30s male in NYC. All captions and stories are written by me unless otherwise stated. If you reblog, do NOT remove the captions or writing. (And why on earth would you?)
It was the perfect scheme. I took this girl on as an intern—unpaid!—in exchange for some college credit and a letter of recommendation. She wanted to excel. I let her know I'd be stern but fair.
She did her work. Brought me coffee, too. I called her out when she messed up some data entry or forgot protocol answering the phone. She always took it seriously. "Yes, Sir." I knew she'd be easy.
I gave her more responsibility. The hours got longer. She was expected to dress the part—heels, pencil skirts. Kept her late to make her "clean up the mess" she made. I got mean. But I did it to make it up to her. I'd find her sitting at her desk a little later. "I'm sorry I snapped, honey." She smiled when I said that. So desperate for my approval.
One time after I snapped at her, I brought her some scotch from the bar cart in my office. She looked nervous—wide-eyed—at the amber fire liquid. But she wanted my approval. So she left it burn her little pink tongue and shrugged off the pain of what I'm guessing was her first hard drink. I stroked her hair. "You're doing such a good job here. I'm impressed. We almost discontinued the program because most girls your age were more trouble than they were worth. Maybe you'll teach me I can still be wrong, even at my old age."
She giggled. "Sir, you're not that old," she chirped in that irresistible lilt of hers.
The next time I kept her late, we had a drink in my office. On the couch, side by side. She got an extra heavy pour in her tumbler glass. When my hand found her thigh, I felt her shudder, but she didn't say a word. Didn't look me in the eye, didn't pull away. As I rubbed my fingers around her young flesh, up to the hem of her skirt, I knew she'd never say a fucking thing.
Is it any wonder she's still "helping out sometimes?" Even after her semester with me ended. That first night, I must've made her cum on my fingers five times before my cock was down her throat. And I'd had that pussy bare for weeks before I bent her over a hotel bed—told my wife "it's going to be another late night at the office"—and started working her ass open.
"Relax, honey. You'll get a great fucking letter out of this. I know you can handle it."
"Yes, Sir." So meek. So lovely. Her unspoiled pucker felt wonderful on the head of my slick cock. Beckoned me. Begged me to stick it in.
I was gentle with her. Well, gentle enough. I savored the feeling of her virgin ass gripping my cock. Snug, hot, vulnerable. I must've blasted so much cum up her guts that night. Bet she could feel it dripping out for days.
The best part? She was so easy. So willing. Sluts her age usually take an expensive date to get them loose and willing to let my cock wreck them. This one just wanted a recommendation letter.
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It happens. I know.
It was the perfect scheme. I took this girl on as an intern—unpaid!—in exchange for some college credit and a letter of recommendation. She wanted to excel. I let her know I'd be stern but fair.
She did her work. Brought me coffee, too. I called her out when she messed up some data entry or forgot protocol answering the phone. She always took it seriously. "Yes, Sir." I knew she'd be easy.
I gave her more responsibility. The hours got longer. She was expected to dress the part—heels, pencil skirts. Kept her late to make her "clean up the mess" she made. I got mean. But I did it to make it up to her. I'd find her sitting at her desk a little later. "I'm sorry I snapped, honey." She smiled when I said that. So desperate for my approval.
One time after I snapped at her, I brought her some scotch from the bar cart in my office. She looked nervous—wide-eyed—at the amber fire liquid. But she wanted my approval. So she left it burn her little pink tongue and shrugged off the pain of what I'm guessing was her first hard drink. I stroked her hair. "You're doing such a good job here. I'm impressed. We almost discontinued the program because most girls your age were more trouble than they were worth. Maybe you'll teach me I can still be wrong, even at my old age."
She giggled. "Sir, you're not that old," she chirped in that irresistible lilt of hers.
The next time I kept her late, we had a drink in my office. On the couch, side by side. She got an extra heavy pour in her tumbler glass. When my hand found her thigh, I felt her shudder, but she didn't say a word. Didn't look me in the eye, didn't pull away. As I rubbed my fingers around her young flesh, up to the hem of her skirt, I knew she'd never say a fucking thing.
Is it any wonder she's still "helping out sometimes?" Even after her semester with me ended. That first night, I must've made her cum on my fingers five times before my cock was down her throat. And I'd had that pussy bare for weeks before I bent her over a hotel bed—told my wife "it's going to be another late night at the office"—and started working her ass open.
"Relax, honey. You'll get a great fucking letter out of this. I know you can handle it."
"Yes, Sir." So meek. So lovely. Her unspoiled pucker felt wonderful on the head of my slick cock. Beckoned me. Begged me to stick it in.
I was gentle with her. Well, gentle enough. I savored the feeling of her virgin ass gripping my cock. Snug, hot, vulnerable. I must've blasted so much cum up her guts that night. Bet she could feel it dripping out for days.
The best part? She was so easy. So willing. Sluts her age usually take an expensive date to get them loose and willing to let my cock wreck them. This one just wanted a recommendation letter.