Poking the Beast

Polly's POV

His hands were fire. One gripped my thigh while the other slid between my legs, fingers slow, teasing and torturous. I gasped, my body arching against the desk as he leaned in, breath hot against my neck.

"You’ve been begging for this," Logan whispered, his lips brushing my ear. "So stop pretending you’re not desperate for me."

My blouse was open. His mouth replaced his fingers, kissing down my chest, tasting me like I was something exotic on his menu. I moaned, fingers tangled in his soft curls, dragging him closer. I wanted him to devour me.

He pushed my knees apart with one sharp motion and looked up at me with those burning brown eyes. I couldn't wait to feel those lips on the warmest part of my body that was already dripping wet.

"Say it, Polly."

I swallowed. "Say what?"

"That you want me to ruin you."

I hesitated not because I didn't want him to but I was too excited, too neck deep in pleasure that all I could say was a shuddering "yes". 

And then—My alarm blared.

I shot up in bed, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering like I’d run miles. My cotton nightshirt clung to my damp skin, my thighs slick with need. I reached down instinctively, then stopped myself with a groan of frustration.

Fifth time this week.

Five nights. Five filthy dreams about Logan Sanchez. Five mornings waking up aching for his touch, knowing damn well I couldn’t even look him in the eye without imagining how his mouth would feel between my legs.

I stared at the ceiling. I was officially losing it.

Since becoming Logan’s secretary, my life had turned into a tightrope walk of humiliation and desire. He was ice in the mornings and fire in my dreams. He never smiled. Never complimented. Never so much as looked at me longer than necessary.

The night before, he’d made me stay until 11 p.m., typing reports that he never even opened in front of me. I nearly fell asleep on my keyboard, but when I finally stood up to go, he looked at me with a cool expression and said, "You leave when I say you leave."

I hated him at that moment, wishing I could punch his face. But that would mean cutting my means of survival. 

Instead, I stood there that night after I was done, clutching my bag, knees weak, and whispered a stupid, breathy "Goodnight, sir," like some heroine in an erotic novel.

He didn’t respond and just stared at me. And those eyes, I was sure they followed me home. Into my dreams. Into my fantasies.

My wedding day arrived on a chilly Sunday morning.

I sat in the bridal suite, staring at myself in the mirror, a veil pinned in place, a soft pink lipstick dabbed on lips that felt like paper. My stepsister cooed about how elegant I looked. My father said I was lucky to marry someone so “respectable.” And James?

James didn’t even glance at me as I walked down the aisle, 'Here comes the Bride' playing loudly.

I moved like a doll with no soul and no thought. Just a mechanical bride fulfilling her part of the script. My hands were cold as ice. My legs shook beneath the weight of this whole joke of a marriage. 

The officiant began.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

That’s when it happened. A loud ding. Then another. People started shifting in their seats, pulling out their phones. Whispers turned into gasps. My father stood up, demanding what was happening. The officiant looked confused.

I frowned. "What’s going on?"

My maid of honor’s face was pale as she looked at her screen. I stepped off the altar, snatched her phone, and my heart imploded.

There was James in the screen, naked and moaning loudly while thrusting Shana.

Her legs were wrapped around him, head thrown back, and they were screaming each other’s names.

The timestamp? This morning. The worst part? He was wearing the watch I gave him for our six-month engagement anniversary.

The world faded into a dull roar. I heard someone sob. I think it was me.

The officiant asked, "Should we—?"

I turned around without a word and dropped the bouquet. I walked out the front doors, veil fluttering behind me like a ghost finally escaping her grave.

That night, I sat in the darkness of my bedroom, already cried my eyes out. A bottle of alcohol stood on the counter untouched as I wasn't sure. 

The white dress crumpled on the floor around me. The world had seen me shattered, mocked and made a fool. But not broken. No, I wasn't going to cry for James. At least, not anymore.

I reached for my phone with shaky hands, propping it against the headboard. I lay back on the bed, still in my wedding gown, legs parted slightly, the soft moan escaping my lips before I even touched myself. 

Slowly, I let the strap of my gown fall off, exposing my two fair mounds as I pictured Logan, my boss.

His voice whispering dirty into my ears. His hands grabbing my tits like I was doing. His mouth sucking and twitching my nipples.

I trailed my fingers down slowly, feeling myself already soaking. I moved in rhythm, panting, whispering his name.

"Logan…"

I slipped two fingers into my opening, feeling the muscles clamp on them immediately. My body responded with shivers and cries I didn’t recognize as my own.

"God—Logan—please…" I cried as I thrusted myself, the other hand kneading my breasts. The pace increased and I felt the knot in my stomach tighten, my legs cramping and the juice spilling out till they covered the camera. "Fuck, Logan. Fuck!"

When it was over, I didn’t even replay it. I didn’t check for angles or edit the sound. I sent it to James in quick succession. No subject line. No caption. No hesitation. He wanted to humiliate me? Fine.

I’d burn the whole house down.