A Cuckold’s Surrender, a Wife’s Reward

A Cuckold’s Surrender, a Wife’s Reward

Chapter 1: The First Crack

 

Friday afternoons stretched time into a dull ache, but Marqués Hunter’s corner office made the last hours seem cinematic. Floor-to-ceiling glass cut the city’s grid into geometric slabs of shadow. The light fell on the black marble of his desk, the polished steel fixtures appeared almost clinical, and threw Shelly’s reflection into every angle.

 

While working, Shelly sat at a compact conference table by the window. The only sound, the quiet tap of her laptop keys and the faint grind of the AC moving fresh air.

 

When she checked the clock on her phone, it was 4:28 p.m., a mere two minutes since the last time. Killing time while she waited, Shelly Weller finished the quarterly numbers twenty minutes before, but kept revising formulas and double-checking cell ranges, desperate for distraction. The clicks of her mouse sounded frantic.

 

When she went home at night, her husband, Harper Weller, asked the same questions, “Has he made a move yet?” “Will you give in at his first attempt?” “Are you ever going to seduce him?” “Please tell me every detail when you give in to him?” “Please, do this for me!”

 

Each time she thought she heard a footstep or the scrape of a chair behind her, she tensed her back. As though someone pressed an ice cube between her shoulder blades. But she didn’t dare turn around.

 

When he finally entered the room, she heard Marqués before she saw him.

 

With a slow, deliberate rhythm, his shoes hit the carpet. With a predator’s patience, Marqués crossed the office; he didn’t shuffle, didn’t drag his feet. Always, she waited for his voice, that deep, almost amused rumble, but the creeping of his shoes was the only clue. When his shadow stretched over her monitor, she inhaled through her nose, her chest clamped, and Shelly forced herself to type one more line.

 

“Looks fine. Send it,” Marqués said. Not a suggestion. Far too close, he hovered behind her. His presence radiated heat, or that was her own. Clicking “Send,” Shelly tried not to show her shaking hands.

 

For months, he made overtures. Leaning down, one enormous hand planted itself on the table beside Shelly, thick fingers spread. The gold Rolex, heavy and unmissable. The other hand rested on her chair back. Woody, not sweet, expensive but subtle, she smelled his aftershave. Her field of vision narrowed to the outline of his wrist, the pulse hammering under the smooth, ebony flesh.

 

Marqués didn’t check her screen; he never bothered to. After all, she knew what she was doing.

 

“Stand up,” he said. The chair nearly toppled as Shelly obeyed, her knees bumping the table. He maneuvered her to the head of the table, facing the windows. A head taller, he stood behind her, twice her width, but didn’t touch her. All at once, she sensed his gaze on the back of her neck.

 

“Quarterlies are tight,” he said, tone flat. “You finish projections for Q2?”

 

Dipping her head, Shelly’s voice wouldn’t work, not yet.

 

“Show me,” he said.

 

Expecting him to step away, Shelly turned, but he didn’t budge. Frozen, with her face inches from his chest, she nearly collided with him and craned her neck up.

 

For a wondrous, fantastical moment, his eyes pinned her in place. They didn’t twinkle; they assessed her face and moved down her body. Remembering what Harper had told her about predatory animals. How they never blinked when they had a kill in sight.

 

The memory sent a shiver through her.

 

With her thumbs clumsy on the touchpad, Shelly brought the computer up. The closeness caused her breathing to speed up. Every inhale, and her chest trembled. The reflection in his reading glasses was hers. Wide and wild blue eyes, flushed cheeks, hair falling wild around her face. Gazing past the laptop, he studied her, not the spreadsheet.

 

Pressing her back, he reached around her, cradled the mouse, scrolling with economy.

 

Highlighting a field with the mouse, he said, “You move this line item?” Moving away, his fingertip brushed the base of her thumb. A jolt ran up her arm. Again, Shelly bobbed her head, her throat too cottony for words.

 

“Good,” he said, and his lips curled into a smirk. For a long second, he gazed into her eyes and finally said, “Sit.”

 

With that, she dropped into the chair. Standing over her, with his hands on either side resting on the armrest, caging her. Her head buzzed with static. Remembering every word her therapist had said about boundaries and self-advocacy, but the lecture dissolved under the weight of his stare.

 

Leaning closer, so his words breathed on her mouth.

 

“You’re coming back here tonight,” he said. Statement, not a request. “Nine. Dress up. If you’re late, you’re done here.” The words struck her with a pulse of pure adrenaline, all threats and promises. When she wanted to protest, say she had plans, nothing traveled from her mind to her lips.

 

Without a word, he didn’t touch her, not yet. Instead, he examined her attempt to process his meaning. Knowing she’d say yes before she did. Watching the tiny defeat play on her face. Ragged breathing and her heart racing. The air went cold as the little girl inside her realized how obvious it was. Marqués grinned wider, exposing perfect white teeth.

 

“Do you understand me?” he said, voice lower, a vibration in the air between them.

 

“Yes,” she whispered. It was going to happen; Harper’s fantasy would start that night.

 

A general dismissing his soldier, he gave a quick jerk of his head. Afterward, he walked back to his desk, turned his back, and busied himself with a stack of contracts. The dismissal stung almost as much as the command.

 

Shelly packed up her things with hands that barely cooperated. The laptop closed with a snap, a sound far too loud in the cavernous office. Zipping her bag, she fumbled with her phone and gave one last glance at Marqués.

 

Sitting at his desk, the king on his throne, didn’t look up. “Go,” he said, already miles ahead in his own plans.

 

Slipping out, Shelly’s pumps were muffled on the carpet, pulse throbbing in her ears. The elevator ride down gave her a moment to breathe. With her hair wild, lips parted, skin flushed up to the hairline, she caught her reflection in the doors. A wrecked woman who’s been running for her life.

 

As she rode the elevator down, she texted her husband, “Sweety, I have to go back in tonight.”

 

The phone buzzed, “Is this it? Is tonight the night?”

 

“Don’t ask such a question. You wanting that doesn’t mean I do. Possibly I’ll be working quite late. Don’t want to see you before I leave. That makes it harder for me to go.”

 

A big thumbs up lurched on the screen.

 

The late-day sun made the glass entrance blaze like a furnace as she stepped into the lobby. Fishing her sunglasses from her purse, she squinted and let herself out.

 

Another buzz on her phone. One new message, not from Harper.

 

“Nine p.m. sharp.”

 

Then Shelly pressed a trembling hand to her sternum as her heart threatened to crack her ribs. With her brain listing every reason she should run, she deleted them all, one by one. Walking toward her car, she ignored the shaking in her knees. Imagining herself back in his office, under his hand, his eyes.

 

The boss wanted her. Never had Shelly been desired like this. Not even close. Suddenly, everything changed. The possibilities flooded her mind. Refuse, get fired, demoted, or transferred to another department. No way to prove he made a pass, which he hadn’t.

 

Surrender, make Harper happy, and she might like it, or love it. Too many possibilities. Raises, gifts, a promotion or two.

 

After work, she showered until her skin was raw. Picking and rejecting three different outfits. In the end, she wore black heels, a fitted navy dress zipped in the back, and silk panties she’d bought the week before.

 

In point of fact, Harper, her husband, didn’t know about the purchases and wouldn’t have noticed if she told him. The truth was, Harper cared more about other men appreciating her than he appreciated her for himself.

 

The problem was that he was filled with issues. Matters about mommy, size inadequacy, inferiorities, and premature ejaculation. Harper was racked with self-loathing.

 

At 8:36, Shelly sat in her car in the garage, listening to her own breathing. The air conditioning ran too cold, so her arms were covered in goosebumps even as sweat prickled under her bra.

 

The drive took longer than she expected. Parking her car, Shelly ran through the options again. When she touched up her lip gloss in the visor mirror, she smiled and closed it with a snap. Never before had she been this nervous for a date. Not even her wedding night.

 

She rushed to the building.

 

At this hour of night, the building’s lobby glowed empty. Shelly clacked across the marble, ignored her reflection in the security glass, and pressed the elevator button with a finger that wouldn’t stop trembling. The ride to the top floor slowed time. The closer one approaches fantasy fulfillment, the slower time moves.

 

Each ding of the passing levels magnified the distortion.

 

Standing by the office door, sleeves rolled up, shirt open at the throat, stood Marqués. The tie he’d worn all day was gone. The desk lamp behind him outlined his head, and his shoulders appeared larger, cartoonish almost, a bouncer from her nightmares or dreams. Without a smile, he stood there, waiting.

 

She texted Harper, “I’ll be very late, do not wait up. Should anything happen, I’ll tell you at breakfast.”

 

“I’d rather wait on you.”

 

“No, do what I said. It’s just quarterly stats, not an illicit rendezvous.” The lie was easy. If it turned out unpleasant, he needn’t know. Calming herself, she prepared for the unknown. Glancing at her watch, it read 9:00:32. Before moving forward, she took a deep breath.

 

When Shelly stepped into the office, he closed the door behind her. The lock clicked loud. Flicking off the desk lamp, he turned her to face the windows. The city glittered below them, infinite and anonymous.

 

“You’re late,” he said. 9:01 on the digital clock. Smiling, slow and rapacious, he stared her down. “But I’ll allow it.”

 

In two quick strides, he closed the distance. Shelly braced herself for his touch. But instead, Marqués inspected her, eyes moving up and down her frame. Pausing at her mouth, at the dip of her dress where cleavage gathered in a perfect line. He didn’t bother with small talk. His hand went to her hip, gripped hard enough to leave a print, and he spun her toward his desk.

 

The oak was impossibly shiny, the kind of surface that showed every fingerprint. Reflecting on the surface, Shelly saw her own shocked face as he pushed her until her thighs pressed against the edge. Gazing over her shoulder, she stared at him, caught the flash of white in his leer.

 

Unzipping her dress in a single motion, he tugged it off her shoulders, and let it slide to her waist. In one smooth move, her bra followed, fluttered to the floor. The cold air shocked her nipples to bullet points. Pausing, his palms ran up her bare arms, down her ribcage, gripping her tighter, as if to measure her fragility.

 

Then Marqués picked her up. Actually picked her up, as if she weighed nothing, and set her on the desk. The edge bit into her skin, but she didn’t care. The world had gone tunnel vision: only his hands, only his breath on her throat.

 

Pushing her knees apart, he bent over her and kissed down her chest. His lips were hotter than his words, moving from sternum to the hard pink of her nipple, biting until she stifled a yelp.

 

“Well, you want this?” he said. Ducking her head, desperate, as Shelly’s voice locked somewhere between her lungs and her tongue.

 

“Say it,” he said.

 

“Yes,” she breathed, the word not loud but more than enough.

 

Kissing her, his tongue invading, not coaxing as he took her face in both hands. The stubble burned her chin, and she tasted the whiskey he drank without her. When he pulled back, he ripped her panties at the hip. The lace tore, a sound louder than a gunshot. Smiling, he held up the ruined silk and tossed it onto the desk.

 

The panties landed on a stack of quarterly printouts, the blue graphs bleeding through the gauzy fabric.

 

Never taking his eyes off her, he undid his belt. Moving with a confidence she’d never seen, not even in movies, he freed himself. And she winced, pulse climbing into the stratosphere. The man was huge, not only in length but in thickness, the kind of cock she’d never even imagined outside of a joke or a porno.

 

“Oh, my fucking god!” Fear invaded her before the thrill.

 

When she tried to reach for Marqués, he grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head. Guiding himself to her entrance, he pressed the purple, mushroom helmet against her slick lips. He didn’t wait. With a single drive, he forced himself inside. Stretching her so wide she gasped, a sound that bordered on a sob.

 

“Shit, oh, shit, mm, fuck,” Shelly said.

 

The pain hit first, sharp and brutal. With muscles straining to accommodate him, Shelly’s body fought to keep up. The fullness made her dizzy, but he didn’t slow down, powered forward. Trying to control the rhythm, she clamped her legs around his hips. But Marqués overpowered her, arms locked like steel bars under her knees.

 

Fast and deep, he pumped into her.

 

“Dear sweet lord, that’s so damn painful but so, so, good.”

 

Fingernails dragged across the glossy wood, her back arched off the desk. Her head knocked the surface. Twisting in shock and need, Shelly saw her own face reflected in the desk’s shine.

 

The discomfort transformed as her body adapted. The pain bled into something else, fullness, heat, pure, animalistic need. Moaning, her sounds filled the office, bounced off the glass, impossible to deny.

 

Beads of sweat bloomed at Marqués temples, and he grunted with effort. His hands moved from Shelly’s wrists to her hair, yanking Shelly’s head back to examine her face. Loving to watch a woman surrender to him, she realized, this was evidence of his power. Pounding into her, each thrust rattled her bones.

 

In the heat of passion, she lost sense of time.

 

“Oh, my, oh, my.”

 

“‘At’s a good girl, take it, bitch,” Marqués said.

 

The desk creaked under them. Papers fluttered to the floor, pens rolled and clattered away. Shelly focused on the raw sensation. Marqués’s cock plunged deep, her body split and fused around him. Nipples grazed the chest with every movement. The glass behind her blackened as the city outside faded. There were only the two of them, locked together in a silent, urgent war.

 

When her orgasm snuck up on her, the first wave curled her toes. The second brought a scream, and she didn’t try to hold it back. Laughing, a low, pleased sound, Marqués kept going. Driving her through crest after crest until she sobbed his name into the empty air.

 

“Ah, mm, fuck, oh,” tiny moans, sighs, and sharp profanities accompanied disjointed sounds of their fucking. Pussy farts and wet sounds punctuated Shelly’s rolling climax.

 

Finishing with a shudder, his hips jerked, and he buried himself to the hilt. The rush of his release inside her was hot and not possible to ignore. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he pulled out, let her collapse onto the desk, and stood over her, breathing hard.

 

With satisfaction radiating from every part of his body, Marqués gazed at her. Dragging his fingers down her cheek, he was almost gentle.

 

“Good girl,” he said.

 

With her mind blank, Shelly gazed at him, her heart jackhammering. Unable to believe it. A man she’d barely known until two months ago, Shelly fucked her boss. In his office, she’d fucked him on his desk. The whole city might’ve seen, if anyone cared to watch.

 

The realization crashed into her. Harper. The vows she’d whispered at twenty-four, the man who had given her everything except this. While her face burned with shame, her body pulsed with the afterglow, greedy for more.

 

Tucking himself back into place, Marqués zipped up. He retrieved her dress from the floor and draped it over her shoulders. With shaking hands, she pulled it on and covered herself, but didn’t dare meet his eyes.

 

Forcing her to look at him, he tilted her chin up.