Charlotte Stein - Power Play

He’s hard, and very obviously so. It looks like a great thick fist beneath the material of those crappy trousers, so swollen that I can just about make out things I probably shouldn’t be able to. Like the fact that he isn’t circumcised, despite being as American as an over-sweet slice of apple pie.

‘I see. And if I said to you that your babbling mouth really needs a ball gag … would you wear one around the office for me?’ I ask, because really I’m going to need a lot more than a bit of mild ass-licking to jolt him. Or at least, I think so until he actually replies.

And then I’m just not sure where his boundaries lie at all.

‘Oh my God. You wouldn’t really ask me to do that, would you?’

‘Whether I would or not is hardly the question. Read it back to me, Benjamin – what was I asking, exactly?’

He strains, briefly, to remember – then seems almost overjoyed when it finally occurs to him. He snaps his fingers at me, which only suggests how much trouble I’m in. Even so silly a gesture gets me going.

‘You asked whether I’d do it.’

‘And would you?’

His eyes drift closed again, but that’s not what I notice. It’s his hand I see, as it slides down over the jutting shape in the front of his trousers. And I don’t mind admitting the sight jolts me, like a little electric shock applied to the base of my spine.

He’s touching himself. He’s touching his obviously hard cock right in front of me, without a hint of shame or restraint. In truth, I’m not sure if he knows what shame or restraint are. His prick is stiff, and he wants to touch it.

So he just does.

‘Yes,’ he says, almost too faint for me to hear. It’s like he’s lost inside himself, suddenly – but that’s fine. I’m more than willing to drag him back out again.

‘And just me looking at you a certain way makes you this … sluttish?’

He squeezes himself through his trousers on that last word, in a way that exposes most of the shape to my greedy gaze. And it is greedy by this point. My mouth practically floods with saliva to see that solid, lengthy outline through his crappy trousers.

‘Is that how I seem?’ he asks, breathless and just ever so slightly incredulous. I don’t know why the latter’s there, however. He’s playing with himself in my office, for God’s sake. He’s got a hand under his shirt now, and I can actually see the pale, flat expanse of his belly.

He’s the epitome of a slut, and I tell him so.

‘I don’t see how you could fail to realise,’ I say, but here’s the thing – he doesn’t then get a hold of himself. He doesn’t stop groping his cock or the skin underneath his shirt.

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