PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME. . . ! — ( PANTALONE. )
#. synopsis! — pantalone plays around with his new favorite employee in his office .
#. contains! — explicitly nsfw content , slight begging , cum eating , creampie , boss x employee , skullfucking , deepthroating , sloppy blowjob , reader calls pantalone "sir" , office sex , dirty talk , vaginal fingering , light degredation .
#. word count! — 4.3k .
There’s an all too well-known cycle of debt in Snezhnaya. It’s far easier than one might imagine to reach out for help from the Fatui, and in many circumstances, it becomes an offer far too enticing to ignore. But a bitter truth remains under all the posturing, under all the seemingly happy smiles that hide thinly veiled sins beneath the surface. And that bitter truth is that no debt, no matter how small, will ever go unpaid if you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up with the organization that runs this nation both from the shadows and in broad daylight.
Thus, here you are; working under the ninth of the eleven Harbingers, a man with undeniable charm, effortless charisma, and strict rules for those he oversees. Admittedly, it’s unusual for the Regrator to allow a lowly debt-payer to take up work in his vicinity, —but something about you seemed to pique his interest. Maybe it was that three million Mora debt your gambling addict of a father somehow managed to wrack up on a consistent losing bender, or maybe it was just that you seemed so painfully out of place standing before him.
As you’d come to learn very quickly, Pantalone is no stranger to delegating tasks to those that owe outstanding debts. However, it’s highly unusual that he would ever take someone in under his own supervision so carelessly. Although, you’re certain that he likely knows everything there is to know about you by now. . . Born in Snezhnaya to a working class family, one that was virtually torn apart by the loss of your mother. After her passing, your father went “off the deep end” as many would say; —started drinking, began disregarding the very-much-so alive members of his family, and blew everything on pointless bets and games that were all but specifically designed for him to fail.
And so here you are again, the eldest child of the house. . . The daughter that has to clean up the mess he’s made of everything.
It could be worse, you suppose. Pantalone is strict, but offers a fair amount of praise when the moment calls for such a thing. He’s easy on the eyes as well, which certainly doesn’t hurt. As long as you keep yourself in line, he’s relatively gentle and seems to value positive employer/employee relationships. Those make it easier for everything to work like “a well oiled machine” as he once put it.
Still, standing before him, your nerves are shot. You’re no fool, and you know much better than to trust the front he’s put on for you thus far. Above all else, this man is a Harbinger, and he likely has no qualms about forcing people to bend to his will by whatever means necessary. Though, it’s not as if you have much to offer him. You spared what little Mora you had in hopes of making a small dent in your father’s debts, and since then, every morsel you’ve made has gone directly to lining the pockets of the Fatui. The only other thing he could possibly take is the clothes off your back, —and even then, this is the uniform he gave to you at the start of the month, so it’s hardly yours to begin with.
“You seem nervous,” he notes, a barely-there smirk playing on his lips as he closes the door to his office.
The little clink that resounds throughout the room has you taking in a sharp, quick breath in hopes of steadying your mind. It doesn’t work.
He leans in a little closer, —close enough to feel the ghost of his breath against the shell of your ear, whispering: “Do I scare you?”
You’re uncertain of how to reply. If he were anyone else, you’d just be honest and admit that he does. But, then again, if he were anyone else you likely wouldn’t be scared to begin with. Pantalone is not anyone else, though. He’s the kind of man you’d hate to make your enemy.
“No sir,” you say softly in reply, voice close to quivering which easily gives you away.
He knows you’re lying like the priceless rug his glossy, cuihua wood desk sits on, —and maybe if you were anyone else he wouldn’t take kindly to that sort of deception, But you too are not anyone else, and if anything, he finds your feeble attempt at hiding your nerves to be endearing. The small puff of air he releases from his nose with a quiet, low snicker leaves your shoulders visibly stiff.
“No?” Pantalone inquires further, hands traveling up your arms to smoothe over the plane of your tense shoulders.
If you didn’t know better than to let your guard down, he might well have disarmed you then and there. He can be deceptively gentle when the need arises, and that much has been clear from the start. It’s just that now you yourself are at the receiving end of his underhanded tactics.
“Then you’re in desperate need of a massage,” he comments flippantly.
You know he has no intention of giving you one; least of all one with only concern for your well being at the forefront of his mind. He’s playing at something, —though you can’t say what.
“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” you answer.
“Sir,” he muses, and though you can’t see his face from this angle, you can practically hear the smirk in his voice as he kneads the pads of his fingers against you ever so softly, “that has a lovely ring when you say it.”
He’s close enough now for you to catch the scent of his cologne. It smells expensive and sweet, —made of warm tones and likely concocted for Pantalone’s use alone. Designed to be pacifying.
“Say it again.”
The request —demand?— leaves your breath hitching in your throat. He can feel the way your shoulders tense harder, shaking slightly under the pressure of it all. When you fail to do as he’s asked of you, he moves to stand in front of you.
“Cat got your tongue?” He asks.
His thumb glides along your bottom lip, the side of his index finger coming to rest just below your chin. You hate to admit it, but when he’s so close it’s all too easy to wonder what his lips would feel like slotted against yours in an ardent kiss. He stirs something within you, and he seems to know that despite you having never said it aloud. You can’t help it when your gaze flickers between his curious eyes and his mouth.
“You’re free to take a taste," he says, so quickly that it's startling, —as if he'd been waiting for your line of sight to drift there forever.
You hesitate, —but you can’t deny that you’re willing to take him up on the offer. You can’t deny that you’re curious.
Pantalone waits patiently, as if to tell you that denial is an option if you’d like to take it.
Unfortunately, you don’t.
His lips are soft and warm, perfectly unchapped despite the harsh, everlasting Snezhnayan winter. His hand moves to the left, forming sweetly to the side of your face as his lips move in tandem with yours immediately. It’s clear in that moment that he never had a doubt you’d take him up on his offer. He knew your decision before you'd even made it. Or, rather, he'd been arrogant enough to assume it and had just gotten the luck of the draw.
"I admit," he says between hungry, breathless kisses, "I don't typically indulge myself with those who work for me."
That doesn't come as a shock to you. For whatever it's worth, he's not a bad boss. . . And even after this, you doubt you'll feel any differently about that. He’s been fair to you, if a bit strict, and he doesn’t seem to be the type to take advantage of anyone in a manner such as this. Although you don’t know him well enough to be certain of it, your gut tells you you’ve hit the nail on the head. Not to mention the fact that a man like him likely has many things to hide, and allowing the wrong person to get in too close would be something akin to career suicide.
A part of you wants to ask “why me?” —wants to ask what could possibly make you so special in his eyes. After all, you’re by no means a unique case. You’re sure he’s seen innumerous women just like you swing in and out on account of a loved one’s irresponsibility.
His next comment answers your unasked question.
“But you always look at me with such a sweet, innocent stare,” he says, voice low. “It’s been driving me wild.”
It dawns on you then just how human Pantalone truly is. He may well be a Harbinger, —but he’s also a man. A man with wants, yearnings, and needs. A man of desires in the same way that you are a woman of them.
He kisses you with tongue this time, loving the way your shoulders stiffen once again in surprise as you let him have his way. Admittedly, he’s a bit of a control freak. He likes to call the shots anywhere he can, and the way you’ve passively taken to his ebb and flow has him half-hard already from the rush of it all. He’s surprisingly gentle, but you have a feeling it won’t be like that forever. In the same manner he is both a man with needs and a Fatui Harbinger, you can only assume he is also a man of soft touches and strict adherence to dominance.
Without missing a beat, he tugs you along. His lips hungrily crave for yours as he positions himself against his desk, leaning back on it. He steadies himself with the glossed edge, jutting a single knee out and slinking it between your quavering legs, hiking up your skirt quite a bit. The coarse fabric of his dress pants is rough against the thin, silken material of your underwear. A tiny moan escapes your lips as the friction sends a little pulse of electricity to your veins.
"How cute," Pantalone quips, nipping lightly at your bottom lip. "You're already making noise and I haven't even properly touched you.”
This man is far from inexperienced, and that much has been clear from the start. He knows how to draw you in with little more than his eyes alone, commanding you around with the sharpness of his gaze. It’s intoxicating; the way he pulls you in and twists your desires, making himself completely and utterly irresistible to you.
He peppers kisses down the column of your throat, loving the way it feels when you swallow, muscles contracting just behind your skin. A hand of slender fingers threads through your hair, barely ghosting the tips against your scalp before he’s yanking on the strands, exposing more of your neck for him to feast on. Though the primal side of him wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you, bite, bruise, and mark you up so you’ll be unable to forget about this encounter too easily, the business-savvy side of Pantalone knows better.
People in the workplace love to talk, —love to gossip. And if word of this, if only in the form of speculative rumors, were to get around. . . Well, that wouldn’t be very pleasant, to say the least.
When his teeth graze your earlobe, an ecstatic shiver creeps up your spine.
“Let's put that pretty little mouth to some good use, hm?”
Before you can really wrap your reeling mind around your position, he has you on your knees at his feet. He loves the way you look up at him with innocent doe-eyes, gaze like an animal caught in the spotlight. You’re so sweet, maybe even somewhat bitter, and he’s not sure he’s ever wanted anyone more.
Those coarse dress pants bunch around his knees, and the cock that rests between his thighs is semi-hard by the time you take him in your hand, guiding the warm tip to your lips. His taste is surprisingly neutral, but your jaw has a harder time adjusting to his girth than your tongue does to his flavor.
Pantalone is startlingly gentle when it comes to this. He doesn’t snake his long fingers through your hair and push you down, down, down until your nose brushes against the skin of his lower stomach. He simply watches with curious, cat-like eyes as you test your limits on him, slicking him up, attempting to find a rhythm that doesn’t feel so awkward.
No discouraging comments come from above. Instead, Pantalone presses a large, warm hand to the crown of your head and smooths it down your hair as if to say that you’re doing fine, —that you’re making him feel good just by giving it your best.
The first time you gag, he hums. Although you pull away at first, scared of the sudden reflex, you slowly adjust to him, and Pantalone offers you time to do so. He likes the way you're so persistent, yet inexperienced all the same. The idea that he's the first man to ever have you like this is. . . Exciting, even if he’s just making an assumption. It fills him with a sense of pride that he hasn't felt in a long time. It’s different.
But his gentleness doesn’t last.
It began to fade the minute he fisted a handful of your hair, eliciting a surprised moan from you. Pantalone likes the way it vibrates against the cock stuffed in your pretty little mouth, lips puffy from the rough kisses forming around him. Your gaze seems to shake.
He can’t hold himself back anymore. He can’t play it nice when you look up at him like that, just begging for your throat to be fucked raw.
As both his hands wrap around the back of your head, holding you steady and in place, you’re by no means naive enough to misunderstand what’s about to happen. He catches your gaze just before he rolls his hips, member slipping down your throat. He busies himself with every nook and cranny, feeling the way you contract around him, pulling him in, pushing him out, again and again. He uses your mouth like a toy to be played with, one that he’s taking his sweet time in savoring every micro-movement of.
You’re gagging and sputtering, spit pooling in your mouth and spilling out the corners as he has his way with you. It’s so sloppy and hot, sweeping you away until you can’t feel anything at all besides the yearning for him to fuck you on his desk like an animal and his fat cock closing off your airways, sneaking in breaths between the harsh movements of his lean hips.
“Play with yourself,” he grits through his teeth, and you do as he says, slipping a hand between your thighs to nudge at the sopping heat there.
Your panties are completely and utterly ruined, soaked with arousal, and it’s all his fault. You can’t seem to recall a time when you’ve ever been this turned on, —pussy drooling and so sensitive to every little touch as you run your fingertips along yourself in feather-light touches.
Pantalone pauses with his cock buried in your throat, then slowly removes himself completely. He’s rock hard, covered in your saliva, and oozing pre-cum from the tip. He’s fucking throbbing, so close to bursting and yet saving that for later, and apparently, nothing seems to get him off more than watching you dance those nimble little fingertips across your clothed pussy, spit dripping from your chin to all over the floor of his office.
He clicks his tongue in disapproval, and your hand stops moving between your legs.
“Look at the mess you made on the floor of my office,” he demands. “Clean it up.”
The moment you move to do so with your hand, he hisses.
“No, not like that,” he nearly growls. “Use your fucking tongue.”
You’re torn between that being sexy and completely disgusting, but in the end, you do as he says with no questions. Inhibitions are lowered when you’re as horny as this, after all, and the way Pantalone strokes himself to the scene is enough to push you to do it.
“Don’t you dare swallow,” he notes, watching as you lap at the mixture of semen and spit on the floor, only to hold it in your cheek.
You lap at the wet splotches on the ground a few times, collecting the spillage on the flat of your tongue before he tugs you roughly to your feet. He tears your blouse open, popping all the buttons off as if it were an easy feat. Your bra comes off simply as he unclasps it with grace, only to discard it and suckle on your nipples. He bites at your breasts, marking himself there instead of on your neck. When his mouth is on one, his hand is on the other, making sure the both of them receive the rightful attention they deserve. He loves the way your flesh shifts under pressure, —loves the way you’re trying to squeeze your legs together for some relief.
“Such a little whore for me,” he mumbles, obviously so proud of himself for having made you like this.
In any other circumstance, his arrogance likely would have been infuriating, but as he looms just above you, mouth suctioned to your tit, hand roughly massaging at every lob of flesh he can get his hands on, it serves only to leave you moaning in pleasure. Your toes curl the moment he pushes your skirt up around your midsection, tearing your panties down and situating you on his desk.
Pantalone steals the heels off your feet, then does away with your underwear too. You’re practically glistening in the sunlight that spills in from his open office window. The only article of clothing left on your body is the skirt that he rendered useless the moment he bunched it up and hiked it up around your middle. He further positions you, —one foot on opposite sides of the desk, spreading you open for his entertainment.
“Just fucking look at that,” he says, slapping the flat of two fingers against your slit, making you jolt a little. “You’re soaked for me.”
Your breathing becomes ragged the moment he smacks those digits against you again, then once more, and then so many more times that you completely lost the ability to count. He admires the way your arousal sticks to the pads of his fingers, watching as it stretches for a few moments then snaps away. This pretty pussy, sopping wet and begging to be pleasured, is all his. And he knows that.
With how turned on you are, he has no trouble sinking two fingers inside, prodding at your insides. You gasp when he’s up to the knuckles, mewling over every little touch and every little move Pantalone makes. It’s hard to keep all the contents you lapped up in your mouth when he’s got you going crazy like this. The pad of his thumb comes down against your clit, drawing rough circles on it as your back arches and your thighs shake. You’re so vulnerable here, exposed for his eyes only as your cunt convulses around his fingers, attempting to suck him in deeper.
“Spit,” he commands, placing a free hand right below your mouth.
You do, depositing his seed, your saliva, and whatever the fuck else you likely picked up off the floor with your tongue into the palm of his hand. There’s something so erotic about the way it drools out, stringing along your lips. He slicks himself up with the mixture, leaning in close to press a kiss to your mouth.
A surge of new warmth surrounding the digits he has buried in your snatch lets him know that you’re still dripping with need, hungry little pussy ready for whatever he has to give you. He’s not one for teasing in this regard. He prefers to get straight to the point; or maybe he’s just so achingly hard that he needs to be inside you right this instant and couldn’t be fucked to finger you on this desk for any longer when he knows what you really want is his cock buried inside you.
The moment he presses inside with reckless abandon, you realize that his previous gentleness had simply been a clever deception to ease you into things. He isn’t someone with that much self control. At the end of all things, he is but a beast at heart; the man between your legs pounding into you so deeply that your body is shaking under the weight of his lust. He’s touching places inside you that you hadn’t ever realized could feel this good; —fucking you so nice and so deep that your mind has already started checking out.
Stars were practically hanging behind your eyelids the very moment he slid inside, hammering in and out with every ounce of energy he has to offer. His stamina for this is jarring, but it feels so good that you don’t have the time nor the will to dwell on it. All that matters in the moment is his thick cock pounding you out, his skin slapping against you, —setting fireworks off inside your gut.
It’s all too easy to get swept away when he touches you like this, both inside and out. You let out a shattered cry and he uses it as fuel, gripping at your hips and forcing you closer. You’re the prettiest mess he’s ever seen, —the prettiest mess he’s ever made. He wants to keep you locked away from the world, save you for his own, though he knows that’s an unreasonable request. Not that he’s ever claimed to be a particularly reasonable man anyway.
He’s so smug about this though, so goddamn proud of himself that it’s almost sickening. He loves the choked noises you make, the way you try to swallow moans and find yourself whining instead. He’s dangling your high by a thread, and he knows exactly what buttons to push to get you going.
And push he does, every single one of them, ghosting past every sweet spot buried within. For as much as this is all for him, a means to an end, he’s taking care of you, too. . . It’s romantic, if you squint and tilt your head a little.
You reach up with a trembling hand, and Pantalone only reacts with a sharp breath in as you tangle your fingers in his hair. You hold him tight, pull him closer, —push him more. Your strong grip comes in great contrast to the sloppy execution of his movements as he draws closer to his peak, orgasm shivering just below his skin. Really, he’s surprised he’s managed to edge himself along for all this time. It crackles just beneath the surface, ready to explode.
To think someone of his stature would be fucking you senseless, getting you drunk off his dick in the middle of the day right on top of his desk. The desk he signs important papers at, reviews work samples and contemplates futures at. . . All of that and more, and yet here he is, length sliding smoothly in and out of you, looking so handsome that it’s almost unreal. The glisten of your juices on his member is far too enticing to ignore, so he fixes his gaze there, watching as you swallow him up, taking all of him in like the good girl he’s always known you to be.
The squelch of your pussy has him gritting his teeth, jaw aching in the aftermath. Your walls grip at him, massaging him down, clouding his mind and fogging up his inhibitions. Whatever it takes to have you convulsing on him, crying out as you’re speared on him, cumming all over him as he chases his own release inside you, is what Pantalone will do. He’s vying for it no matter what it takes.
“Fuck,” he hisses, then continues with a demand, “—let me hear you beg.”
If you’d been any further along, his command likely would have fallen on deaf ears.
“Please,” you vocalize reflexively, “please, please, please don’t stop.”
Not that he had any intention of doing so, but the sound of your voice, so broken and desperate, hanging on the edge, really presses him that much further into your divine. He might be the one largely in control, the dominating figure in this instance, but he’s still drowning in your ocean. Pantalone isn’t sure he’s ever felt desire this sincere, this all-encompassing. He’s practically losing parts of himself inside you.
“How’s it feel?” He asks, though he’s positive he already knows the answer by the way your toes are curling around the jutting edge of his desk.
“Good,” you gasp, “so good, sir.”
That’s all it takes.
As your walls tighten around him, overstimulation driving you completely and utterly into the abyss, Pantalone lets you wring him dry for every last drop he’s worth. There’s a stutter to his breath and a relief in the way he sighs, panting and attempting to collect himself. His chest heaves and your eyes are having a hard time focusing again, having rolled so far in your head that you were seeing starlight.
The cum he spilled inside is thick and warm, leaking out the minute he pulls his cock out. It drips down the front of his desk, so erotic and defiling. . .
“Don’t waste it,” he complains, stuffing two digits inside you to stuff the cum back in.
You half expected him to scoop the rest of it up with his fingers and demand that you clean it off with your tongue.
He doesn’t, but your walls react, clenching around him, and suddenly, he’s not so keen on letting you get back to work anymore. . .