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I didn’t have to fuck Dean in order to get my job at the FBI, but if it had been one of the points in the interview, I probably would have.
You never know what you’ll do until you do it.
If during my interview, Dean had stood in front of me and pulled out his dick, I would have sucked it. I would have extended my mouth and let him have the hole, and when he was done with it, I’d stand up from my chair, bend over, and give him my pussy. I would have given it in an instant. Still would. Dean was a monster of a man, towering inches above me at almost seven feet. He was built out of old muscle, and his body moved in the way you’d imagine hunters in Babylonian times might. He didn’t walk so much as lumber. He didn’t speak so much as command. That dark, bullet-wounded voice of his, well, I’ve never yet been able to say no to him.
I didn’t know if it was his build, or the fact that he was my superior officer. In the way that, professionally, you had to obey him. It was difficult, as I’m sure it is for many people, not to wonder what it would be like if your boss ruled you in other ways.
After watching those tapes for the rest of the afternoon, I got so hot I needed to take a shower the second I got home. The second the door closed my clothes came off. I was sweating bad. I worried about catching a fever. I tossed my clothes into my hamper in the closet and hit my shower. As the hot water came, I felt such relief. It had been a long couple of days. The scariest thing is, by the end of the day my senses had somewhat dulled. After watching over a dozen unique and torturous murders, I no longer felt sick. I could take the gore, and I could tune out the screams. I could even watch the screen right as the victims died. By the end of the day, I’d stopped wincing, and I stopped needing breaks every twenty minutes. But I never stopped sweating.
Nude, in the shower, I returned to a standby favorite. My fingers rubbing slowly around my clit, I closed my eyes and thought of Dean, naked and on top of me. We’re on a bed, and he’s thrusting me hard. I can see his abs and his amazing tan, and I can feel the weight of his bottom half on my thighs. His left hand, it’s on my tits, alternating pinching, squeezing, and massaging. His right hand is holding my wrists in place above my head.
Sometimes, when you want to cool down, the opposite happens. I begin to sweat even harder, leaning against the cold tile of the shower, touching myself while fantasy Dean comes inside me, his grip on my wrists getting tighter and tighter.
A scary thing happens when I come. My fantasy shifts. Dean isn’t holding my arms anymore. His hands are around my neck. I’m choking. I can’t breathe. But I can’t stop coming, either. I drop to my knees, the steaming hot water pounding my back as I regain my breath. For a second, it felt like I couldn’t breathe for real.
From my knees, I turn the shower off, and I take a second to regain my composure before getting back up.
Later, I’m watching TV alone and I realize exactly why I fantasize about Dean. He’s the closest thing I’ve had to a steady relationship in years. I have it weird. I’m successful, I’m strong, and I can’t stand men who can’t match me. There are lots of strong men out there, but few of them aren’t jerks. This makes the dating pool pretty thin.
Unless, of course, I just eventually succumb to the whole jerk thing. It’s been wrestling in my head for some time now. What’s worse, a man who isn’t nice to you, or no man at all?
Okay, it’s not exactly the most romantic of questions, but desperate times, you know? I can imagine it’s the same for men. After a while, their standards go down. Well, turns out it works both ways. This is the reason I ended up going out to the local pub in the hopes of picking up.
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