Secretary
NSFW
jean x rylan
valesport
NSFW
jean x rylan
valesport
Jean sipped at his whisky, a rare moment of alone time in his office as he flipped through a book on European history. He was idly skimming through it with a pen, circling items he considered to be of interest. It wasn't very good for the book, but he didn't actually care. He'd discarded his coat and his tie, his shirt collar unbuttoned, and as he lifted his glass his trousers buzzed.
He frowned.
Oh. Right. The phone.
He set his glass down and dug through his pocket to retrieve the wretched thing, frowning still at the screen as he slowly tried to recall the process of seeing why it was making sounds at him.
He frowned.
Oh. Right. The phone.
He set his glass down and dug through his pocket to retrieve the wretched thing, frowning still at the screen as he slowly tried to recall the process of seeing why it was making sounds at him.
Rylan > Can I come over? |
---|
Huh. Not being able to hear her made this strange. Even stranger than not being able to tell what she was feeling. What exactly was it that she was wanting? Was he supposed to be able to tell just from the text? How did anyone communicate effectively like this?
This was as bad as the telegram.
This was as bad as the telegram.
Rylan > Only if you're not busy |
---|
Rylan > I know you've got a lot on your plate |
Rylan > You're probably busy |
Rylan > Sorry |
How did she type so fast? Was he supposed to be able to type that fast? This was a problem.
Did you have anything in particular in mind? < Jean |
---|
There. That seemed diplomatic. Though it seemed a little like a waste, when he couldn't taste her response. Her reply took the form of a picture, which it took entirely too long for him to figure out how to open.
Oh. Well. The black lace was certainly lovely. The pose was very aesthetically pleasing. The whole thing, really. Not being able to taste her made it difficult to find it actually arousing. Intellectually he was aware that it should have been, but physically it was wasted on him. It seemed rude to say so.
He deliberated over his response. He did like playing with her. She had that convenient way of appearing right in the room, bypassing the issue of the other people in the house. The bedroom was quite claimed, but the lingerie didn't seem like it would quite fit the location. It wasn't necessary that it did, but...
Hm. How would he like her best, if he had her in his office?
Oh. Well. The black lace was certainly lovely. The pose was very aesthetically pleasing. The whole thing, really. Not being able to taste her made it difficult to find it actually arousing. Intellectually he was aware that it should have been, but physically it was wasted on him. It seemed rude to say so.
He deliberated over his response. He did like playing with her. She had that convenient way of appearing right in the room, bypassing the issue of the other people in the house. The bedroom was quite claimed, but the lingerie didn't seem like it would quite fit the location. It wasn't necessary that it did, but...
Hm. How would he like her best, if he had her in his office?
What a pretty kitten. But what will you wear over it? < Jean |
---|
Rylan > Nothing? |
That does not seem very professional attire for an office. < Jean |
Rylan > ? |
Rylan > Oh |
Rylan > You're in your office? |
Yes, assuming you do not mind acting as my assistant. < Jean |
I do not think that is the word, but I do not know the one I mean, and so assistant will have to do. < Jean |
The fact that she'd given him enough time to type such a long message was strange, but understandable when she sent her next picture. A white blouse, a gray skirt, and always that collar around her neck. Perfect. Or, almost perfect.
Would higher heels be unprofessional, do you think? < Jean |
---|
He really could be very predictable sometimes.
When she stepped into his office, she was wearing very high heels indeed. She'd put her hair up into a very respectable updo, one that he was now looking forward to taking down. She was practically thrumming with anticipation, tasting like candied violets as her tail swayed around her legs.
Despite the fact that he was the one who'd come up with the game, Jean had made no effort at all to put himself back together. He still looked every inch a man who'd been relaxing with a drink, and had not even bothered to sit up straight in his chair. Hair cascaded over his shoulders, dotted his jawline with black against white.
Rylan did not taste as if she minded.
"Working late?" she asked demurely, heels clicking against hardwood as she came closer, hips and tail all swaying while she moved.
"Very hard," he said, possibly as confirmation. "Would you like to help?" he asked, lifting his glass to his mouth again.
"What would you like me to do?" she asked, crossing her legs at the ankle as she stood, posing very prettily.
He hummed thoughtfully, and began carefully clearing a space on his desk. "You may as well sit down," he said, "because I plan on keeping you for a while." She came close enough that she was very nearly in his lap before pulling herself up backwards to sit on his desk, crossing her ankles once more. He clicked his tongue chidingly, and she flicked her ears. "No, no," he said, and his hands slid beneath her knees to pull her legs apart. Closer to the edge of the desk, and thighs nearly running parallel to it, her skirt rode up to her hips in the process. Without warning or preamble he ran his tongue over the lace between her legs, and she shivered. "Oh, but what a shame to ruin these," he said, sliding a finger beneath it and hooking it around to pull it away from her skin.
"I don't mind," she said quickly.
He grinned. "Did you think that I was asking?" The thumbnail of his left hand pierced easily through the hems, until the flimsy scrap of lace was nothing else, tossed thoughtlessly aside. "Recite a poem for me," he said, sliding out of his chair.
"Which?" she asked, resting her hands on her knees and resisting the temptation to grip them in anticipation.
"Whichever you are best able to recite from memory," he said, breath hot against her skin. She hesitated, and so did he, waiting mere millimeters from her skin until she started to speak.
"Deux ou trois fois bienheureux le retour," she began, gasping as he distracted her with a long stroke from the tip of his tongue. "De ce clair Astre," she continued, faltering, "et plus – ooh, oh, oh – heureux encore, encore, encore–"
He tilted his head to nip sharp teeth against the inside of her thigh, tugging harmlessly at one of her garters before grinning. "I do not think that is how it goes."
"Ce que son oeil de regarder honore," she said shakily, and he resumed drawing small circles with his tongue, delving lower and deeper when she seemed on the brink of getting her bearings.
Honey in his mind and salt on his tongue, the threat of sharp teeth against delicate skin, though he was always very careful. He listened to the strain in her voice, though not as attentively as he monitored the way she felt, trying to reconcile self-control with how badly she wanted to give herself over to pleasure.
"Et y ferait... ah..." This time when she trailed off he allowed it, because he was not in the mood to draw things out. Another time, maybe, he would take her to the brink and back again until desire drove her mad. That was more a game for long-time lovers, and less for new pets. Fingers slipped easily inside her, curled as he sucked at her clit with a soft flick of his tongue.
What wonderful foresight, that his office was so well insulated.
When he kissed her it was with the taste of her still on his tongue, his eyes pale white where they'd once been blue, and she tangled her fingers in his hair without asking. His fingers remained inside her, and her legs wrapped loose around his waist, arching toward him.
"You are very bad at following orders," he chided, finally removing his hand so he could slide his fingers in her mouth. She sucked at them obediently, and he briefly passed his other hand over her ears, rewarded with a purr. "I am starting to think that I will not be getting any work done."
His hands went to her blouse, and did not bother with unbuttoning it, tearing it open instead. She gasped as if scandalized, clearly delighted; he kissed the corner of her mouth, admiring the desire in her eyes. "I can make it up to you," she suggested, as he slid his hands along her skin to lift her breasts half out of lace. He liked the way they looked there, black filigree pressing lines into her skin and holding them high like a gift for him. He ran his teeth over each of her nipples in turn, kissed a shoulder exposed by the disarray of her shirt.
"You will," he agreed, picking her up with ease so that he could turn her around, bending her over the edge of his desk. He lifted her skirt to her waist, and savored the honey-and-cinnamon taste of her anticipation as he unfastened his trousers. Her tail was curling upward against her spine, standing on her toes despite the height of her heels. He hooked a finger in her collar and used it to pull her head up, putting an arch in her back as she pressed her palms to his desk. "Do you want me to fuck you?" he asked.
"Please fuck me," she said immediately, breathlessly, apparently a very fast learner. "Fuck me hard, please."
"Such a good girl," he said appreciatively, driving his cock into her and letting her collar go. She bowed her head and curled her fingers to try and brace herself against the desk as he slowly withdrew, drove into her again. He ran long nails through her hair to dislodge the pins that held it up so that it would fall, catching in the elastic that held it all together. He tugged at it with another thrust, displeased when it wouldn't give. It was too thick to simply cut away with his nails, and so his thrusts slowed as he began slowly untangling her hair from it.
"I can take care of that," she suggested.
"Sshh," he said, a harder thrust to make her yelp and distract her from the difficulties he was having behind her head. He felt much more pleased than he should have when he finally succeeded, and it was possible that the hand that gripped her hair was rougher than it should have been as a result. "There," he said, "much better."
His other hand went to her hip, traced the shape of her garter and the curve against her thigh. An abrupt smack made her cry out, tighten around his cock, the rush of sweetness in her intoxicating. He did it again, and again, until she was whimpering and squirming with his handprint on her skin.
"You do look very pretty like this, " he said, hand back at her hip to hold her still as he thrust faster, still holding her in an arch by the hair. "A shame that I cannot keep you here all the time." She seemed as if she was trying to say something, but she wasn't terribly coherent, lost in purring moans. His eyes had remained pale, and so even now he could not be as rough as he'd have liked, though she might well end up with fingerprints pressed into her hip.
Releasing her hair, he bent low over her so that he could slide his arm beneath her, wrapping it around her neck to hold her by the shoulder and lift her up, her tail trapped between them. He nuzzled at her neck, nipping at her skin hard enough to leave a mark as his other hand toyed with her breasts, thrusts still pressing her against the edge of his desk. He stilled as an experiment, grinned against her skin as she ground her hips backward.
His arm tightened around her shoulders and her neck, pressed her back against his chest in an undeniably possessive gesture while his other hand slid between her legs. Fingertips circled and pressed against her clit as he thrust hard and fast, and with a ragged cry she came again, great shuddering spasms in his arms and on his cock.
He waited until she'd stopped moving to thrust into her again, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her up. She had not gone entirely limp, but she was very close to it; fortunate that he was strong enough now to hold her up with ease. He stepped back, dropped back down into his chair such that she was seated in his lap while he thrust upward into her. His hands released her long enough to slide under her legs instead, lifting her knees to her shoulders. She cried out again, panting and writhing, and he pressed his teeth into the skin at the crook of her neck. A little harder than he should have, points of his teeth sinking into her skin and cock buried inside her, growling as he filled her.
He licked the small spots of blood from her skin as an apology, releasing her legs though he made no effort to remove his cock from her. She fell back against him, no trouble at all making herself comfortable there despite her apparent ill-treatment. "I do apologize for hurting you," he murmured, but she was still purring, and louder still when he scratched experimentally at the base of her ears.
"I don't mind," she said, and she meant it. He ran his hand along her tail, then let it fall, though it continued to sway a little between them. He picked up his glass from the desk, but Rylan intercepted it; she couldn't have taken it from him if he hadn't wanted her to, but he had no reason to refuse her. She drained the glass with no concern for the cost or the strength of it, then held it up with a wide-eyed innocence not intended to fool him, clearly hoping for a refill.
"What a terrible assistant you are," he said, picking up the bottle to pour and nuzzling against her again. "Too much a cat, I should think, pretty demanding little thing. "
"Secretary," she said, bringing the glass to her lips again. "The word you want is secretary."
When she stepped into his office, she was wearing very high heels indeed. She'd put her hair up into a very respectable updo, one that he was now looking forward to taking down. She was practically thrumming with anticipation, tasting like candied violets as her tail swayed around her legs.
Despite the fact that he was the one who'd come up with the game, Jean had made no effort at all to put himself back together. He still looked every inch a man who'd been relaxing with a drink, and had not even bothered to sit up straight in his chair. Hair cascaded over his shoulders, dotted his jawline with black against white.
Rylan did not taste as if she minded.
"Working late?" she asked demurely, heels clicking against hardwood as she came closer, hips and tail all swaying while she moved.
"Very hard," he said, possibly as confirmation. "Would you like to help?" he asked, lifting his glass to his mouth again.
"What would you like me to do?" she asked, crossing her legs at the ankle as she stood, posing very prettily.
He hummed thoughtfully, and began carefully clearing a space on his desk. "You may as well sit down," he said, "because I plan on keeping you for a while." She came close enough that she was very nearly in his lap before pulling herself up backwards to sit on his desk, crossing her ankles once more. He clicked his tongue chidingly, and she flicked her ears. "No, no," he said, and his hands slid beneath her knees to pull her legs apart. Closer to the edge of the desk, and thighs nearly running parallel to it, her skirt rode up to her hips in the process. Without warning or preamble he ran his tongue over the lace between her legs, and she shivered. "Oh, but what a shame to ruin these," he said, sliding a finger beneath it and hooking it around to pull it away from her skin.
"I don't mind," she said quickly.
He grinned. "Did you think that I was asking?" The thumbnail of his left hand pierced easily through the hems, until the flimsy scrap of lace was nothing else, tossed thoughtlessly aside. "Recite a poem for me," he said, sliding out of his chair.
"Which?" she asked, resting her hands on her knees and resisting the temptation to grip them in anticipation.
"Whichever you are best able to recite from memory," he said, breath hot against her skin. She hesitated, and so did he, waiting mere millimeters from her skin until she started to speak.
"Deux ou trois fois bienheureux le retour," she began, gasping as he distracted her with a long stroke from the tip of his tongue. "De ce clair Astre," she continued, faltering, "et plus – ooh, oh, oh – heureux encore, encore, encore–"
He tilted his head to nip sharp teeth against the inside of her thigh, tugging harmlessly at one of her garters before grinning. "I do not think that is how it goes."
"Ce que son oeil de regarder honore," she said shakily, and he resumed drawing small circles with his tongue, delving lower and deeper when she seemed on the brink of getting her bearings.
Honey in his mind and salt on his tongue, the threat of sharp teeth against delicate skin, though he was always very careful. He listened to the strain in her voice, though not as attentively as he monitored the way she felt, trying to reconcile self-control with how badly she wanted to give herself over to pleasure.
"Et y ferait... ah..." This time when she trailed off he allowed it, because he was not in the mood to draw things out. Another time, maybe, he would take her to the brink and back again until desire drove her mad. That was more a game for long-time lovers, and less for new pets. Fingers slipped easily inside her, curled as he sucked at her clit with a soft flick of his tongue.
What wonderful foresight, that his office was so well insulated.
When he kissed her it was with the taste of her still on his tongue, his eyes pale white where they'd once been blue, and she tangled her fingers in his hair without asking. His fingers remained inside her, and her legs wrapped loose around his waist, arching toward him.
"You are very bad at following orders," he chided, finally removing his hand so he could slide his fingers in her mouth. She sucked at them obediently, and he briefly passed his other hand over her ears, rewarded with a purr. "I am starting to think that I will not be getting any work done."
His hands went to her blouse, and did not bother with unbuttoning it, tearing it open instead. She gasped as if scandalized, clearly delighted; he kissed the corner of her mouth, admiring the desire in her eyes. "I can make it up to you," she suggested, as he slid his hands along her skin to lift her breasts half out of lace. He liked the way they looked there, black filigree pressing lines into her skin and holding them high like a gift for him. He ran his teeth over each of her nipples in turn, kissed a shoulder exposed by the disarray of her shirt.
"You will," he agreed, picking her up with ease so that he could turn her around, bending her over the edge of his desk. He lifted her skirt to her waist, and savored the honey-and-cinnamon taste of her anticipation as he unfastened his trousers. Her tail was curling upward against her spine, standing on her toes despite the height of her heels. He hooked a finger in her collar and used it to pull her head up, putting an arch in her back as she pressed her palms to his desk. "Do you want me to fuck you?" he asked.
"Please fuck me," she said immediately, breathlessly, apparently a very fast learner. "Fuck me hard, please."
"Such a good girl," he said appreciatively, driving his cock into her and letting her collar go. She bowed her head and curled her fingers to try and brace herself against the desk as he slowly withdrew, drove into her again. He ran long nails through her hair to dislodge the pins that held it up so that it would fall, catching in the elastic that held it all together. He tugged at it with another thrust, displeased when it wouldn't give. It was too thick to simply cut away with his nails, and so his thrusts slowed as he began slowly untangling her hair from it.
"I can take care of that," she suggested.
"Sshh," he said, a harder thrust to make her yelp and distract her from the difficulties he was having behind her head. He felt much more pleased than he should have when he finally succeeded, and it was possible that the hand that gripped her hair was rougher than it should have been as a result. "There," he said, "much better."
His other hand went to her hip, traced the shape of her garter and the curve against her thigh. An abrupt smack made her cry out, tighten around his cock, the rush of sweetness in her intoxicating. He did it again, and again, until she was whimpering and squirming with his handprint on her skin.
"You do look very pretty like this, " he said, hand back at her hip to hold her still as he thrust faster, still holding her in an arch by the hair. "A shame that I cannot keep you here all the time." She seemed as if she was trying to say something, but she wasn't terribly coherent, lost in purring moans. His eyes had remained pale, and so even now he could not be as rough as he'd have liked, though she might well end up with fingerprints pressed into her hip.
Releasing her hair, he bent low over her so that he could slide his arm beneath her, wrapping it around her neck to hold her by the shoulder and lift her up, her tail trapped between them. He nuzzled at her neck, nipping at her skin hard enough to leave a mark as his other hand toyed with her breasts, thrusts still pressing her against the edge of his desk. He stilled as an experiment, grinned against her skin as she ground her hips backward.
His arm tightened around her shoulders and her neck, pressed her back against his chest in an undeniably possessive gesture while his other hand slid between her legs. Fingertips circled and pressed against her clit as he thrust hard and fast, and with a ragged cry she came again, great shuddering spasms in his arms and on his cock.
He waited until she'd stopped moving to thrust into her again, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her up. She had not gone entirely limp, but she was very close to it; fortunate that he was strong enough now to hold her up with ease. He stepped back, dropped back down into his chair such that she was seated in his lap while he thrust upward into her. His hands released her long enough to slide under her legs instead, lifting her knees to her shoulders. She cried out again, panting and writhing, and he pressed his teeth into the skin at the crook of her neck. A little harder than he should have, points of his teeth sinking into her skin and cock buried inside her, growling as he filled her.
He licked the small spots of blood from her skin as an apology, releasing her legs though he made no effort to remove his cock from her. She fell back against him, no trouble at all making herself comfortable there despite her apparent ill-treatment. "I do apologize for hurting you," he murmured, but she was still purring, and louder still when he scratched experimentally at the base of her ears.
"I don't mind," she said, and she meant it. He ran his hand along her tail, then let it fall, though it continued to sway a little between them. He picked up his glass from the desk, but Rylan intercepted it; she couldn't have taken it from him if he hadn't wanted her to, but he had no reason to refuse her. She drained the glass with no concern for the cost or the strength of it, then held it up with a wide-eyed innocence not intended to fool him, clearly hoping for a refill.
"What a terrible assistant you are," he said, picking up the bottle to pour and nuzzling against her again. "Too much a cat, I should think, pretty demanding little thing. "
"Secretary," she said, bringing the glass to her lips again. "The word you want is secretary."
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