Chapter 2: The Corset Under the Suit
The city sprawled beneath her, a grid of light and motion, but Fatima saw none of it. Her skin was a live wire, every nerve ending tuned to the whisper of lace against her skin, the subtle constriction of the corset beneath her wool blazer. The deposition had dragged on for another interminable hour, every legal point a grain of sand in an hourglass. All she could feel was the ghost of Zac’s hands, the memory of his mouth, and the damp, aching emptiness between her legs that the crotchless panties did nothing to conceal, only to accentuate.
Her heals clicked a swift, impatient rhythm on the polished concrete floor of her firm’s hallway. Colleagues nodded; she offered tight, professional smiles that didn’t reach her eyes. Her office door, with its frosted glass and bold black lettering—FATIMA TAYLOR, PARTNER—felt like the entrance to a different world. She pushed inside, closed the door, and leaned against it, the cool wood a shock to her feverish back.
Silence. The hum of the HVAC. The distant whir of a printer. Her sanctuary. Sunlight, now low and amber, streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting long, lean rectangles across the Persian rug. Her desk, a vast sweep of reclaimed teak, held the orderly chaos of her work. And there, beside a stack of deposition transcripts, sat the unopened bottle of single malt Zac had left for her weeks ago, a silent, amber sentinel.
She shrugged out of her blazer, hanging it precisely on the back of her chair. The cooler air of the office kissed her arms. But the heat remained, coiled deep in her belly. She walked to the window wall, her fingers going to the cord for the automated blinds. With a soft whir, they descended, slat by slat, plunging the room into a state of profound, golden-hued privacy. The city vanished. The world shrank to this room, to the scent of old leather books and her own perfume, and underneath it, the faint, illicit musk of her arousal.
She locked the door. The definitive click echoed.
Then she went to her desk, sat in her chair, and picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over his name. She didn’t call the office line. She called his cell.
He answered on the second ring. The background noise was different—the grinding whine of a concrete saw, shouts, the robust chaos of a construction site. “Fatima?” His voice was raised slightly over the din, but it was all there: the concern, the immediate attention.
“I’m in my office,” she said. Her voice was lower than she intended, a husky thread of sound.
The background noise faded rapidly, cut off by the sound of a door closing. Sudden quiet. He’d gone somewhere private. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She leaned back in her chair, her free hand drifting to the top button of her silk shell. “I just… I need to tell you something.”
“Tell me.” The command was there, softened by curiosity.
“I’m wearing it. Just like you wanted.” She let her eyes fall closed. “The corset is laced tight. I can feel it with every breath. The panties… God, Zac, they’re just a joke. I’m completely bare. I’ve been sitting in a conference room all afternoon, and I’ve been so… exposed. So wet. For you. The whole time.”
A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Then a low, dirty curse. “Are you touching yourself?”
“No.”
“Do it.”
Her eyes flew open. Her heart hammered against the boning of the corset. “Now?”
“Right the fuck now. Put the phone on speaker. I want to hear everything.”
A tremble started in her hands. She obeyed, setting the phone on the desk, the speaker crackling to life. “It’s on.”
“Good. Stand up. Show me.”
She rose, her legs unsteady. She fumbled with the button and zipper of her trousers, shoving them down over her hips along with her sensible, everyday underwear. They pooled at her ankles. The cool office air kissed her naked thighs, her exposed sex. She kicked the fabric away, stepping free. She was now a portrait of dissonance: the professional silk shell and corset on top, naked and vulnerable from the waist down.
“I’m standing,” she whispered.
“Look at yourself in the window. The reflection.”
The floor-to-ceiling windows, now shaded, still offered a ghostly, darkened reflection. She saw herself: a curvaceous silhouette framed by the warm glow of her desk lamp, her face in shadow, her lower half a pale, inviting blur. She saw her own hand, hovering.
“Touch yourself. Tell me what you feel.”
She let her fingers trail down over the lace of the corset, over her belly, lower. They slipped through the damp, wiry curls, finding her own slick flesh beneath. She gasped. She was drenched, swollen, hypersensitive. Her fingertips parted her labia, sliding through the copious wetness. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“I’m… soaked,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “It’s all over my fingers. I’m so empty, Zac. I can feel everything. The air… my clothes… it’s all too much.”
“Finger that pretty cunt. Do it slow. One finger. Just one.”
She brought her middle finger to her entrance, pressing slowly inside. A sharp, guttural moan escaped her. The stretch was minimal, but the sensation was magnified a thousandfold by the knowledge that he was listening, commanding. She could hear his breathing over the phone, harsh and rhythmic.
“Fuck yourself with it,” he growled. “Nice and slow. Think about my cock. Think about how it felt this morning, splitting you open against that mirror.”
She began to pump her finger, slowly, in and out. The wet, rhythmic sound filled the speaker. She added a second finger, curling them slightly, seeking that spot she knew so well. Her hips began to move of their own accord, rocking against her own hand.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “You’re such a good girl, doing exactly what I say. Are you thinking of me? Are you thinking of my cock in that tight, greedy little hole?”
“Yes,” she panted, her free hand bracing against the cool glass of the window. “I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking of you fucking me in the boutique. I’m thinking of your mouth on me in the kitchen. I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want you here. I want you to throw me over this desk. I want you to tear these panties off and shove your cock into me so hard I scream. I want to feel you come inside me again. I want to feel it dripping out of me all day tomorrow.” The filth poured from her, liberated by the distance, by the anonymity of the phone, by the aching, desperate need.
He groaned, a sound of pure animal approval. “Rub your clit. Do it fast. I want you to come for me right now. I want to hear you fall apart all alone in that big, fancy office.”
Her fingers found her clit, a hard, throbbing nub. She circled it, her motions becoming frantic, desperate. Her breath came in ragged sobs. The coil in her belly wound tighter, unbearably tight. The image of him—his intense green eyes, the sweat on his brow, the powerful drive of his hips—filled her mind.
“Zac… I’m close…”
“Come. Now.”
It shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her with violent, silent intensity. Her mouth opened in a soundless cry as her body bowed, her fingers still working, milking the sensation as waves of paralyzing pleasure crashed over her. Her knees buckled; she caught herself on the edge of the desk, her head falling forward, a curtain of curly hair hiding her face as she rode the last pulses of it, shuddering and weak.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her gasping breaths echoing in the room and through the phone’s speaker.
“Beautiful,” he said, his voice thick. “Now listen to me. Pull your trousers back up. Leave the panties off. I want you wet and open. Sit at your desk. Do your work. And you will not touch yourself again. You will sit there, aching, remembering that little taste you just had, and you will wait. I’m leaving the site now.”
“How long?” she managed, her voice wrecked.
“As long as it takes. You wait.”
The line went dead.
Fatima stood there, trembling, spent and yet more aroused than before. The emptiness was a palpable, throbbing thing. Slowly, she withdrew her glistening fingers. She did as she was told. She left the crotchless panties in a heap on the floor. She pulled her trousers up over her bare skin, zipping them, the coarse wool a brutal friction against her sensitive flesh. She sank into her chair, the leather cool through the fabric.
She tried to focus on the deposition transcript. The words swam on the page. Every minute was an eternity. The ache between her legs was a constant, low-grade thrum, a living reminder of his control. She felt the slickness soaking into the inside of her trousers, a hidden, shameful secret. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, the movement only intensifying the feeling.
An hour passed. The amber light deepened to twilight gloom in the shuttered room. She heard the office outside empty out, doors closing, the cheerful goodbyes of assistants fading to silence. The building settled into its nighttime hum.
She was contemplating the bottle of whiskey, wondering if she dared, when she heard it. Not from the hallway. From the private, exterior access door—a steel fire door that led from the secured parking garage directly into her office, a perk she’d negotiated for late nights. A key turned in the lock.
Her breath hitched.
The door opened. Zac filled the frame. He still wore his work clothes—dusty jeans, the grey henley stretched across his chest, his tool belt in one hand. He’d come straight from the site. He smelled of concrete dust, sweat, and cold outdoor air. His eyes locked onto hers, blazing in the dim light.
He didn’t speak. He dropped the tool belt with a heavy thud. He strode across the room, his boots soundless on the rug. He came around the desk, and she swiveled her chair to face him, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
He reached down, his hands rough and calloused, and gripped the arms of her chair. He yanked it, and her, away from the desk, spinning her to face him fully.
“Show me,” he said, his voice a gravelly command.
With shaking hands, she unbuttoned her trousers again, pushing them down her thighs just enough. She was bared to him, glistening, swollen, utterly exposed in the chair.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You’re still dripping. Good.” He unfastened his own jeans, shoved them down. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and angry-red, the head glistening. He wasn’t gentle. He grabbed her under the knees, pulling her to the very edge of the chair, spreading her wide. He positioned himself, the broad tip nudging against her soaked entrance.
“You waited,” he stated, his eyes drilling into hers.
“Yes.”
“You’re mine.”
“Yes.”
He drove into her in one fierce, brutal thrust, burying himself to the root. The chair skidded back an inch with the force. A sharp cry was torn from her throat, a mix of shock and overwhelming relief. He filled the aching void completely, stretching her, claiming her.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his head falling forward for a second. “You’re still so fucking tight. Even like this.”
He didn’t let her adjust. He set a relentless, deep pace, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. Each thrust rocked her body in the chair, the leather squeaking in protest. He leaned over her, bracing his hands on the chair back, caging her in. His face was inches from hers, his eyes dark with feral possession.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he rasped, his breath hot on her face. “My cock in this perfect, lawyer cunt, fucking you stupid in your own office. Dirtying up this clean, professional space.”
“Yes!” she cried, her hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders, the hard muscle bunching under the soft cotton.
“You’re my dirty little secret. My wife. My whore.” His pace increased, becoming punishing. The wet, slapping sound of their joining filled the quiet office. “You come all over my cock. You come right now.”
His words, the raw, carnal friction, the sheer dominance of him using her like this—it was too much. Her second orgasm of the afternoon seized her, sharper than the first, a convulsive, screaming peak that clamped her around him like a vice. She shattered, her body arching off the chair, a broken stream of curses and pleas falling from her lips.
Feeling her clamp down on him pushed him over the edge. With a raw, guttural shout that seemed to shake the windows, he hammered into her one last time and held, his body shuddering violently as he emptied himself deep inside her in hot, pulsing jets. She felt every burst, the incredible, intimate heat of his release flooding her.
He collapsed against her, his weight pressing her into the chair, his forehead damp against her neck. Their ragged breaths synced, slowly evening out. The room smelled of sex, sweat, and dust.
Slowly, he softened and slipped from her. A rush of his cum followed, a warm trickle against her thigh. He stayed where he was for a long moment, just holding her. Then he straightened, his hands tender as he brushed the damp hair from her forehead.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice back to its normal timbre, soft at the edges.
She nodded, unable to form words. He helped her pull her trousers up, his touch now careful. He fastened his own jeans, then went to her private bathroom, returning with a warm, damp hand towel. He knelt before her again and cleaned her with a focused, almost reverent care, wiping the evidence of their passion from her skin.
He stood, disposed of the towel, and picked up the bottle of whiskey from her desk. He cracked the seal, poured two fingers into a clean coffee mug, and handed it to her. He took a swig straight from the bottle.
She sipped, the liquor burning a path of warmth down her throat, grounding her.
He looked around her office, at the blinds drawn against the night, at the chair still askew from the desk. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. “I’ve wanted to do that since the day you got this office.”
She managed a weak laugh, taking another sip. “I figured.”
He came back to her, taking the mug and setting it aside. He pulled her to her feet, holding her steady when she wobbled. “Let’s go home. I’m cooking. You’re exhausted.”
She leaned into him, her body humming with satisfaction, her spirit quieted. “The transcript…”
“Can wait until tomorrow.” He fetched her blazer, holding it out for her. He found the discarded crotchless panties, picked them up, and stuffed them into his own pocket with a wink. “I’ll keep these.”
She dressed, the ordinary motions feeling surreal. He shouldered his tool belt, took her hand, and led her to the private door. They left the office behind, the scent of their coupling lingering in the dark, a secret history written in the air.
The garage was cold and echoey. His truck smelled of him—sawdust, metal, and the pine air freshener he always insisted on. He helped her in, his hand lingering on her waist.
As he drove them home through the neon-lit streets, he reached over and took her hand, lacing his rough, calloused fingers through hers. The silence was comfortable, full.
“Michaels,” Zac said suddenly, his eyes on the road. “The junior partner. He give you any more shit today?”
Fatima smiled, looking out at the blur of the city. “No. Not a peep.”
“Good.” He squeezed her hand. “If that changes, you tell me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, as immovable as one of his load-bearing walls. She brought his knuckles to her lips, kissing them. The lingering taste of concrete dust and salt was the taste of safety. Of belonging.
They pulled into the driveway of their modern glass house, dark except for the porch light he’d programmed to turn on at dusk. Inside, he went straight to the kitchen, filling it with light and the sounds of him cooking—the sizzle of steak in a cast-iron pan, the chop of herbs. Fatima stood at the great window, watching the stars emerge over the black silhouette of the firs.
She was sore, thoroughly used, and completely at peace. The case files on her desk, the unresolved motions, the pressure of partnership—it all still existed. But here, in the circle of light and sound that Zac created, it held no power. Here, she was just his. She slipped a hand under the waistband of her trousers, touching skin still sensitized, feeling the faint, sticky reminder of his possession. She smiled.
“Dinner’s ready,” he called, his voice echoing in the open space.
She turned. He’d set the table, lit a candle. Two plates, two glasses of water. A simple, perfect meal.
As she sat down, he leaned over her, his lips brushing her ear. “Tonight,” he murmured, so low only she could hear, “after you’ve eaten, you’re going to put that corset back on. And you’re going to kneel for me. And you’re going to take my cock in your mouth until I tell you to stop. Understood?”
A fresh wave of heat, startling in its intensity, washed through her. She looked up at him, at the dark promise in his eyes, and nodded.
“Understood.”