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Coworker My Ass

When I wake up, I’m alone.

His side of the bed is cold, though I’m not sure if either of us even had a side when we were practically glued together the whole time.

I feel . . . sated.

I feel better than I have in months, not a single tense muscle, not a single regret, even though what we just did was pretty fucking stupid.

But holy hell was it amazing.

I had expected to be hit with an onrush of regret and panic and anxiety the minute I woke up, but none of these things come to me. Instead, despite the many problems that need fixing, I can only feel completely at peace. It’s like I have all the time in the world, even though it’s almost eleven.

I am nothing but tranquil as I help myself to his amenities: a silky bathrobe and the master bath. It’s spacious, with a large tub by the window, opposite to the sink, and beside it a glass shower. In the corner sits a pristine toilet that looks totally awesome to poop in, and to its left a rack of fluffy white towels. All in all, it’s a bathroom made for luxury.

I feel just as luxurious using it, careful not to dirty it somehow with my fingerprints or something. I wash my face, and brush my teeth with a toothpaste-covered finger, before looking in the mirror and wondering what proper procedure is for the morning after with your boss.

Your boss done fucked you good, Marcus, judging by your ratchet ass hair.

My internal comment inspires me to at least fix my hair into a sexier version of the trademark bedhead I’m sporting. I loosen the belt of the robe so that it displays more of my hickey-laden chest. The marks form a provocative trail up the right side of my body, from my pelvic bone all the way to my jaw.

I briefly wonder where the pink bruising had come from, before an image appears in my head of an early morning make-out session before I fell back asleep.

A smile forces its way onto my face and won’t go away.

My mascara is messed up, but I only wash half of it off until I decide it looks more sultry-feminine than it does starved raccoon.

When I leave the bathroom of the gods, I look around for my jacket before realizing its downstairs. I want to take selfies—I’m pretty sure this is the hottest I’ve ever looked.

And so, I decide to grow some balls and stop stalling, practicing my sexy walk a few times in the mirror before strutting out of the bedroom with an almost obscene amount of confidence.

I hear typing—it echoes up the staircase accompanied by the faint sounds of morning television shows. I never thought the two would combine to be one of the most serene sounds I’d ever hear.

I make an effort to avoid making the stairs creak, because creaking is not sexy, but this is a modern house. I descend silently, fiddling with the end of the sash belt from his robe. I have to play innocent, can’t look too sexy or he’ll definitely know what I’m up to, so I give him a tired, heavy-lidded look and hope it still passes as unintentionally sexy.

Lucas Phoenix sits at his small kitchen island, with his laptop but without a shirt.

It looks like I got a few good hickeys in too, the bite marks strewn messily across his shoulders and collarbone.

He looks to be finishing up whatever he’s typing, head slowly rising until the typing ceases and his eyes finally stray to my scantily clad form.

He doesn’t say anything, and I swear he blinks really hard before he opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

I bite my lip, trying to tame my smile before I make it obvious. “I hope you don’t mind . . . I took your robe . . .”

He clears his throat. “Yes, I can see that.” His voice is strained, his face a stoic mask, but not perfect. I can still see his jaw ticking, his eyebrow twitching slightly when he looks me up and down.

I sashay across the foyer and around the island countertop, coming to his side and get a bit closer than necessary. I look at his laptop, pretending to be concerned with whatever dumb work stuff he’s doing.

“What are you doing?”

I think he can tell I’m faking, because he shakes his head at me with the smallest of smiles.

I want to ask what, why are you smiling, but instead he grips my sore, tired hips and jerks me forward onto his lap.

I hiss as the raw flesh of my ass skims the fabric of his sweatpants, blue ones this time.

“Tease,” he accuses, playfully like he’s not actually mad about it.

I giggle softly, arching into him not only to feel the warmth of his bare skin on mine, but to give my poor butt a break.

His hands lower themselves from my waist to my thighs, then back up to rub gently at the abused skin, turned bright pink from the paddle.

I suck in a breath. It hurts, but nicely. His fingertips are gentle when they touch me, and I have to admit that I’ve never felt this kind of sickeningly sweet affection before.

I wonder if he feels it too.

“We’re going in late today,” he says, relaxed now that he’s got his hands on me, casually studying my face.

I nod, and we enjoy the almost-silence as he rubs my tender skin with a soft touch.

It’s really . . . domestic, for us. It feels right, and so it’s crazy to think that we only really have known each other since yesterday. It’s like everything I’ve ever wanted just got delivered to me with a nice red bow on top. From: The Universe, To: Marcus. PS, you’re welcome.

“You hungry?”

I bite my lip, nod, “Very.”

I make sure to look him over and make it known that I’m talking about his sexy dominant dick.

He smiles indulgently. “So am I. How about the old Hearth Cafe?”

I nod again, distracted by the outline of his manhood between my legs meaning he’s still not wearing underwear. Even soft, he’s a decent size.

He laughs, nearly shocking me out of my skin. I’ve barely ever seen a smile on the man, but damn, his laugh?

“Hey, focus. My eyes are up here. What, was last night not enough for you? Insatiable boy.”

“Oh no, I’m spent. I wouldn’t mind a little snack before breakfast though . . .”

I shift on his lap, rolling my hips closer to his, but he stops me with firm hands. “That’s sweet, Marcus, but I want us to talk before we do anything else, okay?”

“But, whyyy . . . ”

He pecks me on the lips, once again way too affectionate for us having only really met the night before. “Because I said so. Grab a shirt of mine and some sweats, we’re going to eat.”

He says it in that it’s final, sexy dominant way, damning me to do as he says with a light slap on my thigh. I happily do as I’m told, sliding off his lap and hoping later I’ll get a “good boy" for obeying.

I choose a scarlet red shirt and white sweatpants, tying them at my waist tightly so they don’t slide down. I complete the bum-style outfit with my boots from last night, and together we head out for Hearth Cafe.

The place is super cute, with a Tumblr-esque style that would please any hipster. It’s also on the other side of town, which is probably a good idea since we could both technically get fired for our “irresponsible and unprofessional fornication.”

He gifts me with one of his too big jackets, muttering something about taking the Continental Whatever It’s Called since it’s roomier. As we walk into the attached garage, I study both the cars—one sporty red one, and a sleek, classy looking white one. Apparently, that Whatever It’s Called is the white one.

He guides me to the passenger side with a hand on my back, before opening the door for me. His free hand stays free to take mine, helping me into the car even though I really didn’t need it. I glance at him, almost embarrassed at my VIP treatment, noticing he looks a bit focused.

He ducks in, and I stutter out a what before I realize he’s doing my seatbelt for me. He’s still got that mildly focused look on his face, like this is nothing new, like it’s just another daily task that he never thinks about not doing.

I don’t know why it embarrasses me, but I’m stunned into silence as he checks to make sure it’s buckled properly before backing out and standing straight, throwing me a small smile before shutting the door.

He situates himself, doing that fancy thing where his garage door automatically opens and closes, and all this time I stay silent.

God, what would I even say?

He helped me into the car and buckled my seatbelt for me. I could’ve done it all for myself, but the thought didn’t even seem to occur to him.

For the entire twenty-minute drive, I’m shyly watching him from the corner of my eye and looking away when he looks back. I know he’s noticed by now, but I swear I don’t even know what to do with myself.

“You okay, Marcus?” He swaps his focus from me to the road, me to the road and back to me again.

I blush wildly, can’t believe I’m reacting this way for something so unimportant, nodding because I can’t speak.

“Are you sure? You’re very quiet.”

I nod again, but we’re at a red light and he’s giving me a really intense look that politely says start talking.

“You buckled my seatbelt for me,” I say, because that’s all I have for an explanation for my ridiculous behavior.

He pauses. “Yes, I did. Did that make you uncomfortable?”

I shake my head, mutter a quiet, “No . . .”

He nods. “. . . Okay. We’re almost there.”

I nod again, and that’s the end of our car ride conversation.

The silence isn’t tense, but it’s not completely peaceful either. There’s something suspended in the air, I just don’t know what it is or how to get it the fuck down, so I can enjoy my time around my boss with benefits.

When we pull up to the cafe, it’s decently busy, but I think not busy enough to be obnoxious. He shuts off the car, the lack of running motor making way for the ambience of a moderately busy cafe bustle.

“Stay here,” he says, reaching behind my seat to retrieve a black and white striped umbrella.

He gets out into the rain, circling around the front of the car to my side.

He puts the umbrella over my door before he opens it, getting himself rained on in the process. I want to scold him and tell him not to get rained on for me, but I hold my tongue, because I’m not sure how he’ll take it.

He reaches in and unbuckles me, holding the buckle to make sure it doesn’t hit me in the face or something as he undoes it. He takes me hand to lift me out of the car like he did before, and I find that I can’t meet his eyes.

He tucks me under his arm, covering us both with the umbrella until we reach the door.

As he’s shaking out the umbrella, he looks at me seriously again. “Are you really okay? Don’t lie to me.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I just . . . no one’s ever done that . . .”

He smiles, seemingly pleased at my answer. “Don’t be sorry. I just haven’t figured out how to read you yet.”

I smile back, my stomach doing a little somersault as he opens the door for me.

He holds it open in a way that has me ducking under his arm, and he follows close behind me as we both walk in together.

I have to ask, because I think it’s weird in a funny way, “Is that a thing with you too?”

He does it again as we come up to the second door. It chimes as we enter. “What thing?”

“This thing.”

He shakes his head, not really understanding.

“The way you hold the door, you’re always close behind.”


I raise an eyebrow and nod. “Oh . . ?”

“I like to make sure nothing dangerous is happening. I’ve walked right into some dangerous situations before, I’d like not to make that mistake with my s-- ah, partner.”

I nod, looking down at my feet.

I don’t know if it’s just my limited experience with relationships outside of the bedroom or if I’m looking too far into things, but it seems to me like Mister Phoenix . . . Lucas, doesn’t half-ass his relationships.

He keeps going the extra mile—maybe it’s a dominant thing? Maybe it’s a Master Lucas thing, hmm . . .

We’re seated by a young blonde girl. She’s amiable, but quiet, shuffling her feet as we take our time choosing our drinks.

“What do you want, Marcus?”

This time, I know he’s asking me because he wants to order for me, so I let him. I think I should mind, but I don’t, not really.

I shift in my seat, trying not to be obvious as I try to lift my butt off of it so it won’t hurt so bad. I take a quick glance at the menu. “Probably coffee . . .”

He turns to the waiter, “Two coffees and two waters, please, no lemon.”

She gives a practiced smile that looks worn and overused. “Sure, I’ll be right back with that.”

It takes only a few seconds for her to return, and by then I’ve already told him what I want to eat so he can order for me.

We’re left alone then, mixing sugars and creamers into our coffees and basking in the coffee-scented air.

And then suddenly, ”My babyyy!”

We both look up to a small, chubby woman in a soft red apron rushing in our direction, hands out like she’s about to pinch some cheeks. As Lucas rises from the booth with a smile and open arms, I realize his cheeks are about to get torn off by this woman’s fingers.

“You haven’t come in to see me for months! You don’t love me no more or somethin’?”

“It’s been busy! I’m a working man, Miss Rochelle.”

I watch awkwardly from my seat, completely weirded out that the man has a social life.

Miss Rochelle is a large woman, with fitting warm, coffee brown skin and a wide smile. She hugs Lucas to her in a way that he has to bend down and lay his head on her shoulder even though he’s much taller.

“It’s nice to see you, boy. How’ve you—oh, who’s this?” She doesn’t wait for Lucas to reply, instead walking right up to me to introduce herself. “Hi there Sweetie, I’m Miss Rochelle.”

She sticks out a perfectly manicured hand, and I take it with a firm handshake, one I use for work. “I’m Marcus, how are you?”

“Oh, aren’t you just the most precious—Lucas, where you get him?”

He smiles. “Marcus is my . . . well—”

“Your what, boy, spit it out!”

He laughs. “I, well I mean we’re coworkers—”

“Mm-hmm, and I suppose you’re here for work?”

Lucas nods. “Yup!”

She raises a daring eyebrow. “Then where’s your fancy-ass laptop, Mister Working Man?”

His jaw drops, then snaps closed audibly, and I can’t help but laugh. Whoever this woman is to him, I’m loving it. I can see his ears turning red in embarrassment.

She laughs a powerful laugh, like she’s not afraid who hears, and I admire that. “Alright Sweetie I’ll leave ya alone now, you come back and visit soon alright?”

He nods, fingers combing through his hair self-consciously. “I will, Miss Rochelle. Soon.”

“You’d better, boy,” she playfully threatens. “And you, Marcus honey, take care of my boy? Make sure he doesn’t get into no trouble.”

I nod with a wide smile. “Sure, Miss Rochelle.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, you—” She reaches forward and pinches my cheeks. “He’s definitely a cutie, Lucas. Coworker my ass.”

I gasp aloud at her blatancy, before laughing in both embarrassment and disbelief. “Oh my god, who—ahaha—who was that?”

He laughs, fondly looking after her as he disappears into the staff kitchen. “Miss Rochelle used to babysit me. Parents were away a lot, so she raised me.” He laughs to himself, seemingly having no ill will at the apparent neglect of his parents. “I used to get into so much trouble with the neighborhood kids, she’d give me hell for it.” He smiles to himself, stirring his coffee with a spoon before taking a sip.

I smile. It’s amazing how his entire demeanor changes outside of a professional work setting.

Or a bedroom setting.

“How’d she go from babysitter to Hearth Cafe owner?”

He shrugged. “My parents fired her when she got pregnant cause she wanted more than six weeks paid leave. She raised me all by herself, but I guess they didn’t want her raising her own kid, so they let her go. When I found out I was so pissed . . .” he shakes his head, reminiscent but not angry. “I built it for her.”

I blink. “What, the Cafe?”

He nods. “Gave her all the rights and stuff, let her go at it. She deserves it.”

I nod, taking everything in with a promise to myself to remember it. I want to know him.

“So, Marcus,” he says, and I notice his tone has changed completely, looks less playful and more intense, calculating. “I want to talk about your thoughts on last night.”

The change of pace gives me mental whiplash—going from his bittersweet past to last night’s kinky dream come true.

“. . . Okay.”

He grins. “It was just okay? You were in subspace for at least twenty—”

"Shh! I liked it a lot, okay? Don’t tell the whole cafe!”

He smiles, tries to hide it into his coffee cup but I see it anyway. “I wasn’t being that loud, Marcus. What exactly did you like about it? Were you comfortable the whole time? Be honest, I won’t hold it against you.”

I feel a flush crawl up my neck and into my cheeks. “Yeah, I was comfortable.”

“The whole time?”


He nods, and thinks for a minute. “And you feel confident I would stop had you safe-worded?”

I nod, taking an anxious look over the cafe for any eavesdroppers. Fortunately, more than half of them had headphones in.

“Pay no attention to them Marcus. What exactly did you like about our scene last night?”

I shrug, my brain fried and my tongue at a loss for words. “All of it?”

He raises a brow—my answer isn’t enough for him.

I huff, and continue, struggling to somehow put the English language together in a way that’ll effectively convey what I’m trying to say. It doesn’t work so well. “I felt like . . . I don’t know, I felt like . . . like maybe . . . uh—I could let everything go, and—and you’d be there to catch me no matter what—”

I cut myself off, the admission taking a lot more out of me than it should.

Fuck that’s embarrassing.

I awkwardly stop in the middle of my sentence, fiddling with the napkin rolled around my silverware.

“It’s okay Marcus, I’m not here to judge you.”

“. . . Why are you asking me this stuff?”

None of the other dominant men I had been with had done anything similar, and I’m left once again to wonder if it’s because they were one-night stands or if this is just a Lucas thing.

The waitress returns bearing gifts—warm French toast with a side of home fries.

I’m grateful for the distraction. It’s not hard to pretend to be distracted completely by my food, probably because I’m not exactly pretending.

I stuff my mouth with home fries as I busy myself with drizzling a little syrup on the toast and then a huge puddle on the side for dipping.

“Marcus, chew your food before you swallow it.”

I smile sheepishly, try to calm down even though I know my food is going to cool down by the time I finish.

“I’m asking you these things because I need to make sure I didn’t cross any lines. What we did last night was enjoyable, but we should have talked about it before hand. We started out pretty fast, and that isn’t very responsible . . . especially of me, since I’m the dominant. Your safety is my top priority, especially over my own desires.”

He stops, searching my face to gauge a reaction. I just blink, chewing my food a lot slower now.

It seems like this is how Mister Phoenix differs from the other dominants I’ve been with—he views what he does as a lifestyle, as far more than kinky rough sex. He’s a dominant in every sense of the word, and I’ve never dealt with that before.

I nod, not sure how to respond to that. My stomach tightens in excitement, giddy at the thought of being someone’s priority like that.

“What are you smiling for, Marcus?”

His expression is still stern, hard, except for the hint of a smile that tugs at the corner of his lips, except for playful green eyes that remind me of grass in summer.

His smile is contagious—I hadn’t realized I was smiling before until he mentioned it, and now I can’t stop.

“Nothing, I swear.”

“You swear?”

I had looked down at my now half-empty plate, nibbling on a piece of potato. I look up now to meet his eyes, my breath hitching when I see a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Are you lying to me, Marcus?”

I bite my lip, debating whether or not he’d actually punish me.

I sigh. “I was just thinking, it’s nothing important.”

“About what?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” I ask nervously.

“You don’t have to answer.”

But I can see in his eyes that he really wants me to, so I figure I’ve got nothing to lose, having already embarrassed myself pretty well.

“I was just thinking . . .” I search his eyes for reassurance, find that they’re calmer now, and patient—it’s incredible how he’s mastered conveying everything with a single look. “I guess I was thinking . . . it’s nice . . .”

“What’s nice?” His voice is smooth and inviting, tempting me to answer.

“Being considered a priority.”

He silent for a moment, seeming to contemplate my words.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Marcus.”

I pause mid-chew of my sugary, syrup-drenched French toast. I’m not really sure if I like where this is going.

“Relax Marcus.” As I force my muscles not to be so tense, he continues. “I take being a dominant very seriously. I do this because I like having someone depending on me, I like when they need me. I like prioritizing them.” He pauses to gauge my reaction again. He seems to do a lot of that, and I wonder briefly if it’s related to what he said outside, when he said he hadn’t learned to read me yet. “It gives me a purpose. With such a busy work life, I have little to look forward to outside of work. Having a submissive boy to pay attention to fulfills all of these needs. My lifestyle is important to me.”

I nod, only half paying attention because I’ve been imagining us in his home, me being there to greet him whenever he gets back from work. Taking his mind off of things . . . and him buckling my seatbelt for me.

“I understand why you might be hesitant, seeing as how I’m your direct superior at work, but I’ve told you . . . I’ve been thinking about you for a while now. I call you into my office sometimes for meaningless things just to see you.” I blush as I think back on all the times he’s asked me to bring a folder or file to Tamara, Tamara who had no clue what to do with them. “I want to know . . . if you’d consider being my long-term submissive.”

I can feel the way my face contorts in shock, can’t stop it from happening because God, only in my naive dreams would he ever say that to me.

He’s quick to explain, seeming to panic a bit and totally misinterpreting my surprise. “And of course, I could transfer you to a different department if that would make you more comfortable at work—and long-term doesn’t necessarily have to mean forever, we can start out with a three-month long contract and go from there. You don’t have to—”

“No! I mean yes—I mean—wow, uh . . . I meant, that sounds . . . good.”

He takes a deep breath. Is he nervous? “You’d like that?”

I nod, burying my burning face in my hands to hide my smile and leaning my head down onto the table. “Yeah.”

My phone buzzes on my lap, and I know I need to distract myself and calm down, so I open Snapchat to see Tamara’s sent me something.

She’s at her desk, rolling her eyes. That caption says, ”Where r u? Boss isn’t here either.”

I decide I’ll answer later, snapping her a photo of me with my forehead on the table and my tongue sticking out.

I’m like a kid with a middle school crush—can barely look him in the eyes because I’m blushing so hard.

He smiles indulgently.

“I like you too.” I admit, before I can change my mind.

The waitress is back to reclaim our plates, and drops off the bill.

“What?” He says, distractedly fumbling with the bill as he tries to decipher what I’m saying,

“I liked you for a while, too. I always . . . you always get up to get more coffee from the break room around lunch, so I always do too, but I don’t even really like the coffee there that much . . .”

He smirks. “You have, have you?”

I nod, feeling more comfortable than I thought I would be admitting that.

“That explains why you were so willing . . . made a beautiful mess on my hardwood floors.”

I’m just trying to calm myself down from setting my face on fire, but he just makes it so hard.

He sits back in the booth, in that way people do when they’ve stuffed themselves full of food, as I wrack my brain for a response.

He saves me the time, continuing as he waves the waitress over. “You should go home and get ready for work, I want you there by one o’clock.”

I nod distractedly. “Okay.”

“When your day is over, stop by my house again later tonight. I want us to discuss the contract if that’s alright.”

I nod, and jolt as my phone vibrates on my lap.

I look up at him, unsure of whether or not it would be okay to take my phone out, but he nods and gives me the okay.

I glance at the caller ID as I bring it up to my face.

My landlord.

He’s so mad, cursing me for not paying on time again. “-- This is the last time. The last time, you hear me? I’m done with your shit, Marcus. You owe me money, got it? With interest—”

I half-listen as Lucas pays the bill and stands, readying to leave. I stand as well, still holding the phone. We wish the staff a good day, and return to his car. He buckles me in again, giving me a cheeky smile at the dumbfounded look on my face.

“Marcus, I swear to God—”

“Wait—wait you said it was due today?”

"It is!"

“I have it today!”

“Too late, I’m changing the locks—”

I huff, frustrated already. I hope I’m not bothering Lucas—he seems okay, patiently focusing on the road as I speak. I can’t tell if he’s eavesdropping or not.


“I already called!”

“Dude! What the hell! You said have it by today and I have it today!”

“Yeah, short stack. By today. As in, when I wake up in the morning, it’s gotta be there.”

“But Martin—”

“Get your shit out by tomorrow, and take your creep ass roommate with you.”

He hangs up on me.

I roll my eyes, not especially worried, but worried nonetheless. He threatens this often but has never actually gone through with it. Although, he did say he already called to get the locks changed . . .

Lucas pulls into his driveway, in silence.

We don’t say much to each other as I quick run in and retrieve my clothes. As I’m about to run out the door, he stops me, tucking a wad of cash into my right pocket.

“You going to be alright?”

I nod, though unsure. “Yeah.”

I don’t really feel like leaving now—it’s like the moment I’m gone it’s going to feel like this was all some crazy dream that never actually happened.

He nods slowly, considering. “Alright, call me if you need anything.”


I wait for a moment, feeling like there should be more to this.

“Well . . . bye.”

“I’ll see you at work, Marcus.”

A huddle into my less impressive car, and half an hour later, find myself at the door to my apartment.

As I walk in, I expect it. It smells like all kinds of nefariously illegal substances, somewhat foggy as you enter the tiny area.

I find him where he always is.

Leaning back on the couch and taking up an obnoxious amount of space, Jared gives me a wide, toothy, yellow smile.

“Hey, heard about Martin givin’ you shit again.”

It’s amazing how he just hears these things, things that happened not even twenty minutes ago.

“Yeah, he said something about changing the locks,” I mutter, moving to my little room to grab my stuff. I can’t say I’m particularly in the mood to talk to the addict.

“Oh yeah! Nah, don’t worry about that, I took care of it.”

I pause, looking back over my shoulder. “What do you mean?” How could he possibly have taken care of it.

“Well all we have to do is pay by four and we’re set! If you want, I could take the money down to him so you can get to wherever you’re going on time. Work, yeah?”

I roll my eyes.

“I’ll give it to him myself, Jared.”

“No really, man, I got it.”

I look at him seriously, then check my watch. That last thing I want to do is be late when Lucas is not only my boss but kind of my dom?

I shake my head, knowing this is definitely going to blow up in my face some way or another, but deciding I don’t really have many options. “Fine. Fine, but holy hell Jared, all of this better go to Martin or I swear—”

“Yeah, no problem. I got it, bro, just relax alright? Trust me.”

Trust Jared?

I hand him the money begrudgingly, hating the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

There’s no way in hell I would.


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