Stress Fuck

I step into the gleaming lobby of Apex Dynamics every morning, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor. The city skyline towers outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a constant reminder of the power that pulses through this building. Kai's corporation dominates the skyline, just like he dominates every room he enters. I'm one of his executive assistants, handling schedules, reports, and the endless stream of demands that come with running an empire. But that's only on paper. My real duties run deeper, hidden in the shadows of boardrooms and private offices. Kai is the epitome of controlled intensity. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features and eyes that cut through bullshit like a blade. His dark hair is always impeccably styled, his suits tailored to perfection. Married to Sarah for over a decade, they have two kids—a boy and a girl—who attend the best private schools. Sarah is elegant, poised, the perfect counterpart to his drive. She knows about me. Hell, she greenlit the whole thing. 'Whatever keeps him sharp,' she once said during a brief, businesslike meeting where we outlined the terms. No jealousy, no drama. Just pragmatism. Our arrangement started six months ago. Kai's stress levels were spiking—mergers failing, competitors circling, family obligations piling up. He needed an outlet, something efficient and detached. I volunteered. Not out of infatuation, but because I saw the opportunity. It pays well, discreetly, and fits my no-strings philosophy. We're clear: this is transactional. I clock in for relief duty like any other task. The rules are ironclad, etched into our contract like corporate bylaws: - No kissing. Lips stay off-limits. - No caressing, no foreplay fluff. Straight to the point. - He uses my pussy or ass for penetration. Nothing else. - I can suck his cock if it helps him unwind. - He can latch onto my tits and suck, but that's it for his mouth. We meet in his penthouse office after hours, or sometimes in the executive suite downstairs. No small talk. No lingering. In, out, back to work. Today starts like any other. I arrive at 8 AM sharp, coffee in hand for the team. Emails flood in: quarterly projections, investor calls, a glitch in the overseas supply chain. By noon, Kai's mood darkens. I catch it in the way his jaw tightens during the board meeting. His voice snaps at the CFO over a minor discrepancy. The room tenses. Everyone scatters when he dismisses them early. I linger, organizing his desk as he paces by the window. The city sprawls below, indifferent to his turmoil. 'Clear my afternoon,' he says, not looking at me. His tone is clipped, laced with frustration. I nod, pulling up his calendar on my tablet. But I know what this means. The telltale signs: the furrowed brow, the restless energy. Stress is coiling in him like a spring. 'Schedule it,' he adds, finally turning. His eyes meet mine—cold, assessing. No warmth, just necessity. By 2 PM, the office empties for a fabricated 'team-building' event I invented. The executive suite is prepped: dim lights, locked doors, a king-sized bed disguised as a lounge setup. I wait in the antechamber, shedding my blazer and skirt, down to lingerie that's practical—black lace bra, matching thong, stockings. No seduction here; it's uniform. He enters without knocking, door clicking shut behind him. Suit jacket already off, tie loosened. His presence fills the space, commanding silence. 'On the bed,' he orders, voice low and direct. I comply, positioning myself on all fours, ass presented. He doesn't waste time. His hands grip my hips—firm, no tenderness—yanking my thong aside. I hear his belt unbuckle, zipper rasping down. His cock springs free, thick and hard, veins pulsing with pent-up tension. He doesn't stroke it; doesn't need to. It's ready from the adrenaline alone. He lines up at my entrance, the head nudging my pussy lips. One thrust, and he's buried deep, stretching me around his girth. I gasp, but bite it back. This isn't about my sounds. He pulls out halfway, then slams in again, setting a brutal rhythm. His hips smack against my ass, the sound echoing off the walls. Each drive is forceful, releasing the day's frustrations into my body. 'Fuck,' he mutters, more to himself than me. His fingers dig into my skin, holding me steady as he pounds harder. My walls clench around him involuntarily, slick from the friction. He doesn't acknowledge it; just uses the tightness to chase his edge. Sweat beads on his forehead. I arch my back slightly, giving him better access. He grunts, thrusting deeper, the head of his cock hitting my cervix with each plunge. Minutes stretch—five, ten—as he works through the anger. The supply chain mess, the board's incompetence, Sarah's upcoming gala planning that adds to his plate. It all funnels into this: raw, mechanical fucking. He shifts, pulling out abruptly. 'Turn over.' I flip onto my back, legs spreading wide. He grabs my thighs, hoisting them over his shoulders. Re-entering my pussy in one go, he leans forward, weight pressing me into the mattress. His mouth finds my breast, yanking the bra cup down. He latches onto my nipple, sucking hard—teeth grazing, tongue flicking roughly. No kisses, but this is allowed, a secondary vent. I thread my fingers through his hair, not pulling, just steadying. His sucks turn fervent, matching the pistoning of his hips. My pussy squelches around him, arousal building despite the detachment. He doesn't care about my pleasure; neither do I. But the fullness, the relentless pace—it edges me close. 'Tighter,' he demands, and I squeeze my inner muscles, milking his shaft. That does it. His thrusts stutter, body tensing. He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing as he unloads. Hot spurts of cum flood my pussy, pulse after pulse, until he's spent. He holds there a beat, sucking my nipple one last time before releasing. Pulling out, he watches his seed drip from me—clinical, satisfied. 'Clean it.' I slide down, kneeling before him. His cock, slick with our juices, hangs semi-hard. I take it in my