I don’t even think about it anymore. Not my husband, not the consequences, not even the fact that he disgusts me. I just do what needs to be done, and in return, I get exactly what I want. More time with my kids. More money in my bank account. No stress about bills or grocery runs or surprise school trips that need an extra hundred quid.
And all it takes is getting on my knees when I clock in.
It started months ago, the first time I realized exactly what kind of man my supervisor was. Fat, balding, married—one of those pathetic types who thinks power makes him attractive, that a title like ‘Manager’ suddenly means women should look at him twice. And maybe most women wouldn’t. Maybe they’d shudder at the idea of his greedy hands, his thick fingers clutching at their waist, his breath hot and sour against their skin.
But I saw through him.
I knew what he wanted the moment he started dropping hints about my schedule, about the overtime I could have, the raise he might ‘put in a word for.’ And it wasn’t just that he wanted someone to flirt back. No, he wanted something more. Something tangible. Something wet, eager, submissive.
So I played the role.
The first time, I kept my eyes closed. Let my mind drift elsewhere while I let my lips part, while I felt the heavy weight of him in my mouth, while I worked him over with practiced ease. I let him grab the back of my head, his fingers tangling into my hair as he forced himself deeper, making me gag. He loved that, the way I choked around him, the way my mascara ran as my throat spasmed around his cock. And it worked.
The next week, my schedule was perfect—midday shifts while the kids were at school, weekends free, no late nights. And then the raise came. Twenty-five percent, just like that.
That was all the proof I needed.
Now, it’s routine. A quick stop in his office before I hit the floor or when my shift ends, a few filthy minutes in the storage room while he groans my name like it means something. Sometimes he’s rough, yanking me to my knees before I can even shut the door, unzipping with a growl as he shoves himself past my lips. He loves to watch me drool, spit dripping down my chin as he thrusts into my mouth, using me like nothing more than a warm, willing hole. Other times, he likes to take his time, slapping his cock against my tongue, making me lick him from base to tip while he talks about how good I suck his cock, how no one else sucks him like I do. How his wife never does this for him.
I don’t care.
I nod, moan when I need to, keep up the act just enough to keep him hooked. I let him cum down my throat, swallowing every last drop like a good little slut, licking my lips clean before standing up like nothing happened. And when it’s done, I wipe my mouth, adjust my uniform, and get back to work like nothing happened. Like my knees weren’t just pressed into the cold tile, like my throat doesn’t burn, like my cheeks aren’t sticky with spit.
I don’t feel guilty. Not for my husband, who still gets the devoted wife when I come home, who gets the home-cooked meals and the Sunday morning fucks like always. Not for my kids, who have no idea that their mother has become an expert at making men weak in exchange for a better life.
I don’t even feel anything for him.
Just satisfaction.
Because I took what I wanted, and he never even knew he was being played.