Snag

Please be advised that this story features consensual, rape fantasy role play and may contain triggers common to the subject matter.

By Jenna Barton

11:37 am

This day, the most important in recent memory, was starting to unravel. With a career-altering meeting looming at one o’clock, annoying insecurity threatened to undo Ms. Strong’s careful composition of purpose and confidence. And every piece should be in place today.

Seated in her mid-level, mildly impressive office (because, after all, she did have an office now) she was afraid she had overreached.

Her desk phone rang. Instead of the most sensible reaction, she tipped herself forward in her chair. Balancing. Her fingers splayed, wiggling wide for the receiver. She sensed smooth black plastic under her fingers—even allowed herself a congratulatory smile over the feat of workplace contortionism—a half-breath before she tumbled from her chair to her knees.

The caller announced a package was waiting for her in Reception.

“No, your assistant is not in the office today, Ms. Strong.”

“The messenger says the package requires your signature, Ms. Strong.”

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…

She marched through the rabbits’ warren of cubicles to a cadence of dread and annoyance cycling in her head. Her eyes flitted down at the ruined nylon at her calf. This day, an unparalleled day in her almost-career, would play out in front of the all-male board of directors with a giant tear in her pantyhose.

Something had to be done.

11:41

After her harried internal/measured external walk through the cubicles, Reception was a calm outpost. Away from the office’s hive-like hum, she was greeted with a wash of dim-lighted, muted-colored, hushed-voice still.

Ms. Strong folded her arms across her waist.

“I was called about a package?”

Before the receptionist could answer, a man emerged from a wedge of unlit space opposite her. After taking note that Ms. Strong had met the messenger, the receptionist returned to her own duties without a second glance. Ms. Strong turned to him, stunned.

“That’s right, Ms. Strong. Yes.” He crossed to her in a few easy strides.  His taut twill uniform, neither black, nor blue, nor gray—but all of those colors, too—was as non-descript as Reception. Just as they had planned. Pulling a Lucite clipboard out, he continued, “Signature required.”

Ms. Strong forced her features to soften into an impersonal smile.

Under the brim of his hat, his face inclined toward her. His features were obscured, unmemorable to anyone passing them. She might have signed for the package and left him, unnoticed. He’d made himself unremarkable – except for the startling aqueous, gray-green of his eyes. Those she knew.

She was so much more edgy today—too lost in the importance of her work-self, after weeks of ceaseless preparation, for what she had in store that afternoon.

Oh God, not today. Yes, today. How much ‘yes’ to right now.

She blinked hard; her eyes skipped from his face to the package and back to his face once more.

He looked on, unmoved, waiting for her response.

Not now. Not like this. Not today. But…yeah. This.

Fresh air. That would settle her down, get her focused.

She nodded, smiling, and scrawled her name across the blank page.

 “Thank you.”

11:44 am

Street-level, the drowse of mid-morning was long gone. She skirted the revolving door, settling the box against her hip as she walked away from her building. Despite the pound and whirr of heavy engines and construction a few blocks away, her pulse thrummed loudest in her ears. With every step she flinched, knowing the snarled tracks of ruined nylon disrupted her polished, professional image. Under the precise, tailored pieces of fine wool covering her body, Ms. Strong simmered.

The unexpected arrival of the package, coupled with the rent pantyhose, overrode her morning’s methodical preparations. Now, the 1 p.m. meeting was an afterthought, something that would happen, regardless. Far more important was the slim brown paper-covered rectangle that rose and nudged at the curve of her breast with every step.

He wanted to play. Did he know she needed it too?

Ms. Strong paused at the cross street, moored to the mid-week, lunchtime routine of those surrounding her. She closed her eyes, inhaling the acrid mix of diesel exhaust and winter air, and shivered at the new spark of anticipation riding her spine.

West 38^th and Broad. Two blocks.

Tension pooled in her thighs. She imagined herself rolling her hips at it, and what would be the studied non-reaction of those around her. Would they solemnly watch her squirm with their sideways-glances and truncated, polite coughs? Would the charcoal-suited executive beside her clear his throat again, maybe frisk his pocketed hands against the collection of coins and keys and tinned mints, wishing he was free to reach past them and grasp his suddenly insistent cock? He could clench her hair, right there as they waited, and force her against the crossing signal. The bright black sheen of his wingtip shoe could collide with the arch of her foot, forcing her legs wider, setting her skirt’s seams straining as a rush of cool air rose between her thighs.

Charcoal Suit shuffled his feet and coughed harshly, maybe annoyed by being kept from his lunch appointment. She toyed with the sounds he made, wondering how the tenor would change if it came out beside her ear. How hot his breath would be on her neck as he ground against her ass, crushing her ribs against the grimy, galvanized steel pole. His arm would surprise her with its strength as it trapped her waist and tipped her forward, never letting her pussy find the relief of a mercifully solid pole in front of her.

The traffic lights changed. Ms. Strong set off again, leaving Charcoal Suit in her wake, just another figure in the clutch of bodies that moved as one across the wide city street. When she stepped from the curb, a current of force climbed her muscles, settling with a final shudder between her legs. She pressed her lips at the giggle of anticipation threatening behind them. Ms. Strong looked forward, her eyes seeking out the next crosswalk and the construction site beyond.

12:02 pm

A long wooden corridor surrounding the construction site siphoned a gust of cold air from the buildings above her. An entire city block had been swallowed whole into the mammoth project, leaving nothing but elderly cobblestones to mark the location of vanished alleyways.  The decision to break away from the lunch hour throng emptying into 38^th street might make little sense to an observant, anonymous bystander, but to her, it was more vital than the pursuit of any average lunch date. Another curl of pleasure, radiating from her pelvis, reminded Ms. Strong just how hungry she was.

She slowed her pace a half-step. They had planned this afternoon’s presentation meticulously for weeks. Not much was sensible about it now. Ms. Strong hummed with the perfect discord of her flight from the office, so close to her hour of reckoning.

So close to the minute she’d see him again.

She knew the mutual attraction – and understanding – was there once his gray-green eyes fixed and narrowed in her direction, catching her as she fantasized during a strategy session. Bored by the usual debate over figures used to mask her CEO’s attempts to control the outcome of the merger, Ms. Strong had drifted into her favorite boardroom fantasy. Once the final signatures were in place and the merger was complete, the board of her company would offer her, her legs and arms caught in the tidy coils of their Hermes neckties, to their new associates. A feast to celebrate harvesting and gathering of assets and off-shore loopholes. One by one, they would use her, toying with her body without consideration for her, and congratulating each other on a job well done.

Her legs crossed, she had nudged pressure against the throb between her legs with each careful tilt of her foot. The sensible, commonplace length of her dark skirt covered the shift of her thighs against each other as the meeting droned on. She had pressed her pen against her bottom lip, trapping the secretive smile before it showed her insides to the roomful of men. Or so she thought.

He had noticed. And for the next seven weeks, he had uncovered her, secret by secret.

She passed a dusty, unused courtyard. Another, and then one more, her path taking her deeper into an unoccupied part of the construction site.

The new building’s skeleton of steel girders and iron tendons thrust skyward around her, its footprint incongruous with the narrow cobbled lanes that made her wobble on the spindly heels of her shoes. Each time her foot fell on one of the irregular stones, she teetered a little. She was forced to tighten the muscles in her hips and thighs to counteract the imbalance. Each constriction radiated through her pelvis, waving between her legs. Ms. Strong caught an involuntary shudder before it broke over her skin, determined to keep her features impassive and her mind clear.

It was so much better when she wasn’t waiting for it; when it was a surprise.

The hands shocked her. One slammed over her mouth; another wrenched hard around her wrist. Good. He’d thrown her off this time.

“You’re late,” he huffed into her ear and propelled her toward a sooty corner of the shadowed alcove. They splashed and staggered through a puddle of oily water, sloshing frigid grime over her foot.

Ms. Strong’s legs faltered between the longer, more powerful ones guiding her across the littered, dank space. Her breath puffed out in small wheezes against the pitiless palm compressing her mouth. The skin pressed into her lips turned damp and hot with the air escaping her body.

And those two lips make four. Damp and hot, damp and hot, under my skirt, look what I’ve got.

He must have known she smiled. His hand wrenched inside her blazer and cupped a breast hard against his fingers.

“Think this is a game, slut?”

Slut. She nearly sighed at it and her head lolled against his shoulder. He grasped more of her skin, twisted a peaked nipple until a ragged scream raced from her mouth and faded away, muffled against his hand.

“Answer me.”

Ms. Strong shook her head —her only available response. A few strands of hair tumbled over her eyes, brushing across the brown hair sprinkled over his knuckles. Mesmerized by the delicate dance of their bodies meeting in that pinpoint place, she almost forgot to thrust her free hand forward, stopping her just before she slammed into a gritty brick wall.

The package clattered to the cobbles below her, a reminder of her choice to come here, to leave the office with so little time left before the meeting.

Her risk and her reward.

“Where were you?” His long, tensed thigh shot between her legs, wrenching them open, forcing her to her toes, turning the soaked gusset of her pantyhose to shredded seams. Her skirt doubled and pulled, pinching the fleshy part of her hips and she shook away from his hand with a wild twist of her head.

“I’m sor–Don’t! Please… The meet– don’t tear my skirt. You can do anything–”

“Anything?” He thrust his leg further between her legs, straining the wool to breaking. It sent her panicking, twisting against his arms as his knee teased at her sopping pussy. “Anything? You are a whore, aren’t you?”

“Please…” She moaned, enamored and repulsed at the pleading sound in her throat. “I can’t let them see–”

“You can’t let those guys in the boardroom see what you really are?” He laughed and the graveled cruelty of it turned her knees useless. She sunk against his chest, groaning when his body tensed against hers.

“I need–” She gasped, swallowing at breaths that turned to whines when his hand left her neck and snatched at the buckling hem of her skirt.

“You need me.” He twisted her nipple again, compressing its base flat between his fingers and pulling away from her chilled breast. “Say it.”

“Need…you.” Her eyes flitted shut. Oh god yes, it’s happening.

“You need this.” The hard outline of his cock pressed into the cleft of her ass. He shoved her head down, so close to the old bricks she could smell the dinge and dust of the city’s last two centuries rising into her nostrils. “Tell me.”

Her nails clawed ineffectually at the old grout under her fingertips. One manicured tip twisted and cracked. She cried out at it, indignant, stamping her foot near his booted one. Damage was not part of the agreement. Before she could open her mouth to scream at him over the chipped nail, his palm fell hard and heavy on her ass. Three more stinging slaps fell in quick succession, rousing her chilled skin to taut and flaming under the remnants of her stockings.

Ms. Strong couldn’t stop the needy sway of her hips. His cock bounced over the contours of her ass again and again, earning a hoarse grunt from deep in his chest

“I need it.”

“It?” His chest thudded atop her back and he fisted the neat coil of hair at the back of her neck. A sultry gust, his breath fanned over her ear. “You use that whore’s mouth of yours and tell me what you want.”

“I want your cock.”

She gasped, her lips moving against his cheek as the machine thundered on. A jackhammer exploded to life nearby, turning her words to nothing more than pointless clouds of frosted breath. His fingers threaded toward her scalp, wrenched her hair tighter in his hand.

“Say it again!” He bellowed into her ear over the sound of a jackhammer pulverizing concrete, and plunged his hand inside the folds of wool bunched around her waist. The battered skin and nerves of her breast raced back to life at the loss of his constricting fingers, urging a high, thin scream from her that blasted through the alcove as the construction site silenced. The hammer’s report shook in her ears over the last echoes of her own protest.

“Aw, bad luck for you, Ms. Strong.” With a growl, he shoved her forward, pinning her cheek to the wall before her. Pressing her eyelids hard together, determined not to let the tears spill over her cheeks, Ms. Strong’s protest waned to a slushy rattle of her breath against the cold bricks.

He was behind her, squatting before her bare, reddened ass, fingers skating over the skin he’d just singed with his palms. Another trickle of slick arousal teased her labia and she writhed a little at the possibility he was examining the marks he’d left on her body – and maybe appreciating how his handprints looked on her.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered. It seemed like the correct thing to say. He continued taking account of her, unmoved.

His breath tickled her thighs. Her clit throbbed. She inhaled, just enough, so her ass inched higher. His hand connected with her, the impact arriving not as inquiring cold-calloused fingers or with a sharp, wet slap across her pussy lips, but with a fast, hard thrust of his fist. Ms. Strong whined, nearly coming over his knuckles. When he ground the stiff ridges of his knuckles against her cunt again, she crowed, just as the jackhammer blasted away again.

“You do like it hard, don’t you? Harder the better, right?”

She gave him a weak, wide-eyed nod, hoping he saw the thrill of it, too.

“No, you tell me.” He rose behind her, his breath suddenly hot in her ear again. “Tell me.”

She shook her head harder, her jaws and lips grinding. “Yes…P–please. I wa– need it hard.” The sounds were snuffed into little more than primal, frustrated grunts.

He was all hard. His voice, his body, his hands, his fingers spread wide over the inside of her thighs. He was going to be so damn hard on her, like all those board members wanted to but never would be.

Twin pulses drummed at Ms. Strong’s final few strands of the here-and-now. They snapped with the last few determined lengths of nylon covering her legs. There was no construction concert, no far, far away bus horn or rattle of an oversized truck. She spun under his guidance, landing in the warm curve of his arm. His fingers lay against her jaw, coaxed open her mouth. The remnants of her pantyhose swished across her lips, perfuming the air with the sharp scent of her own body. She might have moaned at it, biting and sucking at the damp shreds of nylon, but he paused and smiled down at her.

His smile was so hard, too.

“Ready?”

“Hurt me.” The words were lost in pieces of fabric, swirled in the wet of her cunt and rubbing at her tongue. She said it again, screamed it loud as possible, as she looked up to him, imploring.

He watched. His smile turned uneven, snaked toward one rising eyebrow. The circle of his arm pulled her closer and the base of his cock skimmed over her mound. Shaking his head, he danced his hips away, laughing.

“It’s not that easy,” he said softly, trailing a finger over the tangle of fabric between her teeth. Clucking his tongue, he shook his head again and his smile turned taunting and indulgent. “Show me how much you need it.”

A whimper bleated from her throat. Begging? Every nerve was alight and live and at the flash point, and now she had to beg him? No voice, no control of her traitor sex and she had to show him how much she needed it.

His cock jostled her thigh. Her hips rose to it.

“Good. Do it again.”

Eyes stretching in disbelief, she shook her head. Her breath turned erratic again over her makeshift gag and damp bits of her hair bounced over her cheeks.

“Yeah,” he chuckled and thrust his hand between her legs, splaying her lips wide so nothing but cold air rushed over them. Her hips shot forward, drawn like a bowstring, seeking the pressure of his hand against her tight clit. Before she found it, his hand darted away.

Her howl disappeared into her gag and she tossed her head again as her foot slammed into the cobbles under her, seeking out his. Under her thighs, his legs pushed her higher, more open, more vulnerable, and unable to produce a single, acceptable means of making him do what she wanted. He watched and teased her, amusing himself with opening her lips over and over, taking her so close to orgasm that she shook and screamed and cried at the loss of his heat so close to her pulsing clit.

“Show me,” he sang into her ear with a voice so supple it nearly erased the suffering between her legs.

Her knees bowed toward him. Her thighs tensed. The ensuing rise and sway tipped her backward, toward the wall and into the crook of his arm. More open to him. For him. The fresh blaze of hunger sparked and twisted her throat with a long, ragged moan as her body climbed toward him.

“Again.”

The final tether of restraint frayed, dangled her at the precipice of pride. Her tears ran uncontested over her cheeks. A foil square flashed under her as it flitted in the wind and landed between her feet. He fisted his cock, knuckles grazing her thighs, and bounced it in a quick torrent of slaps against her hovering lips. She gave in, pumping her hips toward him, wailing and snorting useless words into the nylon wad between her teeth.

When he lunged inside her, nothing remained but hard, ramming cock and the screech of her first orgasm, peaking and scattering her under it as she clenched his shoulders and dove forward for more.

His hands cupped her ass, raising her to him as his fingers dug in and spread her wider. With each stroke of his cock, he kneaded her skin and crushed it into his palms, using it to lift her to her toes. Every hoarse grunt in her ear drew out another snuffled moan from her. With one hand, he gathered her ass again, shifting his weight to his opposite thigh as he wrenched his other hand away and closed it around her neck. She keened at the pressure ringing her throat, just enough to spring the last thread of control. The possibility of loss of consciousness, the trust he expected and the tiny spark of uncontained terror this scene unleashed in her sweetened it all to perfection.

She watched as he pushed her chin higher under the web of his hand, everything around her dimming as her breath was compressed under the steady pressure of his grasp. A single slash of white caught her attention. The cuff of his shirt—the real one, fine pure white broadcloth—had escaped the uniform. A smudge of dust marred the edge.

Will see it. Will know…remember how we are now…will see us like this.

A worthwhile, real memory rather than a secret to occupy part of her thoughts and keep her outwardly in control while the board is talking amongst themselves, forgetting they are there because of her hard work. Never taking her and using her for real, like she was now in this unseen, dusty courtyard.

There was nothing left but their feral noise, ruthlessly battering at each other, obliterating each other. He grunted against her ear, sounds that would have been words seconds before. It was a demand, she knew it without sensible words, every slam of his hips demanded it from her.

She came again. Hard. Her legs quaked with it, as her screams were silenced again by another roar of the jackhammer. Rocking into him, she drove her hips higher, threading out bottomless currents of her orgasm as she drew deep into her lungs, cawed into the safety of the nylon gagging her and the mechanical thunder.

With one final, deep thrust, he ground into her hips and staggered against her shoulder, gasping at the cold air.

After a moment of stillness, he shoved away from her, leaving her scrambling for balance at the bricks behind her. Over the sound of her thick gasps echoing around the alcove, she heard a zipper close and the rustle of fabric as he righted his appearance. She felt a soft collision against her ankle. The box rested at her feet.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, his footsteps already drawing away from her. “And don’t fucking be late again.”

12:49 pm

Ms. Strong rolled her chair back, pausing to glide her thumb over the sheer black nylon and admire its span over the curve of her calf.  Once a deposit of bunched cloth, paper and an empty box tumbled into the waste bin under her desk, she sat with a pleasant little wince. She glanced to each component of her presentation and indulged a final deep breath.

Everything was ready. She was ready. Even the surprise knock at her office door failed to rattle her.

“Come in.”

“Ms. Strong?”

“Please,” she said and closed her laptop. As she stood, her calves protested and she rested her hand on the smooth surface of her desk. She glanced across her office, smiling. “Come in.”

Mr. Chandler was helming his firm’s side of the merger. A proposal illustrated in the charts, graphs and excruciatingly researched line items resting in a single, glossy folder sitting on the edge of Ms. Strong’s desk, the distilled result of long, exhausting hours spent together. He crossed the room, his hand extended to her.

“So, ready to go?”

Their palms met, warm skin rasping past warm skin.

“Of course.” She shot a challenging glance to him but had to return his smile when his gray-green eyes met hers. “Are you?”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and motioned to her office door. They moved along the aisles of matching cubicles, the swish-swish of her stocking-clad legs punctuated by their footsteps. Inside the conference room, the principals of both firms were gathering, their genial laughter spilling into the hallway. As she reached for the door, his hand dipped toward her elbow.

“By the way, how was your lunch?” He whisked a thumb at her sleeve, arching an eyebrow at her.

“Oh fine,” Ms. Strong replied and nudged her thumb over the thin, oily streak flaring from beneath his watchband. “I stepped out for a breath of fresh air. It was just what I needed. Thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Gentlemen,” Ms. Strong called out over the din of male voices as she strode through the doorway. “Let’s get down to business.”

Photo: 45, legshowoff