Violet's POV
I stood in the middle of his office with the black notebook in my hands and my pulse hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
He closed the door behind me, the soft click of the lock resounding in my head.
The glass walls—the same ones I wanted him to fuck me in—were frosted. So if he wanted to do anything close to my imaginations, no one outside would see us.
He leaned against the edge of his desk, arms loosely crossed, watching me the way he watched quarterly numbers—calm, precise, already deciding the outcome.
"Open it," he said.
My fingers shook.
"Huh?" I said, eyes widening, my heart beating harder.
"Violet, I said open the book in your hands. I want to see what's in there."
My gaze dropped sharply to the book, my hands moving carefully to open the pages.
I opened the most recent pages. The ones still warped and stained from orgasm.
He didn't take it from me. He simply nodded once.
"Start from the top of that entry. Out loud. Every word. I want to hear it."
I swallowed hard, the reality sinking deeper into my head.
"I won't repeat myself again. Go ahead and read it." He said sharply, but calm.
The first line sat there in my own handwriting, dark blue and filthy. My hands were shaking. The diary trembled in my grip. I opened my mouth, closed it, then forced the words out.
"I keep thinking about... about the way your hands look when you roll up your sleeves."
My voice came out thin, barely above a whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again, louder this time.
"Thick wrists. Veins. The kind of hands that could hold me down without even trying."
I paused, my face burning. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"I imagine them on my throat first."
My voice cracked on the word throat. I gulped hard and forced myself to continue.
"Squeezing and choking the air out of my lungs."
I stumbled over the next part, my tongue tripping on the words.
"Then—then lower. Across my—" I stopped, my breath catching. "Across my collarbones."
I looked up at him. His expression hadn't changed. He was still watching me with that same calm, steady gaze, but his eyes were darker.
"Continue," he said.
I looked back down at the diary. My handwriting blurred in front of my eyes.
"Over my—" I started, then stopped again. "Over my tits."
The word came out rushed, embarrassed. I felt like a teenager reading something she shouldn't have found.
"You'd squeeze until it ached."
My voice dropped. I could feel my face burning, my pulse racing.
"You'd leave marks. I want the marks."
The last words came out in a rush, almost gasped. I dropped the diary to my lap, my hands shaking too much to hold it.
He remained quiet, then spoke, his voice low and measured.
"Look at me."
I forced my head up.
"Continue reading. I want to hear everything," he said. "Slower this time. And don't look away from me."
I picked up the diary, my fingers shaking terribly. I started again, forcing my voice to stay steady.
"Good," he said. "Keep going."
I read the next part. My face burned hotter with every sentence.
"I want you to bend me over your desk. The big one. The one with the glass top so I can see my own reflection while you fuck me. I want you to pull my skirt up and my underwear to the side like you don't have time to take them off properly. I want you to spit on your fingers and shove two of them inside me roughly. I want it to sting. I want you to tell me I'm already soaked and that I've been thinking about this all day. Because I have."
My thighs were pressed so tightly together they hurt. I felt how hot and wet I was.
He pushed off the desk and walked toward me slowly.
"You wrote that you wanted me to make you prove every word," he said, voice low. "So prove it."
I stared at him.
"Read the next part. And while you do, show me exactly how you touched yourself when you wrote it."
My stomach dropped. Heat flooded between my legs as those words left his lips.
I looked down at the page again because I couldn't look at his face.
"I'd—I'd be loud. I wouldn't be able to—to help it."
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry.
"You'd have to cover my—" I stopped, my breath catching. "You'd have to cover my mouth with your other hand."
My voice dropped to almost a whisper. I forced myself to continue.
"Or maybe you'd just—" I stumbled over the word. "You'd just tell me to shut up and take it."
I could feel his eyes on me. Dark. Burning.
"I think about that a lot. You telling me to be—be quiet while you wreck me."
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, then opened them again.
"I think about you calling me a—" I stopped. I couldn't say it.
"Continue," he said. His voice was calm. Patient. Demanding.
I took a shaky breath.
"I think about you calling me a dirty little—"
The words caught in my throat. I forced them out.
"Slut."
I exhaled, shaking, my heart racing faster than it should.
"For getting this wet at work. For writing about you in a notebook—" I paused, gripping the paper tighter. "In a notebook I hide under the company's reports."
My voice dropped to a whisper now.
"For touching myself under the desk while you're only—" I stopped, swallowing hard. "While you're only two offices away."
"Good girl," he said.
My free hand moved without being told a second time. I pulled up my skirt, slipped my fingers inside my underwear, and found myself soaked. The first touch made my breath hitch. I kept reading, my voice still unsteady.
He took two long strides and, before I knew it, he was right in front of me. I didn't look up. I couldn't.
His hand came up, and his thumb brushed across my lower lip, light and tender.
"Breathe," he said.
I did.
His thumb traced the edge of my mouth, then pressed gently, holding my lower lip down.
"Don't shake," he said. "Don't stammer. You wrote these words. They're yours. Act like you truly own them."
I nodded against his thumb. He pulled his hand away slowly, his eyes locked on me.
"Continue," he said.
"I came last night thinking about your cock," I paused, trying to stop myself from stammering. "I had three fingers inside myself and still felt empty. I imagined you forcing me open. Thick. Heavy. Stretching me until it burned in the best way possible. I came so hard I had to force my face into the pillow."
"Good girl," he commented, his voice dark. "Keep going."
"I wrote about it after. The pages are still stuck together a little. I almost brought those ones today. I should have. Maybe then you'd find them and finally do something about it."
He walked closer to me and took my hands. "You took them out. Now I'll put them back."
He shoved them down into my skirt, his hands staying longer than they should.
"Please... Touch me—" I cried, my voice broken.
"Not yet. I'll watch you break yourself before I place my hands on you. Now, work that pussy." He said, his tone commanding.
My breath hitched. My knees jerked forward as I increased my pace.
"Work it," he repeated. "I want to see how you touch yourself when you're alone. When you're thinking about me. Show me."
My fingers moved, pressing harder into the sensitive flesh. A moan escaped my lips before I could help it.
"Good," he murmured. "Keep going."
My fingers slipped lower, sliding through my wetness, teasing my entrance. I pushed one finger inside, then a second. The stretch of my tiny fingers made me whimper. I imagined it was his cock, thick and heavy, filling me.
"That's it," he said. "Let me hear you."
I moaned again, louder this time. My fingers moved in and out, picking up speed. I could feel myself getting close, the pressure building in my core.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I forced my eyes open. His gaze was dark, burning.
"You're so beautiful like this," he said. "Desperate. Sloppy. You'd do anything to have me inside you right now, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Please—"
"Not yet. Keep going. I want to see you fall apart."
I forced my fingers inside me as deep as I could, curling, my legs shaking.
"I want—" my voice broke.
"Want what?" he roared.
"To come," I cried. "It's—"
"Come. I want to see you come."
My orgasm hit just right after he ended his last sentence.
I doubled over slightly, fingers buried deep, a broken sound tearing out of me as I pulsed around them. Wetness spilled over my hand. I kept the notebook open, exactly as I'd written, and let him see everything.
A smile of satisfaction flashed across his face.
He took the notebook from me gently, almost carefully, and dropped it on the desk behind him.
He looked up at me—flushed, messy, still twitching—and spoke in that same calm voice.
"Good. Now we do it properly, just the way you've written."
He pointed at the glass-topped desk. The one I'd fantasized about getting fucked on and seeing my reflection.
"Roll up your skirt and bend over. I'm going to do the rest."