Mean Bitches - Leya Falcon

Eriq stands outside the corner office, heart kicking against his ribs like it's looking for an exit. His new boss runs through people like cheap credit. Miss Leya Falcon doesn’t hand out warnings; she empties desks, severs pay, and watches them crawl back on their hands and knees. Today she keeps him. She waves him in without looking up. The door shuts. She tells him he’s worthless, a loser with nowhere else to go. He swallows it, standing there while the shame hardens into something hot and heavy. “Sign every check over to me.” Her pen clicks. The paper slides across the glass desktop. He puts his name on it while she studies him the way predators study the tremor in a rabbit’s neck. “Good little bitch,” she purrs. She kicks one black patent heel up onto the chair. “Suck the heel. Like it’s the only thing you’ll ever taste.” Eriq leans in. The tip scrapes the roof of his mouth, cold and tasting of leather and cruelty. When saliva drips down the shaft, she laughs. “Feet too. Every inch.” She plants her bare sole on his tongue, toes curling over his lower lip. He kisses arches, laps the salt between digits, noses her ankle until his spit glosses her skin. Each slow lick twists the knife she’s already buried in his pride. She stands, unzips the pencil skirt, turns, spreads. “Tongue. Deep. You’re my chair from now on.” Eriq presses his face between thick cheeks and works like he was born for it. She pushes back, smothering him until every breath is pure heat and musk. He hears her moan, low and cruel, and feels the sting of her spit on his cheek when she looks down again. “Not a man,” she snarls. “A tongue. A cushion. A tongue.” Another wet glob hits his eye. Then the full weight of her ass crashes onto his face, blotting out the office lights, the file cabinet, everything but the creak of her leather chair, the smother of skin, and the dark knowledge that this is exactly where she wants him—pinched beneath her, locked beneath her, used beneath her until nothing else makes sense.