Chapter 8: The Conference Call
The days had settled into a terrifying, exhilarating rhythm. Julie woke to commands. She ate when told. Her body was no longer her own; it was a shared instrument, tuned to the discordant, beautiful music Mark and Grace played upon it. The sharp, professional woman from France felt like a ghost, a story she had once been told. The real her was here, on her knees, or on her back, or bent over a piece of furniture, being remade.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. Mark was in the home office, on a video conference call. Julie could hear the dry, measured tone of his voice through the door, discussing tolerances and deliverables. It was the voice of the man the world saw. She was in the kitchen, mechanically drying a bowl Grace had just washed.
“Take that off,” Grace said, nodding at Julie’s simple cotton sundress.
Julie didn’t hesitate. She let the dress pool at her feet, standing naked in the afternoon light filtering through the window over the sink.
Grace stepped close, her eyes appraising. She wasn’t aroused; she was strategizing. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her own simple cotton panties, slid them down her legs, and stepped out of them. They were pale blue, slightly damp from the day’s heat.
“Open,” Grace said.
Julie opened her mouth. Grace balled the fabric and pushed it inside, stuffing it deep until Julie’s cheeks bulged. The taste was intimate, musky, overwhelmingly her. “You’ll keep those there. Not a sound. Follow me.”
Grace led her by the wrist, a silent, naked procession down the hall to the closed office door. Without knocking, Grace turned the handle and pushed Julie inside.
Mark was framed on the laptop screen, his professional smile in place, a headset on his ears. He glanced at the door, saw Grace, then saw Julie, and his smile didn’t falter. But his eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the blue in an instant. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Grace guided Julie to the space under the large, wooden desk. It was a cave of cables and dust bunnies. “Get in,” she mouthed, pushing Julie down.
Julie crawled under. The space was cramped. Mark’s legs, in chino pants, were right there. She could smell the clean cotton, the faint starch. Grace knelt beside her, outside the desk’s shelter. She reached under, grabbed a handful of Julie’s hair, and yanked her head forward, positioning her so her face was inches from Mark’s groin, and her own bare ass was presented back towards Grace.
On the screen above, a man in a collared shirt droned on about quarterly projections. Mark’s voice was a calm, steady counterpoint. “I see the data, Robert, but the structural integrity under load is my primary concern. We can’t compromise on the flange thickness.”
As he spoke, his hands came down. One, his left, settled on Julie’s head, his fingers threading through her hair with a possessive roughness. The other, his right, disappeared from her view. She heard the soft snick of his belt buckle, the whisper of a zipper being lowered. His free hand returned, a bottle of lubricant from a desk drawer clutched in it. He popped the cap, poured a slick, cool pool directly onto the cleft of her ass presented to Grace.
“I agree a cost analysis is needed,” Mark said into his headset, his voice betraying nothing. “But not at the expense of safety. Send me the revised schematics by five.”
His slick fingers found her. Not her cunt, which was already wet and clenching in anticipation. They found the tighter, darker star below. One thick finger, slippery and insistent, pressed against the knot of muscle. On the monitor, Robert’s pixelated face nodded seriously.
Mark pushed.
Julie’s body jerked, a muffled scream trapped behind the gag of Grace’s panties. The invasion was brutal and without preamble. His finger slid deep into her ass, a sharp, stretching burn. He began to move it, a slow, fucking motion in time with his speech.
“The substrate material is non-negotiable,” Mark said, his voice even. With his left hand, he forced Julie’s head forward, pressing her face against the hard bulge in his pants. She could feel the heat of him, the rigid shape of his cock. “If we switch to the cheaper alloy, we’re inviting a cascade failure.”
Grace’s hand was on Julie’s hip, nails digging in. Her other hand snaked under, fingers finding Julie’s soaked clit. She pinched, hard, then began to rub in tiny, vicious circles.
Julie was being split apart. Mark’s finger pistoned in her ass, a crude, stretching rhythm. Grace’s fingers worked her clit with merciless precision. The taste of Grace’s panties filled her mouth, the fabric growing wet with her saliva. Her own choked, gagged whimpers were lost under the drone of the conference call.
Mark added a second finger.
The stretch was blinding, a white-hot wire of pain-pleasure pulling taut from her ass to her belly. She bucked against Grace’s hand, her hips moving of their own volition, fucking herself back onto his invading fingers, forward onto Grace’s tormenting touch.
“Mark, are you still with us?” a woman’s voice came from the computer.
“Absolutely, Sheila,” Mark said smoothly. His typing started then—the crisp, steady clicking of keys with his free left hand. He was typing an email while finger-fucking her ass. Julie could see his left hand moving on the keyboard out of the corner of her watering eye. “I was just reviewing the notes as you spoke. Please continue.”
He scissored his fingers inside her, stretching her wider. The pain was receding, drowned in a tsunami of building sensation. Grace’s fingers were a furious, focused point of fire on her clit. The dual assault was unraveling her, thread by thread. She was a secret under the desk, a dirty, open hole being used while the world of flanges and substrates carried on above.
She was going to come. The realization was a shock. Here, gagged, violated, hidden like contraband. Her orgasm gathered, a tidal force in her belly.
“I think that covers it for now,” Robert said on screen. “We’ll circle back after you’ve reviewed the schematics.”
“Perfect. Talk then,” Mark said. He hit a key, ending the call. The screen went dark.
In the sudden silence, his movements changed. The professional calm vanished. He worked his fingers in her ass roughly, the wet, obscene sound loud in the quiet room. “You hear that, you fucking slut?” he growled, his voice thick. “Business is done. Now you get what you really need.”
He curled his fingers, pressing against a spot inside her that made her vision flash white. Grace leaned down, her breath hot on Julie’s ear. “Come for us. Come on his fingers in your ass while you taste me on your tongue. Do it.”
The command was the final trigger. Julie shattered. Her climax was a silent, screaming thing behind the gag, a violent ripple that clenched viciously around Mark’s buried fingers. Her body shook, waves of raw pleasure tearing through her, sourced from the deepest, most forbidden part of her being.
As she pulsed around him, Mark finally unzipped his pants. His cock, heavy and thick, sprang out. He let go of her hair and guided himself to her lips. “Clean them,” he ordered.
Dazed, swimming in the aftermath, Julie took his glistening fingers into her mouth, sucking the taste of herself and the lube from them. Then he fed her his cock. She took him deep into her throat, the salt and skin taste of him overlaying the taste of Grace still in her mouth. He fucked her face with short, brutal strokes, his hands back in her hair, holding her immobile.
Grace watched, her hand still possessively on Julie’s hip. “Look at her. She’s perfect.”
Mark came with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering forward. He spilled hot and bitter down her throat, and she swallowed obediently, automatically, as he emptied himself.
When he finally pulled out, the silence returned, broken only by their ragged breathing. He zipped his pants, his professional armor back in place. Grace pulled her panties from Julie’s mouth, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment before she tucked them, damp and used, into her pocket.
Julie stayed under the desk, trembling, spent. She felt the cool air on her wet skin, the dull, throbbing ache in her ass, the raw tenderness of her throat. Mark’s chair wheeled back. He stood up, his polished loafers stepping around her as if she were just another piece of office furniture.
“Dinner at seven,” Grace said softly, tracing a finger down Julie’s sweat-damp spine. “You can get up now.”
Julie crawled out, her limbs weak. She didn’t look at either of them. She found her dress in a puddle on the floor and pulled it over her head, the fabric feeling alien against her sensitized skin. The ghost of the spreadsheet was still on Mark’s monitor. The world had not stopped. It had simply folded her into its darkest, most honest corner. She walked out, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, the lines between guest, participant, and possession now irrevocably erased.