Jackson is fucking me again, having his way with the curvy quiet girl in the wire-rimmed glasses; fucking me tirelessly, the way a lover ought to. He fucks me every day, even though we’re not lovers or really even friends; downstairs in the company spa, in closed board meetings, in my office with the door wide open. Jackson is inside me, stealing me, the conniving bastard. He’s inside me fucking me with those eyes of his, orchestrating one anatomical mutiny after another in me. Making me as wet as a kiss. I want to fuck him too, almost as much as I want to gouge out his eyes. I’m nobody’s whore.

I would scream at him to stop it, stop looking at me the way he does if I didn’t know what perverse pleasure he derives from my unrest. I would demand, I would plead, I would threaten. I would swear to get even with him for the unwelcome moistness of my vulva, the cursed stiffness of my nipples if those acts would not serve merely to validate his emotional manipulation. He wants to break me. He believes he can and will have me willing and greased on my stomach, his vessel pleading to be filled. The man wants it so bad, even I can taste it. Jackson wants to screw me to my knees and have my thanks for the rough ride down. He wants me to swallow and smile and ask for seconds like the good little courtesan he’s decided I have the potential to be, under his direction, of course.

Moments ago, he approached me with the news that today’s stockholders’ meeting would begin in five. Investors were already inside. I nearly groaned openly at the suggestion behind his eyes as he spoke; a mute invitation no less urgent for lack of voice. Standing there sipping coffee, he slid his phantom cock into me again, the imaginary cock that pushes deeper into my anus, my cunt, my throat with every second his eyes remain upon me…