

She did not hide the dream from Xavier. One night in their apartment she sat on his lap, scarlet curls pooled in his hands, and told him she was attracted to Franklin and wanted to go to him. She said she would never mock Xavier, never parade another man in front of him to make him small. She loved him. She also knew she would prefer Franklin’s cock if she ever had it, and she would not lie about that either. Xavier had gone quiet, then kissed her forehead and said he trusted her. If she wanted it, and if Franklin wanted it, and if nobody’s job was the price of anybody’s body, he could live with a wife who came home glowing. He asked only that she come home to him. She promised.

So on a Thursday she took the elevator to the top floor after the building had emptied, heart steady, panties already damp. Franklin’s assistant was gone. The door to the general manager’s office stood open on a spill of city light. He looked up from a stack of reports, fifty-five and solid in a charcoal suit, and the want moved through her like heat.

“Rosa.” His eyes traveled the length of her hair and came back to her face. “It’s late.”

“I asked to see you. I’m not here about a deadline.” She stepped in and closed the door herself. “I’m twenty-one. You’re fifty-five. You’re my father’s best friend, and you’re five floors of title above the man I’m going to marry. I need you to hear me before you decide anything.”

He set the pen down. “I’m listening.”

“I love Xavier. I am not here to trade my body for his promotion, and I won’t do it if that’s what you think this is. His career is his. If you advance him, do it because his work is good. If you don’t, do that because the work isn’t ready. None of that is why I came up.” Her voice didn’t shake. “I came up because I want you. I’ve wanted your cock for months. I want to be your cock sleeve. I want you to use me as your cum dumpster whenever I ask you to, and I’m asking. I will never humiliate Xavier. I adore him. I also know I’d rather have you inside me than anyone else. If you want that too, say so. If you don’t, I’ll leave, and tomorrow will be an ordinary Friday.”

Franklin was quiet long enough that she felt the carpet under her heels. Then he stood, came around the desk, and stopped an arm’s length away, giving her the room to step back. She didn’t.

“Your job is safe either way,” he said. “His is too. I don’t buy sex, and I don’t sell promotions. What I do want, if you’re sure, is you. I’ve been trying not to look at you like this since you started coming to the Thursday briefings. You’re an adult. You’re asking. I’m saying yes.”

The relief was so bright it made her laugh. “Then stop standing so far away.”

He closed the distance. One large hand gathered a rope of scarlet curls and let it spill through his fingers, the ends swinging against the back of her thigh. “Say it again. What you want from me.”

“I want to be your hotwife,” she said, the word tasting filthy and exact. “Your bull. Your devoted sleeve. I prefer your cock already, and I haven’t even had it. Use me. Don’t make me beg for permission to want you. I already do.”

His mouth found hers. The kiss was not careful. It was deep, slow, and thorough, the kind of kiss a man gives when he has decided to take his time and also to take everything offered. Rosa rose onto her toes, 34DD breasts crushed to his chest, and opened for him. His tongue stroked hers. She moaned into it and felt him smile against her mouth.

“After hours,” he said. “Door locked. You can stop me with one word. What word?”

“Red. I won’t need it. But it’s red.”

“Good girl.” He locked the door. The click sounded like a beginning.

They talked before they undressed, because she had insisted on the talking and he had liked her for it. She perched on the edge of his desk, skirt rucked high, and told him she craved the thickness she could already see straining his trousers, the experience in his hands, the way he filled a room without raising his voice. She told him she would still go home and kiss Xavier goodnight, and that Franklin was not allowed to speak about her fiancé as if he were a joke. Franklin nodded, thumbs stroking the insides of her knees.

“I don’t need to shrink him to want you,” he said. “I want this body. I want this hair in my fist. I want to watch these breasts bounce while I fuck you and hear you tell me the truth about whose cock you prefer. That’s enough.”

“Then praise me and put your hands on me.” Her cheeks were flushed. “I’ve been wet since the elevator.”

He praised her without performing it. He told her the scarlet curls made her look like something a man should ruin and then thank. He weighed her breasts through the blouse, thumbs finding nipples already tight, and groaned when she arched into his palms. He slid one hand under the skirt, past the soaked crotch of her panties, and sank two fingers into her with an ease that made her gasp. She was tight and dripping. He worked her slowly, curling, watching her face.

“Franklin—”

“Ask.”

“Claim me. Be my bull. Fuck your little sleeve. I’m consenting. I’m begging. Please.”

He kissed her again, filthier, and drew his fingers out shining. She caught his wrist and sucked them clean, eyes on his, and the sound he made was the first crack in his control.

In the luxurious office, with the city glittering beyond the glass and the door locked, Rosa slid off the desk and went to her knees on the rug. The long curls cascaded around her, pooling on the wool, some of them still brushing the lower curve of her ass even as she knelt. She opened his belt with steady hands. When his cock sprang free she actually whimpered.

It was thick. Heavy. Longer than Xavier’s, darker along the shaft, the head broad and already wet at the slit. Veins stood along it. It looked like it had been used well for decades and still had no interest in being gentle unless asked. She wrapped both hands around the base and still had inches left. Her mouth watered.

“This,” she said, almost reverent. “This is what I prefer. God, Franklin. Look at it.”

“Then worship it.”

She did. She licked the underside from root to tip, slow, then took the head between her lips and moaned at the taste of salt and skin. She bobbed, wetting him, letting spit shine the shaft, and when she was ready she pushed deeper. The head hit the back of her throat. She gagged, eyes watering, and did not pull off. She wanted the gag. She wanted him to feel her choose it. Franklin gathered the scarlet mass of her hair in one fist, not yanking, holding, and guided her rhythm.

“Easy. Breathe. There. That’s my good sleeve.”

She sucked him with hungry, wet sounds, cheeks hollowing, 34DD breasts swaying in the open blouse she had tugged down herself. Every time she gagged she came back for more, saliva stringing from her chin to his cock, mascara starting to soften at the corners of her eyes. She stroked what she couldn’t swallow and looked up at him, fifty-five years of restraint burning off his face.

“You love this,” he said.

She pulled off with a gasp, lips swollen. “I love being your cock sleeve. I love Xavier. I love this cock more than I love coming. Put it in my throat again.”

He did, slower, deeper, until her nose brushed the hair at his base and her throat fluttered around him. He held her there for a three-count, then let her up. She coughed, smiled, and went back down. When his thighs started to shake he drew her off.

“Not in your mouth the first time. I want the rest of you. Up. Bend over the desk.”

She stood on shaky legs. He turned her, bent her over the polished wood, and flipped her skirt up. The panties came down to her ankles. Her ass was full and pale in the office light, her pussy glistening, swollen, begging. The endless red curls spilled across the blotter and over the edge, a scarlet curtain he pushed aside so he could see her face turned to the side, cheek on the wood, mouth open.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want your bull cock in my tight pussy. Fuck me. I’m yours to use. Please, Franklin, please—”

He pressed the broad head to her entrance and sank in. The stretch stole her breath. He was so much thicker that her cunt had to open in stages, a hot, relentless give, and she clawed the desk and moaned like she had been waiting her whole adult life for exactly this ache. When he bottomed out, hips flush to her ass, she laughed once, broken and delighted.

“Better,” she gasped. “It’s better. Oh God, it’s so much better. Don’t you dare go easy.”

He didn’t. He gripped her hip with one hand and a fistful of curls with the other and pounded her from behind. The desk creaked. Her heavy breasts swung and slapped under her, 34DD flesh bouncing with every thrust. Wet sounds filled the office, obscene and steady. He fucked her deep, experienced, angling until the head dragged over the spot that made her toes curl in her heels.

“Whose cock do you prefer?”

“Yours. Franklin’s. My bull’s. I love Xavier, I love him, and I prefer this—ah—this thick cock ruining me. Use your dumpster. Fill me. I’m not ashamed. I’m grateful.”

He praised her while he wrecked her. Told her she was perfect, tight, devoted, the best thing to bend over his desk in thirty years of offices. Told her she could love her fiancé and still milk a bull dry. She came the first time with a sharp cry, pussy clamping, thighs shaking, and he didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, then pulled out while she was still fluttering, turned her, and sat her on the desk’s edge.

“Tits. I want them.”

She understood. She spat into her cleavage, pushed the huge breasts together around his glistening cock, and let him fuck the soft channel of them. The head kept emerging at the top, shiny, and she ducked to lick it each time it surfaced, scarlet curls stuck to her sweaty shoulders and stuck to his wrists where he held her hair back so he could watch. He groaned her name. She smiled up at him, filthy and fond.

“You can come on them if you want. Or in me. I’m your cum dumpster. I mean it. I want to be marked.”

“Inside,” he said, voice rough. “First load inside. Lie back.”

She did, missionary on the wide desk, legs wrapping his waist, heels crossing at the small of his back. He slid home again and the angle was deeper, almost too much, perfect. She held his face and kissed him while he fucked her, open-mouthed, grateful. Her breasts bounced against his chest. Her hair fanned across invoices and a closed laptop, a scandal of red. She told him again that she preferred him, that Xavier had her heart and her promise and Franklin had her cunt, and that both things were true at once. He treated her like something cherished and something used: kissing her throat, then pinning her wrists, then murmuring that she was his personal sleeve, his to keep, his to fill.

He came with a low, broken sound, buried to the hilt, pulsing. Heat flooded her. She locked her ankles and held him there, milking, whispering yes, yes, dump it in me, I’m yours. The orgasm rolled through her a second time just from the feeling of being filled, smaller and sweeter, her whole body going soft under his.

They did not stop at one.

He stayed inside while he softened, kissing her slowly, one hand stroking the sweat-damp curls off her forehead. When he thickened again—slower, fifty-five and stubborn and still hungry—she laughed against his mouth and told him to take another round. He carried her to the leather couch, her petite frame easy in his arms, and laid her down. She climbed on top and rode him, palms on his chest, hair a curtain around them both, breasts swaying in his hands. She set the pace until her thighs burned, then begged him to flip her and take over. He did, on her back again, her legs over his shoulders this time so he could watch his cock disappear into the creamy mess he had already left. She was louder. She was filthier. She told him she wanted this every week, that she would schedule herself as his after-hours sleeve, that she would go home full and still love the man waiting there.

He fucked her tits a second time on the couch, slick with her and with him, and finished that round across her chest and throat in heavy stripes because she asked to wear it a little while. Then, because she asked again, he pushed back into her soaked pussy and gave her a third, slower pounding, missionary, her arms around his neck, his mouth on hers, until he groaned and added another thick load to the first. She was overflowing. Cum slicked her thighs. It striped her breasts. It clung in a glossy line along one scarlet curl that had fallen across her collarbone. She looked wrecked and radiant.

After, he didn’t rush her. He fetched a warm cloth from the private washroom and cleaned what she asked him to clean, leaving what she asked him to keep. She sat in his lap in the big chair, naked except for the open blouse, head on his shoulder, hair covering them both like a blanket. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, the way he had at the start, and she kissed him back with genuine satisfaction softening every sound she made.

“I’m your devoted cock sleeve,” she said against his mouth. “Your beloved bull’s dumpster. I meant every word. I still love Xavier. I didn’t come here to hurt him, and I won’t. I came here because I prefer this.” She squeezed him gently, feeling him twitch, spent and heavy. “And I was right.”

“You were honest,” he said. “That’s what I want from you. Come back when you want. Not because anyone’s career depends on it. Because you want my cock and I want to give it to you.”

“Tomorrow,” she said, already smiling, already scheming. “Lunch. I’ll wear a skirt and no panties. You’ll lock this door for twenty minutes and bend me over the credenza, and then I’ll go back downstairs and do my job, and you’ll do yours, and Xavier’s review will be about Xavier’s work. At seven I’ll be here again if you text me the word sleeve. I’ll kneel before you even sit down.”

Franklin’s hand settled possessively in her hair. “Sleeve,” he said, testing it. “I’ll text it.”

She dressed slowly, cum still warm inside her, a secret weight she had chosen. In the elevator she fixed her lipstick and left the rest of the ruin alone under her clothes. The long curls hid the mark on her throat. She looked like a woman who had gotten exactly what she asked for.

At the apartment Xavier was on the couch with a folder of notes, twenty-seven and tired and glad to see her. She crossed the room, climbed into his lap the way she always did, and kissed him softly, cleanly, with all the love she had promised not to counterfeit. He searched her face. She didn’t flinch.

“It was good,” she said. “I wanted it. He was kind. He was clear that your work is your work. I prefer his cock, Xavier. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I also prefer coming home to you. I love you. Nothing about tonight was meant to make you smaller.”

He exhaled, arms around her waist, careful of her hair. “You look happy.”

“I am.” She tucked her face into his neck, already turning the next day over in her mind like a stone she meant to keep. Lunch. The credenza. The word sleeve at seven. Maybe she’d bring the red lipstick he liked and leave it on Franklin’s cock before she swallowed him. Maybe she’d ask Franklin to hold her hair the whole time and tell her again that she could love one man and crave another without either of those truths canceling. She smiled against Xavier’s skin, full, sore, and plotting, a devoted hotwife already hungry for her bull’s next text.