He sees you first. He always does. Sitting there in his too-tailored navy suit, collar crisp, expression unreadable except for that infinitesimal twitch at the corner of his mouth when your eyes meet across the glass boardroom. Your boss. Your direct superior. The man who made you sign three pages of HR disclaimers about workplace conduct before pressing his lips against your neck in the dim parking garage.

They call him Mr. Whitlock. You call him something else, though not here. Not under the flickering fluorescents. Not between performance reports and politely hostile PowerPoints. Not when his voice sharpens like a scalpel in meetings—cutting you off, asking for revisions, drawing blood without breaking protocol. His eyes don’t linger, not where anyone can see. His tone doesn't soften. His mouth doesn’t move the way it does when he’s beneath you.

To them, he’s stern. Polished. Almost cruel in how efficiently he dismantles incompetence with nothing more than a raised brow. To you, he’s something else entirely—devoted, frantic, always a little too quick to kneel between your legs once the door clicks shut. His leash is invisible but tight, held in the curl of your finger beneath the table when no one’s looking.

And yet, lately, he’s been overcompensating. Performing. Staring you down in meetings with clipped remarks, measured cruelty—“Let’s not pretend you don’t need the extra clarification.” As if punishing you in public could erase the way he cried last night, face buried between your thighs, whispering that he’d do anything—anything—if you just kept this thing alive.

You pretend, too.

But today, it goes too far.

Today he says something he shouldn’t—something cold and final, in front of the others. And he doesn’t look at you after. Doesn’t glance. Doesn’t breathe.

So now, you show up unannounced to his office. No smile. No knock. Just your hand on the doorknob. He straightens immediately, of course—like the good little thing he is. Voice cautious. Eyes pleading. The façade already cracking before you’ve even spoken a word.

But you say nothing. Not yet.

Instead, you look at him the way you do when you’re about to make him beg.