*So this is a one-shot written specifically for xxLesnarsBadAssxx. I'm not really used to writing stuff like this, so to anyone else reading it, go easy on me!
There was something about her that made him an animal.
He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that made her so bewitching. Perhaps it was the multiple tattoos spread around her body that he never fully got to see. Or the voluminous raven hair that he dreamed of wrapping his fists around. Maybe it was the bronzed, smooth skin or the nude glossed lips that he longed to take possession of. Whatever it was, the thought of her turned him into a feral predator.
Her name was Jennifer, but she preferred to go by the simple name of Jen. She just passed the six month mark of being his assistant, a task Stephanie McMahon levelled on her after his agent Paul Heyman left him, after a succession of attempted assistants failed. Knowing full well that "The Next Big Thing" needed some help in his day-to-day life, and needed to find a strong-willed woman who could put up with his moody madness, Stephanie put her with him in hopes of helping home cope with a life he was increasingly resenting.
The second she walked into the room, he was bewitched. Something had clicked between their blue eyes that nobody saw but them. Her handshake was firm, skirt tight, blouse straining against her chest as he studied her perfectly manicured nails with a smirk.
Brock Lesnar always knew that he was a bear to deal with, but she seemed to enjoy it. The idea of having somebody be submissive, be his servant was something that he enjoyed. He loved the idea of having her around to do what he wanted, whenever he wanted; Brock was completely turned on by the concept of power, the idea of having it. And, to Jennifer's credit, she played the game perfectly.
Tonight, though, she hadn't done her job. Tonight she had misbehaved. Brock was not amused; she knew better. He had spotted her in the Gorilla, talking to Randy Orton, a baby faced kid who thought he was hot stuff. Well, she wasn't exactly talking. It was definitely flirting; he could tell by her body language. Her outfit was borderline indecent, slits carved all over her small red crop top that barely passed as a shirt. The black shorts barely covered anything, exposing hip bone and belly button. He couldn't stop staring at her, practically salivating at the way her hair was done, at the smoky eye makeup, at the knee-high heeled boots that curved seductively around her calves.
He hated the way she was acting; what was her problem? She was his. His assistant, his personal property allocated to him by Stephanie McMahon. That meant that she was not to even make eye contact with another WWE Superstar. And yet, here she was, ignoring the orders cast down to her by management. Jen wasn't aware of it yet, but she had to be punished.
X
Brock grabbed her by the arm. "Come with me," he commanded, shooting the death stare at Randy Orton, who put his hands up in mock surrender. Jen shot him an apologetic look as Brock yanked her away from him. She half-stumbled, half-walked behind him.
"Brock, are you crazy?" she hissed through gritted teeth. Embarrassment burned through her every pore. "What in the hell is wrong with you?" She tried to wrestle out of his grasp, but he tightened it, almost dropping her to her knees by the sheer force of the squeeze. Opening the door to his locker room, he practically threw her inside, closing the door behind him and locking it up. Jen turned on him, rubbing the burning in her wrist.
"Are you insane…"
"Shut up." She glared at him, trying to soothe the burning in her wrist. "Care to explain to me why I'm seeing my manager flirting with Randy Fucking Orton?"
"Because he's cute?" she ventured.
Brock smirked. Then he was a blur. He shoved her up against the wall quickly, taking her aback, pinning her tightly by the shoulder blades. She stared up at him, eyes wide, taken aback by the roughness, by the force of him. Jen winced; feeling the corner of the wall pressed hard against the middle of her spinal column. "Uh…" she grunted, trying to get comfortable. She was playing into his hands; she could sense it, as she was grinding against him in her attempt to get comfortable against the corner. Staring up into the cold, blue eyes of the "Next Big Thing", she came to the realization that he was enjoying seeing her in pain, enjoying the idea of punishing her for what he perceived to be an unforgivable infraction.
"You've been a very, very bad girl," he whispered, looming in to run his lips up her throat. Her head arched back, but not enough out of reach that he couldn't take possession of the lips he had dreamed about for so long. They tasted sweet; plump and soft, everything he had fantasized about. He pressed harder against the wall, grinning inwardly when she moaned in pain. "Say it," he growled, pushing her harder against the wall. She gasped.
"I've…been…a very…" He pushed harder. "Very…bad girl," she breathed. "Brock…"
With a grin on his features, he stared at her outfit, an outfit that was way too indecent for his assistant to be running around in. He fingered the slits in her shirt. "Don't you ever wear something like this around here when you're in my presence; you're my assistant, not a whore." The words stung; it was the effect he had wanted. Curling his fingers around the slits, he ripped the shirt clean off of her, throwing its red tattered remains to the floor. Exposed to him was a black lacy bra that seemed to help her bosom defy the laws of gravity. Clutching them tightly, hard enough to send a course of pain through her, he pressed his lips against hers, knocking her head into the wall.
He was aroused now; she could feel him pressed firmly against her. She wondered if her shoulders were going to snap. There was a sick smirk of satisfaction on his face. Looming in, he smelled her neck, revelling in the smell of her perfume. "Call me Daddy tonight," he whispered, capturing her lips with excessive roughness. Just when she thought that there was no air left to breathe, he pulled back, letting her huff, pant and puff in hopes of catching her breath. His lips were on her again, arms around her hips, lifting her up. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips. He slammed her into the wall, their kisses becoming more and more frenzied.
She was sandwiched against the wall, hardly left with any room to breathe; he was causing her a great deal of pain, a great deal of discomfort, but that was the way he liked to play the game. Jen was more than willing to play along, even if it meant her breathing was limited. She found the entire moment to be unbelievably hot; she felt like her skin was on fire everywhere that he touched her. One of his hands reached behind her head, curling his fists through her hair and pulling on it until she cried out. Head arched back, he loomed in, biting her in the crook between her neck and shoulders, taking possession of her like some kind of feral animal. She winced again, gasping. He commanded her to stay quiet.
This was what she wanted. It had been her entire plan. For the past six months assisting Brock with his day to day duties and keeping the fans away from him, she felt like he never noticed her. She made her clothes cling to every curve, styled her hair just right, fought for seemingly hours with makeup that wouldn't co-operate, just to go work for him and never get a compliment or a simple acknowledgement beyond, "Hi". And now, here she was, pinned up against the wall, dressed in nothing but her little black shorts and her little black bra, with Brock ravaging her. All because he caught her talking to Randy Orton; she'd have to send him a thank-you text in the morning.
He bit her on the shoulder. She winced; he was playing quite rough. Brock pulled back, his breathing rough, running his finger along the tribal hibiscus flower tattoo that wove up her stomach. She shivered at his touch, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Her eyes closed as he trailed lower, grabbing the tiny black shorts and tearing them off of her, leaving her standing in front of him in her lingerie. It was gone in seconds.
Now she felt vulnerable. There was nothing to shield herself. He had her pinned back against the wall in seconds, his fingers roaming, exploring every crevice and every nuance in her skin. His lips followed where his fingers roamed. Head arched back, she sighed. "Do you like that?" he asked, staring up at her. She nodded.
"Yeah-huh…"
"Yeah-huh what?"
"Yeah-huh…Daddy."
There was something that flashed in his eyes. It was frightening, but exciting all at the same time to Jen, who felt an uncontrollable shiver wash through her. He was up in a flash, kissing her fiercely, tongues duelling for dominance. She was up in his arms in seconds, impaled upon him. Pulling back, she gasped, her breath hoarse, her eyes glazing as he slammed her into the wall. Enjoying the surprised cry of pain that escaped her lips, he pushed her into the wall a few times, listening to her screech whenever the corner would hit her between the shoulders.
Finally, he stopped pushing her into the wall, instead just pinning her stationary against the wall, moving against her, impressed every time she met his movements. Their breathing was ragged, the air thick with six months worth of sexual tension finally spilling over. She clutched at his broad shoulders, digging her nails into him, biting into his shoulder. "No biting," he growled.
"Sorry, Daddy," she breathed.
He was hurting her, but she didn't care. The words he whispered in her ear sent jolts of shock, waves of hotness through her. Before she knew it, her nerves were on fire, her entire body wound up like a spring ready to snap. Her blue eyes were beginning to glaze over; blackness tingeing the edges. She gasped.
It was over quickly, the two of them falling over the edge in muffled screams, groans and grunts. She unhooked her legs from around Brock, and he pretty much let her drop to the ground. Fixing himself back into his trunks, he stormed away from her. "Meet me back at my hotel room," he growled, sliding a shirt on over his three hundred pound frame. He slid a pair of shorts on over his trunks. "We have business to discuss." He threw a baggy "Off The Hook Pain" T-shirt at her, turning and stalking out of the room. She slid it on, slinking against the wall and sitting on the floor, leaning her head back against the wall. There was nothing left within her; she didn't know how she was going to make it back to the hotel for what she presumed to be round two.