LEFTOVER LUSTS

She found you there, tied over the desk, stained face betraying your recent history. A pair of satin panties formed a delicate puddle around the knot connecting your stocking’d ankles. None of your “companions” had bothered to undress you more interested, no doubt, in taking advantage and likely entranced by the lascivious sight of a bare bottom beneath your flipped up, tartan, pleated skirt and your white cotton bra peeking through the torn blouse.

Judging from the streams of viscous liquid flowing from your pussy, and dripping with metronomic regularity from your balls to the floor, every man in the building had taken a turn: the dried splatter pattern covering the beatific expression on your painted face evidence of your willing participation.

Yet still, they had left you there, bound to her desk, to be found by her upon her return from lunch. It was as if they understood her role in your descent; as if they knew that she would glory in the sight of you there: Degraded, spread-eagled, abused and abandoned. And she did.

When she entered the shocked expression quickly changed to one of interest. Delicately she stepped from her flats into her office heels, hung her jacket upon the coat hanger and placed her take away coffee cup carefully on the coffee table before sitting on her swivel chair with a impish grin on her beautiful face.

She circled the desk to view you from each angle, careful not to disturb the scene, as if to preserve it for her forensic examination at some later date. Finally, satisfied that she had seen everything, she donned a pair of latex gloves, taken from her bottom drawer and, approaching you from out of your sightline, parted your bottom cheeks with a satisfied smile as she viewed the ruination within.

Her fingers entered you easily, your muscles had yet to recover, and after a few minutes in which she continued to invade you unceremoniously she scooped up a handful of the creamy mess that had invaded you earlier.

There was a swagger in her step as she moved from your ass, her heels clicking on the parquet floor, as she came around to where you could see her, directly in front of your face. She unzipped her fly with her free hand, dropped her pants to the ground and revealed a massive strap-on which she proceeded to lather with the cum on her gloved hand.

In your dreaming head you heard the snap as she removed the latex gloves, felt her grasp your hair roughly to raise your face from the warm patch of leather desktop that had cradled your cheek and pull you forward to press the cold, wet, bulbous head against your lips.

Your mouth struggled to accommodate her girth and length, tired as it was from multiple, previous assaults but she persisted, staring down into your eyes as she mercilessly fucked your mouth with her cum-covered cock.

This was no erotic moment. This was an assault. This was how she was reclaiming you from those many, faceless men who had taken her toy, abused it, broken it, and left it, without apology, for her to find. You knew now that none of them were safe; that she would hunt them down one by one and do unto them what she was now doing to you.

They had taken your innocence from you and you, in your excitement and joy at being pursued by them, had acceded to their every wish. In your wildest moments you had never even considered how this betrayal would make her feel. You forgot how special you were to her.

You were no longer special. Now you were just an available piece of ass that she would use and cast aside. She would begin again with someone new.

And for the first time that day you felt ashamed; ashamed of your submissiveness that had so enabled your colleagues in their welcomed assault, ashamed of your post-coital condition, ashamed at the way she must see you now, no longer hers alone but of anyone with a cock who cared to have you.

You knew this display of her dominance was catharsis for her, knew she would also purge her feelings in your other hole as if, by taking you like this, she could reclaim you and rescue you from yourself even though she knew it would be futile. She was no longer in control; would never be again.

Nobody controlled you now, nobody and everyone. And as she plunged deep inside your ravaged rectum you moaned as she collapsed on top of your prone body and your hard little clit finally convulsed its treasure against your smooth stomach.