Chapter 4: Payment Time
The rhythmic thudding of the chair had stopped. Dom leaned back, the leather cool against his neck, his breath starting to even out. The ghost of a sensation—Brooke’s hand in his pocket, her fingers curled around him—still pulsed faintly under his skin. He zipped his trousers with a soft whirr, the sound final in the quiet office. On his screen, a Bimbo Couture reel played on mute: slow-motion footage of a model on a beach, her Areola Premium top doing precisely what it was designed to do under the spray of the surf.
The doorknob turned without a knock. Dom’s froze unable to react before she entered. Brooke stood there, silhouetted by the studio’s neon glow, a sliver of mesh and Lycra dangling from each hand as she looked him up and down, smirking.
“Door was unlocked,” she said, her voice a honeyed lilt. She stepped inside and let the door click shut, sealing them in the perfumed quiet. Her eyes went straight to his crotch, then up to his flushed face, a slow smile spreading. “Looks like I'm interrupting a good time.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Brooke moved further into the room, the soft click of her heels on the polished floor the only sound besides the AC’s hum. The Slip Supreme samples in her hands brushed against the edge of his glass desk as she circled it, her eyes never leaving him. “Caught in the act, Dommy.”
“It’s a creative process,” Dom said, the defense automatic and hollow even to his own ears. He straightened his jacket, a pointless gesture.
“Oh, I know what you’re creating.” She dropped the mesh garments on his desk with a whisper of fabric. Leaning forward, she placed her palms flat on the glass surface, her cleavage deepening into a shadowed canyon. “A sticky mess. Again.”
He could smell her perfume, something expensive and floral, mixed with the coconut oil from the studio. His earlier release felt distant, a prelude to the fresh tension coiling in his gut. “Did you need something, Brooke? A design approved?”
“I need to collect on my bet.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr. “You won. I lost. My right nipple didn’t pop free.” She pushed off the desk and walked around to his side, her hips swaying. “So I owe you.”
She stopped beside his chair, looking down at him. His gaze was level with the tantalizing curve of her breast where it strained against the structured lace of her top. “Fifty bucks, I believe,” he managed, his throat tight.
Brooke laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “Money’s boring, love.” She reached out and traced a fingernail along the seam of his trousers, right over the damp spot. “We both know what the real currency is here.”
His breath hitched. Her nail was a sharp point of pressure through the fabric. “Brooke…”
“Shhh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “Let’s be professional about this. It’s research and development.” Her other hand went to the back of his chair, and with a gentle push, she swiveled him to face her fully. “You have an obsession. A specific, palpable obsession with augmented mammary glands.”
She let the clinical term hang in the air, laced with mocking sweetness. Then she leaned closer, her breasts now inches from his face. The warmth radiating from her skin was a tangible force. “Particularly mine.”
Dom’s hands gripped the armrests. He was her manager. This was his office. Every rule screamed at him to stop this, to stand up, to reclaim authority. He just let Dasha do this to him not two hours prior. This was becoming a problem. Instead, his head tilted back against the headrest, his eyes fixed on the shadowed swell above him. “They’re exemplary assets.”
“Aren’t they just?” Her fingers went to the center of her top, where a intricate clasp held the lace together. With a deft flick, it released. The fabric didn’t fall away, but loosened, gaping to reveal the smooth, tanned slope of her breasts, the dark areola. “The perfect combination of art and engineering. You’d know. You design for them.”
She took one of his hands from the armrest. Her skin was shockingly warm. She placed his palm flat against her sternum, then slowly guided it downward, over the softness. “Feel that tension? The way the skin is stretched? That’s the Slip Supreme promise. Precarious perfection.”
He let his hand be moved, his fingers curving to the shape of her. He was utterly still, a statue of wanting. “Brooke.”
“Say it,” she whispered, her other hand moving to his hair, her fingers threading through it. “You think about them all the time. In meetings. When you’re sketching. When you lock this door.” Her grip tightened, not painful, but commanding. “Tell me what you were thinking about, just now.”
His resistance dissolved. “You,” he breathed. “Your hands. Your… tits.”
“Good boy.” She pulled his head forward, burying his face between her breasts. The scent of her, coconut and salt and perfume, enveloped him. “Now worship them like you want to. Like you’ve been dying to.”
He needed no further instruction. His arms came up around her waist, holding her to him as his mouth found her skin. He kissed the swell, licked the salt from the valley, his breathing ragged. He was ravenous.
Brooke moaned, a low, theatrical sound she knew he loved. She rocked against him, grinding her hips against his chest. “That’s it. Pay your debt. All of it.” One of her hands left his hair and went to his fly. She worked the zipper down, the sound loud in the quiet room.
His cock, already hard again, sprang free into the cool air. Brooke’s hand wrapped around him, her grip firm and knowing. She began to stroke him, her pace lazy and controlled. “You love these fake tits, don’t you, Dom?” she murmured, looking down at the top of his head. “You love how they look, how they feel. You’d do anything for them.”
He nodded against her, his mouth busy, his tongue tracing the curve of her breast. His hips jerked into her fist.
“You’d let your whole professional life revolve around them,” she continued, her voice a hypnotic chant. “You’d sit in your office and jerk off to the thought of them. You’d let me walk in here and do whatever I want because of them.” Her strokes tightened, sped up. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong,” he gasped, the words muffled by her flesh.
She pushed his head back gently, just far enough to look into his eyes. His lips were slick, his expression shattered. “And you’d come for them, wouldn’t you?” Her hand worked him faster, her thumb circling the head with precision. “Right now. All over your nice trousers. Because I’m letting you.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a command wrapped in silk. The coil in his gut snapped. A choked groan tore from his throat as he climaxed, his body buckling forward into her as the waves overtook him. She held him through it, her hand milking every last shudder from him until he was spent, limp against her stomach.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the hum of the AC. Brooke slowly withdrew her hand, wiping it casually on the edge of his desk. She looked down at the mess on his clothes, then back at his dazed face.
She smiled, fastening her top with that same deft motion. “R&D session complete, boss.” She patted his cheek, her touch almost maternal. “I’ll send you the notes.”
She turned and walked to the door, her heels clicking with finality. She paused with her hand on the knob, glancing back at him slumped in his chair. “Let me know if you need these hands of mine back in those pockets of yours again.”
The door opened, flooding the room with the distant sounds of the studio, then clicked shut, leaving him alone in the sudden, profound silence.