𝓳𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓾𝔁 franklin saint x black!reader
૮ ․ ․ ྀིა 12k words — set in LA Beverly hills in 09, rich!business man!franklin saint x black!fem!reader , age gap - ( reader is 21 , Franklin is 30 ) porn with plot , Rough Sex , Daddy kink, veryyyy long read , multiple parts coming , this is for a mature audience , please read with caution !
This job didn't really feel like a...job.
You didn't have to abide by a certain dress code, you didn't work around only women , the building was beautiful, and the first day you arrived for the interview, you wore a black skirt with matching stockings and heels and a white long-sleeve top to balance it out—nothing too revealing, nothing too vulnerable, just a blank slate. Your hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail , so taut it made your temples throb, but there was something satisfying about the control of it. and The black-framed glasses weren't prescription, but they made people trust you. Smile wide. Lip gloss is subtle. You'd rehearsed it in the mirror. Professional. Approachable. Just enough. You couldn't help but be excited.
The building was enormous—a towering monolith of glass and steel. Inside, it was a time capsule sealed in style. The decor hadn't been updated since the 1970s, but not in the way of disrepair—more like reverence. Golden-hued lighting bathed everything in a soft, cinematic glow. Velvet chairs in jewel tones sat beneath smoked glass tables. Brass fixtures caught the light like secrets. The air smelled faintly of aged leather and expensive cologne, like the ghosts of men who once closed deals with handshakes and half-truths still lingered in the wallpaper. It was retro, yes, but effortlessly, arrestingly beautiful. Like stepping into a beautiful memory .
The woman who greeted you was tall, alabaster-pale, and sculpted into her perfectly pressed ivory suit like she'd been born in it. Her hair was lacquered into place, not a single strand out of line, and her heels clicked with surgical precision as she walked—sharp, efficient, utterly devoid of hesitation. She didn't smile. She didn't need to.
She guided you past the front lobby, a space so unnervingly quiet it bordered on the sacred. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was pressurized. The hum of office phones rang out in soft, rhythmic pulses, like a heartbeat barely holding on. Somewhere behind frosted glass, voices murmured—thin, bloodless conversations spoken in fragments, too hushed to decode. No laughter. No interruptions. Just the mechanical whisper of a machine well-oiled and too proud to acknowledge its own humanity.
Her eyes—those eyes—slid over you like she was appraising livestock. No warmth. No welcome. Just a quick inventory. Your shoes. Your posture. The way you held your purse like it was armor. Her gaze was clinical, transactional, the kind of look someone gives a thing they're considering purchasing—not a person, a product. She didn't bother with a smile. She nodded. Once. Like she'd already met ten versions of you and decided you were just another mold from the same batch.
18th floor.
The elevator ride was long. Too long. The silence felt oppressive, like the air was thick with something unseen, something waiting. It binged like the pulse of a dying animal. When the doors opened, you were hit with the sharp, cold sting of perfection. Marble floors. 70s walls. A decor that screamed luxury, A hallway extended in four directions, each path ending in a sealed door—identical, marked with a gold nameplate. Outside every door sat a single desk, and behind each desk, a woman. Perfect posture. Impeccable grooming. Typing with the precision of gunfire. Their fingers danced across the keys in exact, rhythmic motion, inhuman in their steadiness, like they'd rehearsed this moment to death.
They didn't look up. Not really.
One of them glanced at you—brief, slicing, surgical. Eyes like frosted glass.
Your stomach flipped. Not a flutter. A full inversion. That sick, hot tumble of instinct trying to speak before your brain can form words. But you kept walking, heels clicking across the marble like you belonged here. Because you needed the job. Because "figuring it out" doesn't pay rent, and retail was starting to feel like a punchline to a joke you'd already heard too many times.
Your landlord was hiking the rent again—like your building had suddenly earned the right to call itself luxury just because they painted over the mold and installed a broken security camera in the stairwell. Going back home wasn't an option. You couldn't stomach your mother's passive-aggressive sighs or your father's not-so-subtle lectures about "readiness" and "real-world responsibility." They still talked about you like you were a kid who wandered too far from the sandbox. Moving back would only make them right.
You heard about the job from Vince. Your sister's boyfriend. The guy who drank straight from the bottle and always smelled like car grease and weed. He said his friend needed a secretary. Some executive downtown. Something vague and high-paying. You didn't ask questions. You just said, "Tell him I'm interested."
Next morning: bing. Inbox. One new message. An email dressed up like an invitation to a secret club. Subject line: "Thank you for your interest in FS Enterprises."
No job description. No bullet points or salary range. No qualifications or application portal. Just a single line dripping with urgency: "Show up here Friday."
No signature. Just an address. Downtown, where all the high-profile politicians and businessmen are.
You Googled. Nothing.
You searched and searched. Still nothing.
No company website. No mission statement. No reviews. Just a trail of digital dust—like the whole thing had been scrubbed clean or had never existed to begin with.
And still, you got dressed. Still, you showed up. Because your sister trusted Vince, and Vince didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd sell you into something.
Not on purpose, anyway.
Right?
Your fingers gripped the folder tighter in your hands as you walked toward the door at the end of the hall. Heavy wood, dark-stained and polished to a mirror shine. A gold nameplate sat flush in its center, gleaming like it had just been cleaned, though no one ever seemed to touch it. The letters engraved were too clean, Franklin Saint.
You knocked. Three short, quick taps. The sound of someone pretending they weren't terrified.
The silence that followed was too thick, too heavy. You almost felt like the sound of your knuckles hitting the door had been swallowed by the walls. You didn't know what you were walking into. Not really. It was all so surreal—the smell of cologne mixing with the faint undertone of something artificial, like the air had been scrubbed clean of any trace of humanity. The hallway behind you felt a lifetime away, everything shrinking into the space just in front of the door, everything focusing down to that very moment.
You could hear your heart beating in your ears.
And then, the door creaked open, slow, deliberate.
You'd imagined Franklin a hundred different ways, but now that you were here, staring at him, all those versions faded. He was tall, maybe too tall, with a suit that swallowed him whole, sharp and tailored to perfection. His skin was beautifully dark with no imperfections, and his eyes—those eyes— they lit up when they saw you, squinting a little. His smile was bright, white, and straight.
You couldn't help yourself. You smiled back. It was the only thing you could do in that moment, the only thing your body would let you do. Your hands got sweaty, your breath shallow. You were a thousand miles away from the girl you thought you were before you stepped into this room. Now, you were something else—something in-between, trapped in the tension of his gaze. And you couldn't look away. Couldn't stop.
His voice came soft, almost too soft for the size of his frame, "You must be... (❀), right?" His eyes flickered over you, a quick scan that felt like a full-body examination. He smiled more.
You nodded, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Your mouth was dry. You couldn't even remember the last time you’ve been this nervous.
He stepped back, letting the door swing open further, a silent invitation that felt more like a command.
"Come in. We have a lot to discuss."
The door clicked shut behind you, and for that moment, it was just the two of you.
He didn't ask you about your work history. He didn't ask why he should hire you. He didn't even look at the paper you clutched in your hands, the one you had memorized the night before. He didn't care about any of that. Instead, he asked about you about who you were, not what you did. His voice was soft and polite, the words cutting through the air with a precision you could almost feel on your skin. He asked if you were still in school, if you liked it, where you grew up, and if you were from California.
It felt almost casual, like he wasn't trying to dissect you. Like he wasn't testing you. But you could tell that, couldn't you? You could tell he was watching. He was listening not to your answers but to the way you gave them. He wanted to know how you thought and how you felt. What you cared about.
And each time you answered, you found yourself talking longer than you intended, telling him more than you meant to. You rambled about things you loved, about places you'd been, and about the little things that made you feel like you were truly alive. The way the ocean smelled after a rainstorm. The way the sun felt on your skin when you woke up before anyone else did. Why you loved photography. Why you loved fashion. You couldn't stop yourself. You couldn't even try. You were unraveling, piece by piece, and you didn't know how to stitch yourself back together.
He didn't write anything down. He didn't interrupt you. He didn't glance at the clock for the time and didn't look anywhere else but at you. And every time you spoke, every word you let slip, he leaned in a little more. Not physically, no. But emotionally. His eyes locked onto yours, absorbing you. He wasn't just listening. He was consuming.
And all the while, you felt like you were in the middle of a dream—a dream that was beginning to twist, beginning to become something dangerous. You couldn't name it, couldn't put your finger on it, but you knew that in this room, in this space with him, you weren't in control anymore.
And you didn't want to be. Not really.
The interview lasted an hour, but it felt like a reunion with a long-lost friend—someone you'd forgotten you needed, someone you hadn't realized you missed until they walked into the room. You didn't remember exactly when it happened, but somewhere between your rambling answers and his unblinking stare, the clock seemed to disappear.
You stood up to shake his hand, your legs slightly unsteady under you, like you were waking from a dream you hadn't wanted to end. Your mind raced in that final moment—was that enough? Did you say the right things? Did he see through your act? Did he see you as just another ditzy, young girl, spinning in circles, thinking she could handle belonging in a place like this?
But before the doubts could claw their way up your throat—before logic or fear or that sick little voice in the back of your mind could poison the moment—he shattered them. Just like that. His hand found yours, firm and warm, grounding, pulling you back into the room, into your body, like a lifeline tied to something you couldn't quite name.
"Sign these," he said. His voice was smooth in that dangerous way—like silk hiding the blade. He slid three pristine sheets of paper across the desk. Blank. No headers. No legal jargon. Just space. Space waiting for your name.
"Bring them back to me Monday. You'll start then."
And that smile—God, that smile. It didn't sell a job. It sold something else. A promise, maybe. Or a secret you weren't ready to be trusted with. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Your pulse was sprinting. You were vibrating with questions—about the papers, about the man, about what this was.
You didn't know if you wanted to bolt from the room, heart hammering like a warning, or stay and crawl deeper into whatever rabbit hole he was offering.
But your mouth moved before your mind could catch up.
"Mister Saint, are you sure you don't want to look at my resumé—"
He cut you off, clean. Didn't even glance up. just opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and a leather-bound book. The kind that smells expensive. The kind that's meant to hold things you're not supposed to share.
"Here," he said, eyes still bright. "This is all you'll need; go over it and remember everything in it."
You barely heard the next words, not with the way your blood was rushing in your ears.
"What type of computer do you prefer?"
It was the kind of question that made no sense in that moment. You blinked at him, thrown off, suddenly aware of how little you truly knew about this man, about this space, about what was even happening here.
You glanced at the pen in your hand. It was small, silver, and engraved with what looked like a symbol, a logo, but it was so tiny, so simple, you couldn't make out the detail. The book, thick and bound with care, felt heavier in your hand than it should have, like it had weight beyond its pages. But all you could do was stare at him, waiting, trying to process what just happened, trying to figure out how the hell you were supposed to answer that question.
Your voice stuttered out, softer than it had any right to be. "I... usually work with Macs. But I'm flexible."
And then—he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
He nodded, like that was the answer he expected.
"Beautiful," he said. Slowly. Like the words were designed to be unwrapped one syllable at a time. "That's why I chose you."
Your breath caught.
"I'll have something set up for you by Monday," he said, casually. Almost like a favor. Like he was offering you a seat at a table you didn't know existed.
Then his eyes flicked back to yours, and something in his voice curled, slow and deliberate:
"You'll be fine."
Just like that, you were here. three months in. Sitting in front of his door every day, behind a desk that you could do anything with. A blank canvas waiting for you to carve out something real, something personal. You looked at the MacBook Air; you couldn't believe he got it for you, like it was some cheap thing to play with. You placed your small trinkets on the desk. A small plant with deep green leaves, hopeful and stubborn, clinging to the light that never seemed to be enough. A picture of you and your friends, their laughter forever frozen in a frame that suddenly felt like a memory you didn't want to forget. A cup holder, silver star-shaped, And the small stuffed bunny—like an Easter relic.
You liked the space. The lighting. The way the windows let in just enough natural light to make everything feel alive, like it wasn't all just polished steel and glass. The small details grounded you in a way you hadn't expected. The world outside might've been spinning out of control, but this little corner was yours. And that was enough, for now.
The four women sat in front of you; beautiful older figures leaned over their own desks. They didn't speak much to you. No casual introductions, no offers of friendship. They just murmured the occasional "Good morning" as you walked past them every morning to your desk; they'd talk to each other, laughing and gossiping. Your heel clicks a little heavier, a little more uncertain. You were always a few minutes late. Never much of a punctual person. And every time you passed them, you felt their eyes on you, their glances lingering longer than necessary. But they never said anything, and you never asked.
You sat at your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, your mind a little too distracted to focus on anything "important." You thought you'd be dealing with endless emails—replying in that perfect, overly polite tone that corporate types love. Or maybe scheduling meetings for Saint, organizing his calendar like you'd seen secretaries do in the movies. But nope. None of that.
Instead, your day started off with coffee and a doughnut. His coffee, just the way he liked it: black, no frills. And the doughnut—glazed and sweet, the kind that makes you feel like you're doing something right. You gave it to him with a smile, like a ritual offering, and he took it from your hands like it meant something.
His fingers brushed yours—accidental, probably. But they lingered. His eyes met yours. They didn't just see you. They read you.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
Simple question. Too simple. But the way he said it—it unzipped something in your chest.
"I'm okay," you said, soft, almost shy. Your smile slipped out on instinct, like it had been waiting for permission.
He watched you smile. Really watched. And then he nodded, slow, like he already knew the answer before you gave it.
You let him in at ten o'clock. A man in a charcoal suit, cologne too expensive, nerves twitching in the corners of his mouth. Mister Saint didn't rush. Didn't bark orders. He just stood when he was ready, nodded once, and disappeared behind the door with the man trailing behind him like a child being summoned by his father.
It was quiet. Peaceful, almost. You took a moment, enjoying the stillness, the calmness of the space. You didn't have to fake it. It wasn't a rush of anxiety or pressure. Just... you. And a desk.
You tapped the keys, barely noticing the rhythm. A soft click-click that soothed your nerves more than it should. Instead of working, you found yourself scrolling through clothing websites. You didn't need anything, but hey, it was fun to look. So many pretty dresses and shoes that made you feel all sorts of ways—cute, fun, alive. You had the money for what you were scrolling past now, the way Franklin was paying you. You're imagining what you'd look like in them. A little daydream, a little fantasy.
Maybe he'd like this skirt.
Maybe he'd hate it.
But notice? Oh, he'd notice.
Your lips curled. Just a little.
You didn't ask how old he was. Didn't need to. Thirty-something. Close enough to know better. Far enough to ruin you.
And you?
You were starving.
You drooled.
Not in the cute, girly way either. No, you thirsted. Hard. Quiet. Secret. Like an addiction that made your palms sweat and your stomach tighten. Every time he walked into the room, your spine snapped straight like you'd been caught doing something wrong. Because you were. At least in your head.
I mean, who wouldn't?
Franklin Saint was perfect. Not in the glossy, magazine way. No, this wasn't boy-band pretty. This was grown-man, carved-from-concrete perfection. Big. Broad shoulders under tailored suits. Thick forearms veined like tree roots. Biceps you wanted to lay your head against after he ruined you.
He looked like he could pick you up without effort—over the shoulder, into his car, across state lines—and no one would stop him.
But it was his hands that really did it. Those hands.
You found your eyes drifting to them mid-conversation like gravity had a preference. Watching the way his fingers flexed when he gripped a glass. Watching how he rolled a blunt—slow, neat, precise. Watching the calluses catch the light when he touched his jaw or rubbed the back of his neck
You stared like a fool.
You tried to stop. Tried to keep eye contact like a grown woman. But then his thumb would stroke the rim of his glass, or he'd drum those thick knuckles against the table, and it was over. Your mouth would go dry. Your thighs would clench. And your brain? Gone. Just static and heat and the thought of how those hands would feel between your legs.
That's all it ever was—just fiction you played in your head.
Smutty little flickers of a world that didn't exist while you clicked through YouTube videos, watching tutorials on makeup, how to get the perfect glow, and how to do a bouncy, fun curl without frying your hair. You smiled at the thought of trying those things at home later. Maybe a new look for the weekend? Who knows? You liked how it felt to just zone out and let the hours pass by. You weren't thinking about deadlines or pressure. Just... being. The soft buzz of the computer felt like a constant hum that kept you company.
You read over that book he gave you over and over; it didn't consist of anything top secret like you thought it would. The pages were lined in his handwriting—tight, clean, no wasted motion. Like him.
"Monday: Pick up suit from dry cleaners in Beverly Hills. Dark navy, double vent, Brioni."
"Coffee: black, hot, touch of honey if I'm pissed. No cream, never sugar."
"Call Mama on Thursdays. Remind her I'm breathing.”
"Jerome likes the good cigars. Louie, don't. Don't bring 'em to the club."
His blood's in these pages. His rhythm. His rituals. Shoe sizes—11.5, Italian cut only. Suit sizes, jacket preferences. Pocket square colors.
And then the numbers. Phone numbers are like pressure points.
His mother's. His aunt and uncle. a lawyer. The second lawyer. A name you don't recognize—Twanda (DON'T ANSWER UNLESS BLEEDING).
You read that part twice. Maybe three times.
You didn't know who she was.
But now you want to.
"You like the job?" A smooth voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up, slightly startled. One of the women from the desk across from you was smiling. She wasn't typing anything, just turned toward you, her posture confident, arms casually crossed, legs crossed in that effortless way people do when they're just... comfortable.
For a moment, you couldn't help but take her in. She was beautiful. Like, really beautiful. Reminded you of someone—a little like Vanessa Williams, if you had to put a name to it. Her skin glowed, rich and smooth, her hair slicked back in a professional yet somehow effortless way. She had that vibe, that calm, controlled energy. Like she knew something you didn't. There was a nameplate at the edge of her desk, half-blocked by a stack of blank papers and a glass of water that hadn't been touched.
Gina Camplee. You tucked the name into your mind.
You blinked, trying to focus. "I-I like it," you said with a smile, your voice a little higher than you wanted it to be. Your nerves were still making themselves known, even though you were happy. You were always happy. That was just who you were. "It's... quite a bit easier than I expected." You chuckled a little, hoping it sounded natural. It did to you, but who knew what it sounded like to someone else?
She raised an eyebrow, her smile turning a little more knowing. "Easier than you expected, huh?" Her voice was smooth, almost teasing, but not in a mean way. She seemed genuinely curious, like she was giving you a chance to explain.
You nodded, giving a shy smile, trying to ease into the conversation. "Yeah, I thought there'd be more... pressure? Or a lot more to do, but... I don't know. It's been calm." You shrugged, not really sure why it felt so strange. It was just a job. But it wasn't just a job, not really. There was something else, something off about it that you couldn't quite put your finger on.
She studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing just a little. It felt like she was measuring you, seeing if you were hiding something or if you were just really that... naive. Maybe it was the way she sat, the way she carried herself. It was the kind of confidence that only came with experience, with knowing exactly how much to reveal and how much to hold back.
"I'm sure it's calm now," she said, breaking your trance. "But things have a way of getting... interesting around here." She uncrossed her arms, leaning back just a little. "Franklin likes to keep things unpredictable."
You nodded, smiling brightly. "I'm up for interesting!" You couldn't help it. The optimism just bubbled out of you, no matter what. You weren't about to let any of the unknowns get to you, not yet. You hadn't even been here long enough to feel any of that "pressure" everyone seemed to talk about. Right now, you were just... here, and that was enough.
She smiled again, this time a little softer, but there was something behind it that made you pause. It wasn't a judgmental smile, but a knowing one. Like she had seen this story before, maybe more times than you'd ever know.
"You'll find your rhythm," she said, her voice lighter, almost reassuring. "just show up and do what he says, easy."
You nodded, trying to let the words sink in, but your thoughts were already drifting somewhere else. Somewhere that was just a little too far ahead. "I will," you said, smiling again, because that's what you always did.
You couldn't help but wonder, though, if she knew more. If she knew what he did outside of this perfect, pristine office. She had to, right? She must have seen something, heard something. Franklin Saint wasn't the type of man to just be... normal. You knew his name, his age, and that he hated smoking. That was it. Nothing else. Not a single glimpse of what lay beneath the tailored suits, the sharp eyes, and the polite smiles.
You glanced up at her again, catching her eye. "Hey, uh..." you said, your voice softer this time, tentative. "Can you tell me more about him?" You weren't sure why you asked. Maybe it was the curiosity. Maybe it was the way he made you feel—like you were just a little out of place, but in the best way possible.
She turned toward you again, this time raising an eyebrow, her expression almost teasing. "You want to know if he's married?" she asked, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.
Your face heated up, the flush creeping up your neck. "I—" you stammered, embarrassed that she'd caught you so off guard. Of course, that wasn't what you meant. You just... wanted to know more. But she could probably tell the real question before it even left your mouth.
"If he was," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "the wife wouldn't appreciate the way he looks at you." She said it matter-of-factly, like she had seen it a hundred times before, like it was just an obvious truth in the office.
Her words hung in the air like a sharp breath. You stared at her, stunned, trying to figure out what exactly she meant. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you quickly forced your gaze back to your desk, your fingers playing nervously with a pen. You couldn't dwell on it—couldn't let yourself get lost in that thought, not now, not when the office was so... quiet and unpredictable.
Just as Gina's words began to settle—curling around your ribs like smoke you couldn't exhale—the call box on your desk crackled to life, that familiar static popping like a nerve firing too close to the surface.
"Sweetheart, I need you."
Franklin's voice oozed through the speaker, thick and smooth like honey sliding over a blade. That word—sweetheart—again. Always, sweetheart.
He never used your name. Never "Miss," never the clipped professionalism he reserved for everyone else in his orbit. With you, it was different. There was always a softness laced with something heavier. Darling. Honey. Sweetheart. Like you weren't on his payroll but his tongue. Like you were meant to come undone just from the sound of him.
You told yourself it didn't mean anything. Just a generational thing. Men like him always spoke like that—charming, old-school, slightly patronizing. You told yourself not to linger on it. Not to romanticize the way his voice dipped when he said it. Not to ache when he lingered on the word like it tasted good.
But gosh, you ached.
You wanted it to mean something so bad it stung.
You rolled your chair back and rose slowly, smoothing your skirt with trembling fingers before you walked to his door. You opened it just in time to see the older man he'd been meeting with step past you, cologne thick and sour in the air as he muttered something under his breath. He didn't look at you. He just nodded stiffly and shut the door behind him with a soft click, like punctuation.
Then it was just you and Franklin.
He stood by the window, backlit by late-afternoon gold, arms folded across his chest, the fabric of his suit hugging him like it was tailored by God himself. Still. Regal. A statue made of heat and ego.
His gaze landed on you—so pretty. he thought
From your hair, pulled tight and neat, to the subtle gloss on your lips. Down the curve of your chest, the gentle dip of your waist. The way you chose a light pink blouse today that matched with your brown pleated skirt, tight enough to make him wonder how long you'd stood in the mirror, smoothing it, adjusting it, planning it.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
The shape of your thighs. The way your knees knocked ever so slightly inward, like your body didn't quite know what to do under his gaze. The heels were modest, office-appropriate, but the way your toes pointed—nervous, uncertain—lit something in him. Something interesting.
"Hi, Mr. Saint... How did the meeting go?" You asked, soft and stammering, your voice slipping out too gentle, too exposed.
The smile you offered was all surface—mirror-polished, practiced to hell. It was the smile you wore when you needed to pretend your hands weren't twitching, that your pulse wasn't sprinting behind your ears. But Franklin saw right through it. Saw how your fingers danced at the hem of your blouse, tugging, fiddling, betraying you in real time.
He tilted his head, just slightly. That look of his—half amused, half predatory. Like he knew exactly how to unravel you and was only deciding how long he wanted to take.
He didn't speak. Not yet.
He let the silence bloom.
It stretched long and thin between you, a thread pulled tight. The kind that holds breath hostage. The kind that says, Don't move.
Then, one step.
Just one.
He moved closer to his desk, dragging his fingers across the edge—mahogany catching the gold of his watch, glinting like a threat. Every gesture precise. Controlled. Like even his silence was curated.
"The meeting went..." He paused, like he was choosing his words for effect, "...very well...Did that guy look trustworthy to you?" He asked, like it was a genuine question.
"I... I'm not sure," you said, truthfully. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, a light barrier, your smile thinning. "He didn't say much."
Franklin hummed, a low, amused sound that vibrated more in your chest than your ears. He kept his eyes on you, like you were the one under investigation.
"Exactly," he murmured, jaw tightening for just a flicker of a second. "and people who don't talk much? They're either hiding something, or they think they're smarter than everyone else."
He leaned back on the desk now, hands gripping the edge behind him, legs slightly spread, relaxed like a panther in the sun—gorgeous and deadly. Watching you. Reading you.
"Which do you think he is, sweetheart?"
Your throat went dry. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, like that'd help you dodge the heat crawling up your spine. Franklin had a way of making a question sound like a test, like the answer mattered more than you realized.
"... I think he just doesn't say much, like he... he lets his business do the talking," you said, finally. The words came gently but whole, carried by a thread of courage you barely felt. Your eyes held his—just enough to show you weren't scared, but not enough to drown in him. Not yet.
And then—he smiled.
Not soft. Not kind. Not the sort of smile you earn. This one was sharper. Like he'd already solved the riddle and just wanted to hear what shape your mouth would make trying to solve it, too.
It wasn't approval.
It was interest.
"Good girl," he said, and the sound of it coiled straight through you. Low. Warm. A little too pleased.
Your body lit up before your brain could catch up. That phrase—good girl—you'd only ever heard it in those private little daydreams. The ones you had no business entertaining. The ones that made your thighs clench under your desk while you chewed your lip and tried to remember how to breathe.
Now it was real.
And it wrecked you.
You didn't know what to say. Didn't trust your voice not to give you away. All you could do was stand there and feel the heat rise from your chest to your cheeks to the place between your legs that tightened, traitorous and alive.
"I like that," he murmured, the edges of his voice rougher now, velvet fraying at the seams. "That you pay attention."
He moved, slow and sure, circling the desk like it wasn't furniture but a piece of terrain. Like you were the destination. Each step quiet, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to close the space between you.
Your spine straightened, like instinct, like prey spotting the slow approach of something much larger than itself.
"Thank you, Mr. Saint—" you started, breath catching on the edge of your words.
"Just call me Saint, lovely," he cut in, flashing a grin that was all sin dressed in silk. Teeth barely visible. Heat behind the charm. A joke with a blade tucked in its belly.
"I'm only thirty."
"Okay..." you said, hesitating for the briefest second before letting it fall from your mouth, "Saint." The word felt strange on your tongue—too casual, too intimate—but it came out anyway, soft and unsure, like you were tasting it for the first time. And maybe you were.
He heard it.
Felt it.
Watched it settle in the space between you.
He leaned back in his chair like he owned gravity. Legs spread, one hand lazily draped over the armrest, the other toying with a gold pen like it was a cigar. His smile was a smirk now, slow and knowing. Like he'd just slipped a key into a lock and was waiting to see if the door would open.
"How lovely does that sound?" he said, voice dipped in molasses, eyes trained on yours. "You should use it more often."
And fuck, your face burned.
The heat crept down your neck, across your chest, blooming in your belly. You blinked hard, trying to keep still. To hide how your body betrayed you. But it didn't matter. Franklin saw it. He always did. You shifted just slightly on your feet, and that was enough.
He clocked everything.
"You like working for me so far?" He asked, tone light, but there was nothing innocent about it.
The way he looked at you made the air feel thicker. Like if you breathed too deeply, you might swallow more than oxygen.
"I... I do," you said finally, the words barely above a whisper. "It's different here. Quiet. Clean."
You looked around, pretending to study the office like that was what had your attention, not the way Saint was watching you like he could read the heat under your skin.
"...And you're not like the other bosses I've had."
He chuckled, low and amused, like you'd just handed him a compliment wrapped in a secret.
"No, I'm not," he said. "And I don't plan to be."
There was a pause. Heavy. Lingering. Then—
"Come here for a second," he said.
Not a request. A command, soft-wrapped in charm.
Your legs moved before you could even think about it. You stepped around his desk, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome marking time, every beat louder in your chest.
He watched as you approached—like he was measuring your steps, your breath, and the way your skirt moved when you walked.
When you were close enough to smell his cologne—sharp, woodsy, expensive—he slid papers over to you.
"Read the small paper to me first, out loud," he said, his voice even, casual. Then added, "Then the two others—go over them for errors."
You blinked, thrown for half a second by how mundane the request sounded. That's it? Just read?
"Read it?" you asked, like maybe you hadn't heard him right.
"Mhm," he hummed, settling deeper into the leather, thighs parting just slightly. Just enough. And you knew it wasn't for comfort—it was deliberate. Calculated. The kind of move meant to short-circuit whatever train of thought you were clinging to.
"Out loud."
Your fingers reached for the paper with a shake you hoped he couldn't see. It felt like silk against your skin—thick, creamy, clearly expensive. Not something that got printed on an office copier. It looked like it belonged in a gilded envelope, carried by hand, maybe with a wax seal to match the weight of his name.
You cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. "Please join us—"
"Skip that part," he said, with that same low firmness, like velvet wrapped around command. "Start from my name."
You swallowed. Nodded. Your fingers tightened just slightly on the edge of the paper. "Franklin Saint, you are invited to the 40th birthday celebration of Weston Port. RSVP at the number provided at the bottom of the invitation. We would love to have you here”—
He cut you off with a soft laugh. "Love to have you here," he repeated, his voice rich with something mocking. His mouth curled into that half-smirk, the one that always felt like he was letting you in on a joke with teeth.
Then he tilted his head, eyes still locked on yours.
"That guy hates me, by the way."
You lowered the paper slowly, pulse skipping, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or choke on the heat rising up your chest. "Why does he hate you?"
His smile stretched—wider this time, not kinder.
A quiet kind of cruelty in the corners of his mouth.
"Because his wife prefers me."
It wasn't a boast. It wasn't flirtation, either.
The way he said it—it was fact. Cold. Solid. Undeniable.
The air shifted.
The words didn't hit like a joke. They landed like a dropped match on gasoline, sharp and sudden, making something ignite deep in your gut. You froze—lips parted, breath caught halfway to your lungs.
Jealousy came quickly. Hot and ugly.
Possessive in a way that made no sense.
You had no claim on him. You weren't his. He wasn't yours.
But still—it burned. Low in your belly, a molten thing curled around your spine and made your fists clench just slightly around the paper.
Franklin watched you with that maddening calm, the kind that said he'd already dissected every inch of your reaction before you even had the chance to hide it. Like he could smell the jealousy on you. Like it pleased him.
You looked down at the papers again, tried to focus, tried to pretend the tightness in your chest wasn't there—but your hands were trembling now. Barely, but enough. Enough to betray you.
He waited a beat, letting the silence press in again like a thumb to your throat.
"Now," he said, slow and sure, voice thick with authority. "go over the other two. I want clean copies. No spelling errors. No missed details."
You nodded, eyes flicking back up to meet his.
You knew. But he was studying you again, reading every twitch in your face, every slight shift in breath.
You could feel it. The way his gaze followed your pupils as they darted from side to side, trying to keep up, trying to look like you knew exactly what you were reading—even though you didn't. Not really. Just enough to fake it. Just enough to please him.
and again, your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.
"Is his wife's name... Twanda?" You asked, voice low, almost ashamed of how badly you needed to know.
You risked a glance. And there it was. That smirk again. That wicked amusement curling at the edge of his lips like smoke.
He chuckled, soft and dangerous. "I'm glad you're remembering the book," he said, leaning back.
You could feel it radiating off him now—the satisfaction. Not just that you remembered. But what you remembered. He saw the jealousy in your question, bleeding through every syllable, and it lit something in him.
His baby. Jealous.
He liked it. He liked it too much. You didn't know it, but he did—every damn night he pictured you. His girl on her knees. Obedient. Beautiful. Unguarded. The thought kept him up, aching.
"You told me to, so I did," you murmured back, still focused on the pages in front of you.
You were done.
You’ve been done.
But flipping through them gave you something to do with your hands. Something to hide behind, because eye contact now would wreck you.
He huffed a little, leaning forward just enough to make you feel it in your chest. Then his voice dropped, close and quiet:
"Twanda is a close friend of my mother's," he said finally, his voice easy now, like he wasn't aware of the war he'd started in your chest. "She used to call a lot. And I mean a lot. Trivial things."
He shrugged, all casual indifference, like it didn't matter—but something in the way his jaw flexed said maybe it did.
"She got the hint, maybe," he added, more to himself than to you. "The last time I spoke to her was Christmas."
That landed in the air with a soft finality. No bitterness.
No regrets. Just a fact. And yet you couldn't stop the flicker of relief that bloomed inside you, wild and warm.
You nodded like it was nothing. Like you didn't just unclench your jaw.
"Got it," you murmured, going back to the papers with renewed focus, though the words on the page were a blur now, your mind far from ink and margins.
"Got a boyfriend?" he asked, his voice casual but dipped in something more—curiosity, maybe. Or calculation. Like he already knew and was asking for the sake of watching how you'd react.
Your fingers paused at the corner of the page, still touching the paper but no longer moving. You looked up slowly, caught between surprise and uncertainty, eyes just a shade too wide. The kind of look that wasn't rehearsed.
He caught it.
"Oh—sorry. A girlfriend?" His tone softened, a half-correction, eyebrow lifting like he was opening the door wider.
You laughed, quick and quiet, covering your mouth out of instinct. "No, no. Neither," you said, voice light, but the air around it felt heavier. "Ended something last year, around July. Since then it's just been... me."
You didn't mean to trail off like that, but the words sat strange in your mouth—familiar, but tired. He didn't speak, just nodded once, slow, like he was letting it settle. Like he understood more than he let on.
"Long one?" he asked after a pause, eyes still on you, but softer now. Less study, more presence.
You hesitated, your thumb brushing the edge of the paper. "Yeah. Long enough to feel like a part of me went with it. We were together for a while. Thought it was going to be... I don't know. Everything....He cheated, so”
Who the hell could cheat on someone like you? Franklin couldn't wrap his head around it. The way you walked into a room like sunlight—soft but impossible to ignore. Smart, sweet, with a voice that made even silence feel intimate. You weren't just beautiful; you were rare. The kind of woman a man should get on his knees for. And some idiot threw that away.
Good. That meant you were free now. That meant he could have you.
And Saint wanted you. Not later. Not in some slow-burn fantasy he dragged out over months. Now.
He watched you from his seat, jaw tight, chest heavy with it. Your smile. The curve of your throat when you laughed. The way your fingers curled around the edge of your chair like you needed to hold onto something. He wanted to be that something.
Fuck waiting.
He'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind—sweeping everything off his desk, your gasp swallowed in his mouth, his hands gripping your wrists as your back met the cold wood. Him, between your thighs, desperate and rough, finally tasting the thing he'd been circling for weeks.
And you'd let him. He saw it in the way your gaze lingered too long, in the way your thighs shifted when the room got quiet. You wanted it too. Maybe you didn't know how to say it yet. Maybe you were still telling yourself you shouldn't. But Franklin Saint didn't deal in shouldn't.
Just one word from you—one look—and he'd show you exactly what it means to be wanted.
When you finally put the paper down, ready to tell him you'd found no errors, something small thudded against the carpet. You looked down—pencils, a lots of them, scattered and rolling across the floor like tiny messengers of clumsiness. Your breath caught. You realized they'd slipped off the edge of the desk on your side. Your fault.
"I'm so sorry," you said quickly, already half-bending down.
What you didn't see was the flicker of a smirk slicing across his face behind you. It came and went like lightning—quick, precise, almost cruel.
"It's alright," Franklin said, smooth as velvet. "Could you get those for me, lovely?"
His voice was calm, but there was something heavier sitting beneath the surface. Like thunder building behind a polite sky. He wore that look again—the one that made your stomach dip. Gentle mouth, shadowed eyes. A man pretending at softness, while something darker simmered behind his gaze.
You nodded without thinking.
"Yes, sir," you said, your voice quieter than you intended.
Then your knees hit the floor, bare against the plush rug, and you bent to gather the pencils in your hands. One by one. Delicate. Careful. His silence stretched above you, a humid thing.
He watched, eyes hooded, as you reached further under his desk—watched the way your hand went instinctively to the hem of your skirt, trying to hold it down. Modest. Careful. But it was no use. The skirt was too short, and you'd worn nothing beneath it. No tights. No shorts. Just skin and nerve endings and a poor little excuse for a barrier.
His gaze didn't flinch.
The air in the room shifted, heavy and slow like molasses in the summer. Tension swelled, thick enough to chew. On the surface, you were just picking up pencils—a harmless task.
He turned everything into intention.
You could feel it, the weight of his stare glued to your body, and suddenly your own heartbeat was deafening. Slamming through your chest, echoing in your ears. You stayed on your knees, breath shallow, fingers curling around pencil after pencil, each one slower than the last. One by one. Deliberate.
It wasn't just tension anymore. It was anticipation.
Then—you felt it.
something you didn't think he would be so bold to do.
As you had been picking up the lines of graphite, he had tucked his leather shoe underneath your skirt and lifted it up, making your eyes widen. Your heartbeat falls into the depths of your innards as cold sweat starts to rear its existence after the catalyst of Saint's actions. You felt the tip of his shoe rub against the fat of your ass, and hearing his shallow breath added a hotter tension into the room that made you feel suffocated. All you did was look back as your body shook, feeling the nerves reverberate through you.
"... What are you-"
"Shh... You're so pretty like this... on your knees." He lifted your skirt even higher to expose the lacy pink thong and your exposed ass. "So sexy," he continued to whisper his seductive praises.
He sat back in his chair, letting the tip of his shoe press into the fat that made a plushy indentation that made his cock twitch within his trousers; you were so vulnerable, so unknowing, and he just wanted to take you right then and there as he felt your shuddering body to his touch. His smirk only widened when he witnessed you weren't doing anything.
But that was the point. You were simply there—kneeling, soft, unguarded. And that made it even better.
He saw the way your lip caught between your teeth, trying to quiet the sound building in your throat.
And gosh, that little motion? That was his favorite part.
"Oh, do you like this, sweetheart?" He wasn't going to make you answer; he liked you all nervous and too embarrassed to admit that you liked having your own boss appreciate and want to use your body. He felt like he had won the lottery with how willing your body was for him.
"Hm, I love having you around... It's so sexy when you walk around the place... But I want more than you just playing secretary." He watched as your pupils swallowed the color of your eyes as you looked at him through a shuddering chest from broken breaths.
"Turn around for me; I want to see that pretty face more clearly." At your own volition, you quickly obeyed without hesitancy, watching as he opened his legs and the growing bulge that was starting to develop underneath his navy trousers, imminently making you blush as you watched how your body affected him, how just the sight of your panties was making him rock hard underneath the cloth.
"You're a good girl , aren't you?"
"Mmhmm," you nodded in your timid response as you looked up at him with those 'fuck me' eyes.
"Yeah, you are," he said, his voice warm now, praising like a reward. He leaned forward, his hand finding your face with startling gentleness. Big, firm fingers cradling your cheek like it belonged there. Your body responded before your mind caught up—cheek nuzzling into his palm, chasing that heat, that gravity. Subconscious. Instinctive. You fit against him like you were made for it.
Whatever doubts you'd carried—those silly thoughts that he'd never even notice you, that someone like Franklin Saint couldn't possibly see you that way—they melted under the weight of his touch. Under the closeness. The heat that poured off his body like static before a storm.
"How about you take care of me... I've been feeling so stressed... I'm sure you can help me out with that, can't you?" His voice was just like whiskey, smooth in its feeling but also a sensation of burning with how warmth pooled around your core and started to soak around your slit as your clit throbbed under the desire to be touched and to touch him.
"What do... What do you want me to do?" You whispered, almost pathetically, as your pillowy and glossy lips parted as if you knew exactly where this was going; you weren't completely stupid.
"I want to use that pretty mouth of yours for something good," he said, voice low and heavy with intent, fingers moving to unbuckle his belt. The metallic clink cut through the thick air like a warning—or a promise—and your breath hitched on instinct. The sound made your thighs press tighter together, your pussy throbbing against the now-soaked lace barrier that barely held your arousal in check.
He lifted his hips just enough to slide his trousers and boxers down in one fluid motion, and there—his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, proud in its demand. The sheer size of it made your breath catch in your throat. It was flushed, already hard, with the tip glistening like it had been waiting just for you. He didn't need to say another word. That clock spoke volumes.
"Be a good girl and suck it..." he murmured, one hand resting lazily on the armrest as he stared down at you like you were his reward. "You wouldn't want your boss stressed, would you?"
You shook your head quickly, your voice trembling with need. "No. No, I wouldn't."
Your hands rose to wrap around the base, fingers struggling to meet on the underside as you pumped him slowly, reverently. The vein along the length of his shaft throbbed against your soft palms, your thumb swiping over the bead of pre-drip dripping from the swollen head. His breath stuttered—a sharp inhale through gritted teeth.
You looked up at him, locking eyes with that dark, unreadable gaze, and then leaned in. Your tongue dragged a long, slow stripe up from the base to the tip, savoring the heat and weight of him, the way his cock twitched under your attention. His hand tightened on the armrest.
Then you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, wet and warm, lips stretched around his thickness. The taste of him, salty and heavy with want, coated your tongue as you moaned around him—soft, muffled, sinful.
Franklin's head fell back, his jaw tightening.
"Oh, fuck, yes, you're so good at that." His fingers started to tangle in your previously neat hair, causing frizzy strands to strike up as he smoothed his palms over your scalp, gently bucking his hips to guide his cock further into the warm and soaking valley of your mouth and throat.
You softly gagged at the feeling of his fat cock pressing against the back of your throat; you loved this, feeling your glossy lips stretch around him and tasting his salty length as you continued to suck and feel him.
"A-aah, yeah, you're taking me so well," he whispered another praise before he started to feel a little greedy. "Why don't you take that blouse off... I want to see those pretty tits."
You took your mouth off of him in a loud, wet popping sound that made him shudder as the cold air pressed against his cock, continuing to palm and pump his throbbing length as he watched you unbutton the silk blouse until it became discarded cloth on the floor, soon accompanied by your black lace bra.
You felt that pleasurable tingling feeling within your walls and a heated coil that was heating up as it tied together tightly when you squeezed the mounds of your chest for him, letting soft whimpers protrude from your lips as you squeezed onto the sensitive buds when looking into his darkened gaze.
Franklin leaned forward, slow and deliberate, like a shadow swallowing light. His hands peeled away from the armrests, the tension in his shoulders rippling as he shifted over you, dominant and calm, like he had all the time in the world to savor this.
Then—his palms landed on your chest, warm and heavy, cupping the weight of your bare breasts. No hesitation. No apology. Just need to meet with ownership.
He kneaded them slowly, thumbs rolling over your sensitive nipples, dragging them into stiffness. You gasped around his cock, the sensation electric, like he was rewiring your nerves. He never broke eye contact. He just stared down at you like you were his sweetest sin, his most beautiful disaster.
"Look at you," he murmured, voice thick with pride and lust. "Such a mess."
Spit trailed down your cheek, the slick sheen around your lips catching the light, your eyes glassy with pleasure and overwhelming need. Your thighs squeezed together as you moaned to him again.
You were flustered, ruined—his good girl brought to the edge.
His presence was demanding, yet arousing at the same time; a superior shouldn't be doing this to their secretary, but let's be honest, the fantasy has been around for as long as can be remembered; it wasn't like you were complaining that an attractive older man wanted to use you as a cocksleeve. Of course, there was the little voice in the back of your mind telling you that this power dynamic was wrong; you were his employee, and it was highly inappropriate for him to be treating you like this, but the libido soon squelched the rational down as your heated core was wanting to take him on further.
You made his head fall back onto the headrest of his office chair again when you continued to leave swirls from your tongue on the tip of his dribbling cock, tasting that salty and creamy precum as you watched his chest fall up and down in broken tandem to his labored breaths. You could feel your panties become completely soaked when a slow, gushing release came down in your finish as you wrapped your breasts around his large cock and heard his sensual moans fill his office room up.
"Fuck, aaah, keep going, don't stop, making me feel so good," he kept caressing your cheek as he watched you leave kitten licks on the tip of your warm, plushy breasts hugged around his shaft. "Such a perfect, sexy girl."
You sucked on the tip of his fat cock, watching him bite his lip.
"I'm so close... Stop for a moment."
The command was sharp but hushed, laced with restraint—his voice strained from holding himself back. You obeyed instantly, lips releasing him with a soft pop, breath catching as your mouth ached and your chin glistened with the evidence of just how good you'd been.
"Stand up," he said.
You didn't think twice. Your legs were trembling, barely holding your weight, but you stood—still buzzing from the heat of his hands, the ache of his cock in your mouth, and the denial that left you soaked and desperate. Your fingers ghosted over the hem of your skirt, trying to fix it, even though the fabric clung to your thighs, damp with your own arousal. You felt exposed. Ruined. Beautiful.
Your eyes never left him.
He moved with a smooth, unbothered calm, reaching into the drawer beside him like he'd done this a hundred times before. No urgency. No shame. Just pure, collected dominance. You watched him pull out his wallet, the soft leather creasing in his palm, and then—between two fingers—he slipped out a small, gold package.
Your breath caught.
"Get on the desk," he said, his voice low and rich, thick with the promise of everything he'd been holding back. "Spread your legs so I can see."
Your body moved before your brain could catch up.
You turned, the edge of the desk cold against your thighs as you climbed up, palms pressing into the wood for balance. Slowly, you leaned back, your knees parting inch by inch, the cool air meeting the heat between your legs as you revealed everything to him—lace soaked through, clinging to swollen lips, proof of your need written into every curve and shiver.
Franklin stood there, gold wrapper in hand, eyes locked between your thighs like a man staring at salvation.
"Fuck, baby..." he groaned, the sound raw, almost a whimper. There was nothing controlled about it anymore—just want. Heavy. Undeniable. His composure cracked in real time, and it only made your core throb harder, slick gathering with every second he looked at you like that.
He stepped closer, his hands finding the waistband of your panties, fingers curling into the lace.
One sharp tug.
The soaked fabric peeled from your skin like second nature, dragging across your sensitive folds and stealing a gasp from your lips. He didn't move slowly. He didn't ask. He took. The lace hit the floor in an instant, forgotten.
And there you were—open, glistening, your plump, wet cunt exposed to the thick air and his starving gaze.
you lean back a little more, and slowly spread your thighs more, opening up more so the ball of nerves would be exposed as well as your dripping hole. Your heels were gone, kicked off in the heat of it all. Now your soft, pretty white toes gripped the desk's edge, barely holding you in place as you arched slightly,
Your pussy sat there in the light, bare and soaked and ready, a perfect picture of surrender and need.
Franklin He stood frozen for a heartbeat—mouth parted, jaw slack. The raw hunger in his face wasn't subtle. It was worship. It was claiming.
"Shit ..." he breathed, more to himself than to you, like he wasn't sure how he'd held back this long.
The gold wrapper crinkled in his fist as he fought with it, hands no longer slow or calculated—now frantic, desperate to be inside you. He tore it open, pulled the rubber free, and with one long stroke, slid it over his thick, leaking cock. The sight of him standing there, hard and ready, made your hips twitch off the desk in anticipation.
He wrapped his fingers around the base, gave himself one firm pump, eyes never leaving your dripping cunt.
And then—he stepped closer to your legs.
Your legs instinctively slid closer together, thighs brushing, nerves creeping in like a shadow. For a moment, you let the reality of his size sink in—the sheer weight of it, the way it curved in his grip, thick and pulsing. You tilted your chin up, eyes wide and uncertain, a soft breath catching in your throat.
"Franklin... It's so big, I— I haven't had that big before—"
Your words came out like a whisper, stammered and laced with equal parts awe and fear.
But he didn't soothe you. He didn't stroke your hair or offer gentle words.
No.
His voice cut through the air like a blade—rough, commanding, dripping with authority and hunger.
"Spread them," he growled, stepping closer, the tip of his cock brushing your inner thigh. "Or I'll spread them for you."
That tone—it flipped a switch inside you. Something primal. Something submissive and aching to obey.
You weren't used to it. Not from him. Not from anyone.
Which is why your thighs flew open , trembling as you obeyed instantly, wide and dripping and ready. Your pussy glistened under the light again, exposed and aching, your core fluttering with anticipation and the sharp thrill of giving up control.
Franklin's hand wrapped around the base of his cock, thick and pulsing with heat as he dragged it slowly through your folds, letting your slick coat every inch of him. He moved deliberately, smearing himself in your arousal, the swollen head brushing over your clit just enough to make your back arch and a broken whimper slip from your lips.
Your hands lifted—finally—like your body couldn't stay passive any longer. They found his arms, fingers curling into his firm biceps, grounding yourself in him as he bit down on his bottom lip, gaze locked between your thighs. His cock slid up and down again, gliding with ease now, teasing your entrance as he groaned low and deep in his chest.
One hand gripped your knee and held, keeping you wide open. You tried to close your thighs reflexively, overwhelmed, but he didn't let you—not even for a second. His fingers dug in, possessive, commanding, holding you in place as his cockhead smeared your wetness across your folds again and again, each stroke making the tension coil tighter in your gut.
"You're so wet, baby..." he muttered, voice distant, lost. Like he forgot where he was—forgot about the office, the company, the windows overlooking downtown. None of it mattered now. Just your cunt, open and ready. His temple dropped back, jaw slack with a sigh that sounded like worship.
"Ahh, f-fuck." Your eyes couldn't leave his face. He was beautiful like this—undone, needy, lost in you. You were soaked, ruined, panting—his.
A mess.
Then, with one greedy, careless push—he found your entrance. You gasped. Bite your tongue. He slipped in too easily, too naturally, as if your body had been made for him.
He moaned under his breath, hips rolling as he fed more of himself into you, slow and relentless, until he bottomed out. His hips pressed flush to yours, his balls snug against the curve of your ass, and you let out a fragile little sound, something between a gasp and a moan, helpless to the fullness.
"You okay, baby?" He murmured, breath unsteady. One of his hands moved to your waist, his thumb stroking your side. "How does that feel?"
Your walls clenched around him involuntarily, sucking him deeper, as if your body didn't want to let him go. He shuddered from the feeling, his eyes softening, something dangerously close to adoration swimming there.
You could barely breathe. You were floating.
And then it came out of you—raw, unplanned, honest.
"Daddy... it feels so good," you whimpered, your voice all breath and silk, breaking apart under the weight of him inside you. Eyes wide, glassy, cheeks flushed—the picture of soft surrender. You looked like the sweetest kind of mess, like the type of girl who gets what she wants just by pouting pretty and parting her thighs. A spoiled little pillow princess laid out and ruined just right.
Franklin looked down at you, heat licking through his chest at the sight. His jaw tightened, but that smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, knowing, cruel.
"I know baby," he murmurs in a taunting way. "I know."
"Don't s-stop, i–i'm almost there—" you gasp, the words tumbling out in pieces, each syllable cracked open by the rhythm of his thrusts. You're begging now—for air, for mercy, for him to never stop. Because you're right on the edge, teetering on the brink of something too good, too deep. Bliss, heaven, him.
Franklin's grip tightens on your waist, and he leans in until his forehead presses to yours, eyes blazing.
"I won't," he pants, breath ragged, voice rough with focus and fire. "I won't. I promise, princess."
His words hit you like a vow, low and serious, each one chased by the sound of skin against skin and the heat of his body overwhelming yours. He doesn't stop—not even for a second. His hips stay steady, relentless, chasing your high like it's the only thing that matters.
And the way he's looking at you—like you're the only girl in the world, like nothing else exists but your shaking body under his—makes you fall apart just that much faster.
You were a dirty girl, and you knew it. You knew it the second you opened your legs and let him see how wet you already were, how easily your body betrayed every little game you thought you could play. You thought you'd last, thought you could take it and keep some kind of control—but Franklin Saint stripped that away from you with nothing but a look and a few deep, unrelenting strokes.
Now you were here—writhing beneath him, back arched and breath catching in your throat. You were moaning into his ear, the words filthy, soft, and broken. almost slipping, "I love you, I love you," like he was the last man you'll ever be with. It was just the way he filled you so deep it felt like he lived inside your bones.
You were so close.
"I can't, baby... Uh, fuck daddy." Your brain is already melting, and with it, your pussy starts to melt more. You wonder if he even notices such a thing from how he's basically fucking you now like his life depended on it.
"You want to cum pretty?" He pants on your face for a second, seeing how your eyes were starting to roll.
Your fingers find his shirt, skimming the side seam of the cotton separating you from his skin. He grabs onto you tighter, like he's afraid you might slip away. His thrusts turn rougher, deeper, and more desperate—driven by something primal and possessive. You can feel the muscles in his back shift under your hands, feel the heat radiating off him, and see the way his shirt sticks to his skin with the sweat he's working up just for you.
"Touching' me like that," he growls near your ear, voice thick with heat, "is going to make me lose my fucking' mind."
You can feel the tremble in his arms, the shake in his breath, and the way he fucks you like he needs it. Like you're the only thing keeping him grounded.
"cum for me, baby. I'll give you everything you want, princess ... whatever you need," he coos into your ear while fucking you hard, his voice so soft.
The cries tearing through the room are yours—but they barely sound like you anymore. They're ragged and raw, wrecked beyond recognition. So pathetic, so desperate, like a girl who's never known anything like this. Like a girl who's unraveling with him buried so deep inside, it feels like he's splitting your soul wide open just to claim it.
Your body jerks beneath him, hips twitching with every thrust like you're chasing the end, like you need to take him with you. And he matches it—his hips punching into you with purpose, power, like he's determined to finish with you, in you, no matter what it takes.
He expected this from you. Expected you to be needy, expected your sweet cunt to be this wet, this messy, this perfect.
And still, the way you clamp around him with every pulse of your orgasm nearly undoes him. It's a miracle he's still inside, thick and hard, when you're so slippery, so drenched, his cock sliding through the heat of you like velvet wrapped in wet silk.
He thrusts into you like he's got something to prove—like every brutal thrust is a punishment and a prayer. His rhythm is ruthless, unrelenting, the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked flesh echoing off the office walls like filth wrapped in rhythm. There's nothing sweet about it now—this is pure possession, raw and animal, like he's been saving this part of himself just for you.
Your orgasm rips through you like a wave pulling you under, leaving you limp, trembling, a boneless mess. But he doesn't stop. Not even a little. He uses your body like it's his right, his reward, barely coherent with the things he's saying—gritted praise, ragged groans, something about how tight you are, how good you feel, how his you are.
Then his muscles snap taut.
He throws his head back, curses low and feral, and pulls out of you so fast it makes your breath hitch. The condom's off in a blink. His jaw clenched, his hand jerks his cock once, twice—and then hot, thick release spills from him, shooting across your stomach, your cunt, painting you in sticky ribbons of lust. He groans through it.
And when he's emptied himself, when the haze finally lifts, he collapses into his chair, chest rising and falling fast. He's still facing you—still watching.
You're frozen in place, arched and open, breath coming in frantic little stutters. Your thighs twitch. Your body's ruined. Your mind Gone.
beautiful.
