Intern's Secret Stepdaddy Craving

Magnus was thirty-five, a senior account executive who could sell a story to anyone except, it turned out, himself. He had noticed Fiona on her third day, eighteen and a college freshman intern with a gold cross at her throat and a quiet way of standing that made the whole floor seem louder. She was not his intern. Danielle ran the intern program out of media relations; Magnus lived in accounts. They shared a coffee machine, a late elevator once, and a look that lasted one second too long.

She had a boyfriend back home. She mentioned him the way other people mentioned the weather, shrugging, pious little smile, as if the fact of him were a completed chore. She was a virgin. She still went to Mass. She had asked Magnus for his number after a Thursday all-hands, not for a recommendation, and her eyes had dropped to his mouth when she said it.

The first texts were almost careful. Then she stopped being careful, because she did not want to be.

You look at me like you already know, she wrote at 12:41 a.m. I'm supposed to be good. Catholic girl. Boyfriend. Saving it. And I keep thinking about your hands.

Magnus, in his apartment, set the phone down and picked it up again. You don't have to do this.

I want to, she sent. I want to be a dirty little slut for a handsome older man. I want it to be you. I keep touching myself thinking about it. Tell me that's allowed.

It was allowed because she asked. Because she named it. Because the craving sat in her messages like a confession she was proud of, innocence and filth braided together, and she kept pulling the braid tighter every night while he answered her, never first, always after she reached.

By the second week the texts had teeth. She described her small tits in the dark of her studio apartment, how the nipples went tight when she thought of him, how her body was smooth all over except the place she was still deciding about. She sent no photos until she offered them, teasing lines about the shape of her, the way her skirt rode up at her desk when she crossed her legs and thought of him sitting forty feet away, pretending to work.

I want to explore it with you, she wrote. The slutty side. I want you to see it. Tell me what you'd make me do if I belonged to you after hours.

He asked, carefully, if she would shave for him. Bare. Completely. She answered in under a minute. Yes. Tonight. I want you to feel how smooth I got it just for you.

She did. The next morning she brushed past him at the copier with a look that was all heat and no accident, and later, in the men's room stall, he found a folded square of pale pink cotton she had slipped into his jacket pocket, still faintly damp, smelling like her. A sticky note in her tight handwriting: Wear them or use them. I want to watch. I want your cock in my panties. Meet me after everyone leaves. Conference three. I already told Danielle I'm finishing a deck. I'm begging you. Please.

He texted her from his desk. You sure. This isn't work. This is you and me. You can stop me with a word.

I don't want a word that stops you, she sent back. I want you to take it. I want a dominant older man. I want to call you daddy when you fuck me. I've never been fucked. I want it to be you. I want you wearing my panties when you do it. I want you to ruin me for him. Say yes.

Yes, he wrote, and meant every letter of it.

Conference three locked with a click she made herself, standing on her toes to throw the bolt, eighteen and already breathing like she had been running. The city hummed far below the glass. Fiona's blouse was half-unbuttoned before she even turned around, small tits high and tight, nipples the color of the inside of a shell, the gold cross still resting between them as if it had been invited to watch.

"Show me," she whispered. "I brought another pair. These are soaked. I sat through three meetings like this."

She stepped out of her heels and hooked her thumbs in the waist of her skirt, pushing it down. The panties she handed him were tiny, pale, the crotch darkened and clinging. Magnus's cock was already thick against his zipper. She watched his face while he stripped, watched him work the damp silk up over his heavy shaft and balls until the fabric stretched obscenely around him, a glistening little hammock of her own making. She made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob.

"Daddy," she tried, tasting it, eyes bright. "Does that work? Do you like your dirty intern calling you that?"

"Say it again."

"Daddy. Please. Let me touch it."

She dropped to her knees on the conference-room carpet without being told and took the panty-wrapped cock in both hands, stroking him through the wet silk, the friction filthy and perfect, her small fists working the fabric up and down until it shone. Magnus bent, one hand in her hair, and sucked a small nipple into his mouth, then the other, drawing hard enough that she whimpered and stroked faster. Her shaved cunt was right there when he looked down past her chest, smooth as poured cream, flushed, a neat split already gleaming. She had done exactly what he asked. She had done it because she wanted to be seen doing it.

"Get up," he said. "Over the table. If you want this, you say it."

"I want it," Fiona said, already moving, already spreading, cheek to the cool wood, ass tipped up, virgin cunt presented like an offering she had rehearsed in her head for nights. "Fuck me, daddy. Keep my panties on your cock. I want to feel them when you go in. I want you to wreck me so I can't pretend for him anymore."

He set the head against her, the stretched cotton a slick second skin, and pushed. She was tight enough to hurt them both, a hot clinging clamp that made his vision white at the edges. She gasped, fingers clawing the far edge of the table, and shoved back anyway, taking more, insisting.

"Yes—god—daddy, don't stop, I asked for this, I want all of it—"

He gave her all of it. Inch by thick inch, her freshly shaved cunt swallowing him while the panties rode up around the base of his shaft, soaked through now with her and with him. When he was seated she made a broken little noise and reached back to touch the place they were joined, feeling the silk bunched there, feeling how filthy it was.

"Move," she begged. "Hard. I didn't wait eighteen years to be treated like glass. Ruin me. Tell me I'm your slut."

He fucked her. Deep, rolling strokes that made the table legs stutter on the carpet, her small tits mashed to the wood, the gold cross ticking against the surface. Every thrust dragged the wet panties along his cock and against her stretched rim. She was loud in the sealed room, moaning daddy on every pass, the word turning into a chant, a plea, a filthy liturgy that would have made her priest faint.

"Daddy—daddy, your cock, it's so big in me, I'm your dirty little office slut, I shaved it bare so you'd feel how I belong to you, don't you dare be gentle—"

He wasn't. He gripped her hips and used her the way she had asked to be used, pounding her tight virgin cunt until she went slicker, until the sound of it was obscene, wet, relentless. She came first with a shocked cry, clenching so hard around him that the panties slipped and clung, her whole body shaking, still shoving back for more. He kept going. She kept calling him daddy. She kept begging him to ruin her for the boy at home, to fuck his cum so deep she'd feel it in church, to make her his secret.

"I'm going to fill you," he growled against her spine. "You want that."

"I want it. Daddy, please, come in me, come in my panties, I want to wear you home—"

He buried himself and let go, pulsing hard, flooding her while the stretched silk around his cock caught the overflow, turning translucent with it. She trembled through it, whispering daddy, daddy, yes, like a girl reciting something she had wanted too long to be ashamed of anymore.

He stayed in her until the aftershocks eased. Then he pulled out slowly, the panties still on him, heavy now, ruined in the best way. He eased them off his cock, knelt, and used the cum-soaked crotch to wipe her dripping bare pussy with a gentleness that made her sigh, cleaning her in slow passes, gathering what had leaked, pressing the fabric against her clit until she twitched and laughed under her breath. He stood, kissed her deeply, tasting her mouth like a secret they were both keeping on purpose.

Fiona smiled against his lips. She took the messy panties from his hand and stepped into them, pulling the wet, cum-heavy silk up under her skirt so his seed sat against her shaved cunt, a filthy private heat she would carry through the night. She buttoned her blouse over her small tits, crossed still resting in the hollow, and leaned in to whisper at his ear, voice gone soft and wrecked and happy.

"I can't wait to text you later about being daddy's secret little office slut."

She rode the elevator down with his cum cooling between her thighs and her boyfriend's unread good-night sitting like a gravestone on her lock screen.