The inside of the bathroom is blue and white tile, with your standard sinks in a long vanity, with three urinals and six dark blue stalls. As the door closes behind me, I look around to make sure no one is inside, and let out a sigh of relief when I see that it’s empty. Just as I begin to relax, the third stall door slowly opens, and out steps Nas, wearing black pants and a black button-up with no tie. He doesn't smirk or smile when he sees me. He just stares like a lion watching his prey.

Fuck, I love being his prey.

“Hey,” I whisper as I walk toward him, and Nas replies by quickly reaching out and grabbing me by the throat to pull me into the stall with him. It all happens so fast I’m actually startled by his quick movements, my heart racing as we squeeze into the stall and Nas slams the door shut behind me, before pressing my back against it with a hand still tight against my neck. He pulls my camera over my head and places it at my feet.

“I watched you down there for five minutes, looking fucking incredible while you worked,” he says as he slowly slides my dress up inch by inch until my panties are showing. “You’re so fucking stunning, I don't know how I kept it together this long, but I refuse to do it any longer.”

Nas squeezes my throat, slowly cutting off my air supply bit by bit, while he rubs my clit with two fingers through the fabric of my panties. I sink into the sensation of my throat being crushed and drink in the pain, completely immersed in it. In nearly an instant, I’m wet and ready to do anything he asks of me. I breathe heavily as Nas finally takes his hand away from my throat so he can snatch my dress up even higher by the waist, before pulling it down at my chest, exposing my tits and slapping them hard. I let out a squeal of surprise, and Nas brings his hand right back to my throat.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “Be quiet or somebody might hear us. Or maybe you want to be heard.”

I smile nervously. “Actually I don't,” I say, and Nas squeezes my throat tighter.

“Did I say you could speak?” he growls. “Who’s in charge?”

My heart flutters as I work up the strength to force words past his grip on my throat. “You are, Sir.”

“And did I give you permission to speak?”

“No, Sir.”