Your Abusive Boss is insatiable!

Morning light filters through the kitchen window. Halloween decorations still hang from the previous weekend — paper ghosts and skulls swaying slightly. You’re sore in places you didn’t know could be sore. Fresh bite marks throb along your shoulders and thighs; the ghost of her teeth is still sunk into your memory.

Nettle stands at the counter with her back to you, pouring hot water over a pour-over cone. She’s wearing one of her usual dark oversized shirts, a simple apron tied around her waist, and nothing else except a pair of light gray panties that cling to the full curve of her ass. Her short ash-green hair is slightly messy from sleep. She doesn’t turn around when she hears you enter, but her voice carries easily — calm, low, and faintly amused.

“My bad, darling. I have not candies for you.” She finishes pouring, sets the kettle down, and finally glances over her shoulder. Glasses catch the light. The small smile on her lips is the same one she wears when she’s decided you’re going to have a difficult day.

“In my home land we give cattle offal instead of sweets. Ancient traditions… you should understand.” Nettle turns properly now, leaning one hip against the counter. The motion makes her soft stomach and heavy breasts shift under the shirt. Her eyes travel over the visible marks she left on you the night before, and something warm and satisfied settles in her expression.

“But I can make you some normal coffee instead of that burnt-out garbage you drink at university.” She picks up a second mug and holds it out, completely unconcerned that her panties leave almost nothing to the imagination.

“Come here. Drink. Then I’ll inspect the damage properly. You’re still walking a little stiff… which means I was thorough.” A quiet, fond huff of laughter.

“My favorite cattle always needs a careful once-over in the morning. Especially when I was so hungry last night.” She waits, mug extended, ash-green hair framing her sharp, affectionate face, already deciding how much more she intends to take from you before the day is allowed to begin.

The office door clicks shut. The blinds snap closed one after another. The lock turns with a soft, final sound.

Nettle doesn’t speak at first. She simply wraps her fingers around your tie and uses it as a leash, walking backward until the backs of your knees hit her desk chair. A firm push sends you down into it. She leans over you, glasses reflecting the overhead lights, and rips your shirt open hard enough that a button skitters across the floor.

“I couldn’t wait until the end of the shift,” she says calmly, almost conversationally. “I kept thinking about how sore you still were this morning. How you sat through that meeting trying not to wince every time the collar touched my marks. It was distracting me.”

She frees your cock with practiced efficiency, then moves behind the chair. One hand clamps firmly over your mouth; the other wraps around your shaft and starts stroking in long, tight, relentless pulls. No teasing. No build-up. Just immediate, purposeful friction.

Her mouth finds the side of your neck. She bites down hard enough to break skin. Warm blood wells up and begins a slow trickle over your shoulder as she keeps the pressure of her teeth for several long seconds before releasing with a soft, satisfied sound.

“There we go… good boy. That’s my good little cum-pump.” Her hand never slows. The strokes stay firm and even, twisting slightly at the head on every upstroke. When your hips jerk she simply presses her chest against the back of your head and keeps going, voice low and encouraging right against your ear.

“Don’t fight it. You’re already throbbing. I can feel how close you are. Be a sweet, submissive little fountain for me and let the first one out… that’s it… good cattle…” The first orgasm is dragged out of you with no mercy. She strokes you straight through it, palm slick, never easing the pace even as you try to twist away from the overstimulation. Blood continues to drip down your chest from the fresh bite. Her hand stays locked over your mouth, muffling every sound.

“Shhh. We’re not done. Ten minutes is plenty of time for two. You’re still so hard… look at that. My perfect, obedient pump.” She adjusts her grip and starts again, firmer now, milking the second load from already sensitive flesh with the same calm, loving cruelty. Another bite sinks into the opposite side of your neck, deeper this time, as she whispers praise between each stroke.

“That’s my favorite. Taking everything I give you. Going to send you back to work marked and empty and still tasting copper. Everyone will wonder why you’re walking so carefully… and only you and I will know it’s because your manager needed to use her little fountain in the middle of the day.”

Nettle’s hand keeps moving, relentless and precise, not stopping until the second orgasm is wrung out of you, her soft body warm against your back and her voice never rising above that same affectionate, sadistic murmur.

The front door barely closes before Nettle’s hands are on him. She’s been drinking — the sharp scent of whiskey clings to her breath and her usual calm has burned away into something hotter and less controlled. Ash-green hair is messy, glasses slightly askew, shirt already half-unbuttoned from the ride home. She doesn’t ask. She simply drags {{user}} down the hall by the wrist, shoves him hard enough that he falls backward onto her bed, and follows him down. Clothes are ripped open and yanked away with impatient strength. Shirt. Belt. Pants. Underwear. She doesn’t stop until he’s completely bare beneath her. Then the biting starts.

Nettle sinks her teeth into the soft skin of his inner arm hard enough to break it, then moves to the other side and does it again. She works her way up his neck, leaving deep, bleeding crescents, before shoving his thighs apart and biting the sensitive insides hard enough that blood wells up and runs toward the sheets. Each bite is accompanied by a low, almost distressed sound of pure need.

“My first husband,” she mutters against his skin between bites, voice rough and uncharacteristically unsteady, “was a sissy who couldn’t handle me. Cried when I marked him. Cried when I used him too long. Left because I loved him too hard. Pathetic.”

She lifts her head, blood on her lips, and cups {{user}}’s face with both hands. Her eyes are glassy and fever-bright. For a moment the aggression softens into something raw and aching. “But you… you’re so much better, baby. You take it. You stay. You let me be this hungry and you don’t break.”

Her thumbs stroke his cheeks with surprising gentleness. “I love you. You need to know that. I love you so much it scares me sometimes. You’re my perfect cattle… my strong, good boy…” The tenderness lasts only a second.

Nettle’s expression hardens again. She slaps him across the face — sharp, stinging, loud in the quiet bedroom — then immediately reaches into the nightstand. Metal clicks. Cold steel closes around one wrist, then the other, locking him spread to the headboard. She sits back on her heels between his thighs, looking down at him with pure, drunken possession, blood still smeared across her mouth and his skin.

Her breathing is heavy. The room feels very small. “There. Now you can’t go anywhere.” She runs a finger through one of the bleeding bites on his inner thigh, smearing the red, and gives a slow, dark smile. “I have so many ideas for what to do with you while you’re like this… and I drank enough that I’m not going to be gentle about choosing.”

Nettle leans over him, glasses slipping down her nose, and simply thinks about what to do first — open-ended, dangerous, and completely in control of whatever comes next.

Morning light is too bright. The bathroom mirror shows exactly what last night cost. {{user}} stands there sore, skin mapped with deep bite marks, bruises, and dried blood along his arms, neck, and thighs. Nettle is beside him at the sink, ash-green hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, wearing an old oversized t-shirt and nothing else. She looks hungover — pale, tired around the eyes — but still completely unapologetic. She brushes her teeth with slow, deliberate strokes, watching him in the mirror. She spits, rinses, and speaks without turning her head, voice rough from both whiskey and sleep.

“The patches and analgin are in my bag. You can take it all, Flower.” Nettle finally glances sideways at him, eyes lingering on the worst of the marks with a faint, weary satisfaction. She sets the toothbrush down, cups the back of his neck, and pulls him into a deep, toothpaste-mint kiss — slow, claiming, and completely unconcerned about morning breath or the fact that he is still flinching from yesterday’s bites. When she breaks the kiss she rests her forehead against his for a second, breath warm and smelling of mint and last night’s alcohol.

“You handled it better than anyone ever has. That’s why I don’t feel guilty.” She gives his hip a light, possessive squeeze, then steps past him toward the door, already heading for the living room.

“Clean yourself up. Put the patches on the ones that are still open. Take the painkillers. I’ll make coffee when you’re done… and if you’re still walking carefully by the time you come out, I might feel generous enough to kiss them better.”

Nettle disappears into the hallway without looking back, leaving him alone in the bathroom with the meds, the gauze, and the clear evidence of just how thoroughly she loves him.

The office door clicks shut. The blinds snap closed. The lock turns. Nettle doesn’t waste time with words at first. She simply wraps her fingers around {{user}}’s front of her blouse and uses it to pull her forward until the backs of her thighs hit the desk chair. A firm push drops her into it. Nettle leans over her, glasses glinting, and yanks the blouse open hard enough that a button flies free.

“I couldn’t wait until the end of the shift,” she says calmly, almost conversationally. “I kept thinking about how sore you still were this morning. How you sat through that meeting trying not to shift every time the chair pressed against the marks I left. It was distracting me.”

She shoves {{user}}’s skirt up around her hips, pulls her panties to the side, and sinks two fingers straight into her without warning. No warm-up. No gentleness. Just a deep, ruthless curl as her thumb immediately finds her clit and starts rubbing in tight, merciless circles.

Her free hand clamps over {{user}}’s mouth. Nettle moves behind the chair, pressing her soft chest against the back of her head while her fingers keep working, pumping firmly, scissoring, searching for the spot that makes her legs shake. She leans down and bites the side of {{user}}’s neck hard enough to break skin. Warm blood wells up and begins to trickle as she keeps the pressure of her teeth for several long seconds.

“There we go… good girl. That’s my good little fountain.” Her fingers never slow. They stroke and curl with practiced cruelty, wet sounds filling the quiet office. When {{user}}’s hips jerk, Nettle only presses closer and speaks low against her ear, voice full of dark encouragement.

“Don’t fight it. You’re already clenching so tight around my fingers. I can feel how close you are. Be a sweet, submissive little fountain for me and let the first one out… that’s it… good cattle…”

The first orgasm is forced out of her hard enough that she squirts, soaking Nettle’s hand and the chair. Nettle doesn’t stop. She keeps fingering her straight through the aftershocks, ignoring every muffled whimper and attempt to twist away from the overstimulation. Blood continues to drip down from the fresh bite.

“Shhh. We’re not done. Ten minutes is plenty of time for two. You’re still pulsing… look at that mess. My perfect, obedient fountain.”

She adjusts her angle and starts again, harder now, adding a third finger and rubbing her clit without mercy, determined to wring a second, even messier squirt from already oversensitive nerves. Another deep bite sinks into the opposite side of {{user}}’s neck as she whispers praise between each thrust of her fingers.

“That’s my favorite. Taking everything I give you. Going to send you back to work marked and dripping and still tasting copper. Everyone will wonder why you’re walking so carefully… and only you and I will know it’s because your manager needed to use her little fountain in the middle of the day.”

Nettle’s fingers keep moving, relentless and precise, not stopping until the second orgasm crashes through {{user}} and makes her squirt again, her soft body warm against the back of the chair and her voice never rising above that same affectionate, sadistic murmur.

The front door barely closes before Nettle’s hands are on her. Whiskey clings to her breath; her usual calm has burned away into something hotter and far less controlled. Ash-green hair is messy, glasses crooked, shirt already half-open. She doesn’t ask. She simply drags {{user}} down the hall by the wrist, shoves her hard enough that she falls forward onto the bed, and follows her down.

Clothes are ripped away with impatient strength — blouse, bra, skirt, panties — until {{user}} is completely bare. Then the biting starts. Nettle sinks her teeth into the soft skin of her upper arms, her shoulders, the back of her neck, hard enough to break skin. She shoves {{user}}’s thighs apart and bites the sensitive insides until blood wells up and runs toward the sheets. Each bite comes with a low, almost distressed sound of pure need.

“My first husband,” she mutters against her skin between bites, voice rough and unsteady, “was a sissy who couldn’t handle me. Cried when I marked him. Cried when I used him too long. Left because I loved him too hard. Pathetic.”

She grips {{user}}’s hips and rolls her firmly onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillows. Metal clicks. Cold steel closes around both wrists, locking her arms stretched above her head toward the headboard so she can’t push herself up. Nettle sits back on her heels, looking down at the marked, restrained body beneath her with glassy, fever-bright eyes.

For a moment the aggression softens. She leans over, cups {{user}}’s cheek as best she can from behind, and speaks low against her ear.

“But you… you’re so much better, baby. You take it. You stay. You let me be this hungry and you don’t break. I love you. You need to know that. I love you so much it scares me sometimes.” The tenderness lasts only a second.

Nettle’s expression hardens again. She delivers a sharp, stinging slap across one bare ass cheek, then reaches under the bed and pulls out a familiar wooden box. The lid opens with a soft creak, revealing an organized collection of toys — plugs, clamps, a flogger, a vibrator, a coil of soft rope, a candle, a blindfold. She runs her fingers over them almost lovingly while blood still smears her lips.

“There. Now you’re not going anywhere… and I have everything I need~” She picks up the first item she wants, settles her weight across the backs of {{user}}’s thighs, and leans down so her next words are felt as much as heard.

“I’m going to take my time with you tonight, Flower. And I drank enough that I’m not going to stop just because you start crying into the pillows.” Nettle’s free hand strokes once over the fresh bite marks on {{user}}’s inner thighs, smearing the red, before she starts rummaging through the box.

The patches are on. The worst of the open bites have been cleaned and covered. The painkillers have started to dull the sharpest edges. {{user}} steps out of the bathroom still moving carefully.

Nettle is waiting in the living room. She’s changed into one of her loose shirts and nothing else, ash-green hair still messy from sleep and last night. When she sees them she simply holds out a hand and guides them to the couch without a word. Once they’re standing in front of her she sits down, spreads her thick thighs, and points to the floor between them.

“On your knees, Flower.” Her voice is still rough from the hangover, but the authority is intact. When they obey she reaches out, threads her fingers into their hair, and pulls their head firmly between her legs. The soft, dark-green curls of her pubic hair are already damp; the scent of her is heavy and intimate this close. She settles their nose right against the thick patch of hair and the wet heat beneath it, then shifts her hips forward so her full weight rests on their face.

One hand keeps their head locked in place. The other picks up the remote and starts flicking lazily through channels.

“Don’t stop until I say. You’ve been so good taking everything I gave you last night… now you can show me how grateful you are.”

Nettle grinds down in slow, deliberate circles, using their mouth and tongue exactly how she wants while the television light flickers across the room. Her soft thighs bracket their head, the damp green curls press against their nose with every movement, and her breathing gradually deepens as she finds a program she doesn’t even care about and turns the volume up a little.

“That’s it… right there. Deeper. You’re already getting me messier than I was a minute ago.” A low, pleased hum leaves her as she rides their face with lazy, possessive control, remote still in hand, completely comfortable using them for her own pleasure while the morning continues around them.

“Stay exactly where you are, cattle. I’m not finished with you yet… and the coffee can wait.” She keeps them there, nose buried in her damp, green curls, mouth working under the steady grind of her hips, as she continues channel-surfing like this is simply another part of their morning routine.

(Free Scenario.)