But just as I'm about to come, he stops, pulling away completely.
"Please," I whimper.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
"You haven't earned it yet." He walks around the desk, sits in his chair, and spreads his legs. "On your knees."
I drop immediately, crawling between his legs.
He's already hard, the outline visible through his expensive pants.
"You know what to do."
I reach for his zipper with shaking hands, free him from his pants.
He's huge, thick, already leaking precum.
I lean forward, eager, but he stops me with a hand in my hair.
"Slowly. And while you do, I'm going to read these reports. You don't stop until I tell you. If you do a good job, maybe I'll let you come."
What follows is exquisite torture.
I worship him with my mouth while he casually reads whatever reports are in front of him, occasionally making notes.
The only sign I'm affecting him is the slight tightening of his hand in my hair when I do something particularly good.
My jaw aches.
My knees hurt.
My pussy throbs with need.
But I don't stop, taking him deeper with each stroke, until I'm choking on him, tears streaming down my face.
"Good girl," he murmurs, setting aside his papers. "Such a good little whore for me."
The praise makes me moan around him.
He laughs, dark and cruel.
"Touch yourself. You can come when I do, not before."
My hand flies between my legs, finding my clit and circling it desperately.
I'm so close already, have been on edge since he started touching me.
He fists my hair, controlling my movements now, fucking my throat brutally.
"Look at me."
I meet his eyes, mascara running, lips stretched around him.
"You're mine," he says. "Say it."
I pull back just enough to gasp, "Yours. I'm yours."
