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“And I love your tight little pussy I fucked for its very first time,” he says, as he holds on tight to my nipple as he cums in my pussy.
We both climax together, panting and groaning, and then I lower myself onto his strong chest and washboard abs. I’m home with him, exactly where I belong.
“I love you, my fiancé,” I whisper into his ear.
“I love you, too, my always and forever wife.”
When I had first heard that we needed to quarantine and work from home, I was resentful of the fact that video cameras existed and would be tracking my every move so that my job would know I was actually working. But now, for the first time in my life, I am grateful for their existence.
They gave me the perfect man, after all.
THE END
Below Deck
Locked Down with My Boss on a Cruise
Love Under Lockdown, Book 14
Chapter One – Carrie
The best laid plans soon falter. Or something like that anyway. Though what you never really hear about are plans that aren’t laid at all, events in life that come out of nowhere and blindside you like bad news on an idle Sunday afternoon.
I knew what I wanted to do. I had the whole cliché childhood dream. I was going to be a performer. Broadway was my ultimate goal. I trained for years, both vocally and physically. Few really appreciate the exertion and control required for proper technique, particularly in terms of belting. But you also had to be able to sing quietly and in all contexts.
Standing, sitting, even lying flat on your back with a hunk of debris in your side, as with my dream role of Epinine in Les Misérables. I still had a scar on my head, small and faded but present, from when my sister threw a shoe at me when I wouldn’t stop singing “On My Own” around the house. My hair was blonde like Cosette, but should it change color at all, I would bloody well dye it if I had to.
I didn’t have to. It never really came up because I never really got the chance to audition. Fate, striking like a train, sent me over the roof of a car as I rode to practice one lovely Saturday afternoon. I could still technically walk, but nowhere near what would be needed for the rigors of the theatre. Permanent paralysis was the possible cost. Another career had to be found, and quickly.
While nearly cliché as the best laid plans, it was also usually true that fate rarely closed a door without opening a window. No sooner had I been released from the hospital with a cane to help me walk and a big bastard bill to keep me from sleeping, I saw the ad. MP Solutions was looking for interns. An exciting opportunity for someone with the right attitude. No experience necessary.
It never failed. There were, in fact, three certainties in life. Death, taxes and get-out-and-walk traffic. No matter how early you left, or the day of the week, it would find you eventually, like the blood-curdling inevitability of a demon’s dark curse that choked out the city sky and crushed all hope of a punctual return.
The impotent rage of the prisoners of circumstance was expressed in a flurry of ineffectual honking that really only hurt their fellow inmates. The nefarious monsters behind the construction schedule were safe within their gated fortresses.
It was like an open-air music festival with dozens of acts set up within inches of each other, all competing to be heard over the other. Salsa to the left of me. Metal to the right, Stealers Wheel stuck in the middle, and K-Pop and Top 40 somewhere in the distance. All blocked out, for the most part, by “Worst Pies in London” in my very own head.
I was apparently the only one in hundreds to think to wear headphones. I only kept one bud in at a time when the traffic was actually moving of course. At that moment, however, there wasn’t a hell of a lot to listen for.
As I waited for the horrors of modernity to relent, I set my mind to the day to come. Mostly to my boss, the smokin’ hot and absurdly intelligent Maxwell James Morgan. Replete in his finely tailored suit, inky black to match his liquid eyes.
He was deep and wise beyond his 29 years, which went a ways to explain how he had managed to qualify for the Fortune 500 when he was not yet 30. It really was enough to make a girl wet. Me in particular. It was a bit embarrassing, but there was more than one occasion when it all just got too much and I had spent the majority of my lunch break in the single-occupancy bathroom, fingering myself to quiet orgasm, imaging his beautiful eyes looking up at me from between my thighs as he ate me out. It got even worse, and better, after I was promoted to his assistant in addition to my duties as an agent.
