Chapter 13: Executive Discipline
The office air was a tomb. Silence, thick and chilled, pressed against the sealed glass of the corner office. Brandy’s own reflection in the darkened window was a pale ghost floating over the night-time grid of the city. She leaned heavily on the mahogany desk, her knuckles white on its polished edge. Her body felt like a misassembled thing. The echo of the vibrator still hummed in her bones. A deeper, more persistent ache resided where the steel plug had been, a hollow memory of fullness.
She’d showered. She’d changed. The leather skirt was gone, replaced by tailored trousers. The ruined blouse was now a crisp, white shirt. The only remnants of the loft were the faint pink lines on her wrists from the cuffs and a vulnerability that sat like a bruise behind her sternum. She had initialed the amendment. The Van Halen deal was secure. The work, as always, was done.
Her phone, face-down on the desk, buzzed. A text.
The annex felt incomplete. A flaw in the data set. Report to your primary station. The 10-K is due.
It was from a number she didn’t recognize, but she knew. The quarterly report. It was due. A sleepless night of review awaited. Jessie knew her schedule better than her own assistant.
Another buzz.
Verification of assets requires physical audit.
Brandy closed her eyes. A tremor, fine and hot, travelled from her stomach to her thighs. The “primary station.” Her office. “Physical audit.” The phrases were corporate, sterile. Their meaning was a code written on her skin. She gathered the thick binder of the 10-K report and her tablet. Her heels were the only sound in the cavernous executive floor, a metronome clicking towards her own desk.
Her office door closed with a soft, definitive click. The security cameras were a silent audience in the corners. She stood behind her own desk, the vast surface a landscape of controlled power. It felt different now. A stage.
She didn’t have to wait long.
The door opened without a knock. Jessie stepped inside, as if entering her own domain. She wore a severe black pantsuit, her hair a contained flame in the sterile light. She carried nothing but her phone.
“Page twenty-seven,” Jessie said by way of greeting, her voice cutting through the quiet. “The liquidity risk assessment. Read it to me.”
Brandy’s mouth was dry. She fumbled the binder open, the pages rustling like autumn leaves. She found the page. The words swam. “The company’s exposure to variable-rate debt presents a contingent liability should the Federal Reserve…”
Jessie walked around the desk, her movements slow, predatory. She came to stand behind Brandy. “Louder,” she instructed, her breath warm on Brandy’s ear.
Brandy cleared her throat, her voice trembling slightly. “...should the Federal Reserve raise interest rates by more than fifty basis points in the next fiscal quarter.”
Jessie’s hands landed on Brandy’s shoulders. They were warm, firm. They slid down her arms, then around her waist. Brandy stiffened.
“Continue,” Jessie murmured, her lips brushing Brandy’s temple.
Brandy tried. “Mitigation strategies include interest rate swaps and…” Jessie’s hands worked the button of her trousers, then the zipper. The sound was grotesquely loud. “...and fixed-for-floating…” The fabric pooled at her ankles. Cool air hit her bare legs. The crotchless bodysuit, the one chosen by the wheel, had been left on. A secret beneath the wool.
Jessie’s fingers traced the edge of the leather skirt she still wore from the annex, then dipped lower, through the open panel of the bodysuit. They found her, slick and ready without any touch. Brandy gasped, the report blurring.
“You’re already wet for your audit,” Jessie observed, her tone clinical. “Interesting data point. Keep reading.”
Jessie stepped back. Brandy heard the soft rasp of a zipper. When Jessie moved behind her again, the blunt, firm pressure against her was unmistakable. The strap-on. Brandy’s hands flattened on the desk, bracing.
“The… the board recommends a hedged position,” Brandy forced out, her voice thin.
Jessie’s hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to arch her spine. “Good.” She guided herself with her other hand, the slick latex tip nudging against Brandy’s entrance. “Now analyze the hedge. What’s the downside?”
The thrust was not slow. It was a single, brutal claim of space. It drove the air from Brandy’s lungs in a choked cry, buried her to the hilt against her own desk. The quarterly report slid under her splayed fingers.
“The downside…” Brandy panted, her world narrowing to the splitting fullness, “is… is basis risk. The hedge might not… fuck… might not perfectly match…”
Jessie began to move. A slow, deliberate withdrawal followed by a hard, piston-like drive back in. The rhythm was a brutal counterpoint to the financial jargon. Each thrust jolted Brandy against the desk’s edge.
“Specifics,” Jessie grunted, her own breath starting to quicken. “Define the mismatch.”
“If the… if the floating rate index deviates from the… from the benchmark…” Brandy’s words were punctuated by ragged gasps. Her hips were being shoved forward with every impact. The plug inside her, the one from the wheel, shifted with the force, a deep, secondary violation. “The company… oh god… the company remains exposed.”
Jessie’s pace increased. The sound was obscene: the wet slap of skin, the creak of the desk, Brandy’s hitched moans. The security cameras saw only the CEO bent over her work, her back to the door, her head bowed.
Jessie’s hand left her hair and found the remote in her pocket. A click.
A sharp, electric jolt seared through Brandy from the inside. The plug came alive, a vicious, buzzing shock that clenched every muscle. She screamed, a short, sharp sound swallowed by the office silence.
“The exposure!” Jessie demanded, fucking her through the crackling pain. “Quantify it!”
“Millions!” Brandy sobbed, her body convulsing around the dual invasion. “Tens of millions! Per quarter!”
Another shock, longer this time. Brandy’s vision sparked. Her fingers scrambled on the report, crumpling the page. The stimulation was a live wire in her core, welding the pleasure and the pain into a single, unbearable current. Jessie’s thrusts became relentless, hammering, aiming to break her apart against her own mahogany desk.
“And the… the mitigation now?” Jessie’s voice was strained, her own control fraying at the edges.
Brandy couldn’t speak. A guttural noise was all she could manage. Her orgasm was building not as a wave but as a structural failure, a collapse starting deep in the pit of her stomach where the shock met the thrust.
Jessie leaned over her, her chest pressed to Brandy’s back, her mouth at Brandy’s ear. “The mitigation,” she hissed, “is taking the loss. Is accepting the fuck-up. Is getting railed over your own desk until you forget your own name. Now come. Show me the red on the ledger.”
She triggered the shock again and held it.
The world went white and silent. Brandy’s body seized, a rigid arc of pure, mindless release. Her cunt clamped down on the strap-on in a series of violent, milking spasms. A raw, broken shout tore from her throat, echoing off the glass and steel. She came apart, the numbers, the risk, the millions, all obliterated in a white-hot flood of sensation.
Jessie followed, a low groan muffled against Brandy’s shoulder, her hips stuttering through her own climax.
The shocks ceased. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the hum of the HVAC. Brandy slumped forward, her cheek pressed to the cool, smooth wood of her desk, a string of saliva connecting her lip to the surface. The 10-K report was a ruined mess beneath her.
Jessie pulled out slowly. She straightened her clothes with swift, efficient movements. She looked down at Brandy, disheveled, trousers around her ankles, a wet patch seeping onto the mahogany.
“The hedge was insufficient,” Jessie stated, her voice returning to its cool, analytical tone. She picked up the remote and deactivated the plug with a final click. “The exposure was total.” She tapped the ruined report with a manicured fingernail. “Clean this up. The numbers still need to be filed.”
She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. She didn’t look back. “Integration complete. The mechanism functions in the wild.” The door opened. “Tomorrow, we test its durability.”
Then she was gone.
Brandy pushed herself up, her limbs trembling violently. She looked at the slick stain on her desk, at her own debasement etched into the expensive grain. She pulled up her trousers with fumbling hands, her fingers numb. The hollow ache returned, deeper now. The numbers on the report swam back into focus. They needed to be corrected, retyped, submitted.
She sank into her chair, the leather sighing beneath her. The city lights glittered, indifferent. She touched the cold surface of the desk where her cheek had been. It was done. The audit was over. The data was conclusive.
She opened a new document on her computer. The cursor blinked in the empty field, waiting. She began to type, the click of the keys the only sound in the tomb-like silence. The work, forever, was waiting.
The annotated file sat in the center of the steel desk, a monument to her bifurcated reality. Brandy remained in the chair, the cold air raising goosebumps on her bare thighs. Her body hummed with a residual static, the ghost of the vibrations still echoing in her bones. The professional clarity she’d somehow harnessed felt like a distant, cruel joke.
Jessie watched her from across the loft, sipping a glass of water. “Your mind works best when your cunt is full,” she remarked, her tone conversational. “That’s a useful data point. We’ll exploit it.” She placed the glass down with a quiet click. “But precision under duress is one metric. Permanence is another.”
She walked to the black case, still open on the low table. The wheel gleamed under the lights, its new quadrant a vivid, warning crimson. INTEGRATION. Jessie ran a finger over the engraved lettering. “The subcutaneous marker was phase one. A hidden truth.” She looked at Brandy. “Integration requires a visible one.”
Brandy’s stomach tightened. The bandage on her hip itched. “Visible?”
“A modification that exists in both worlds. One you cannot hide from your board, or from yourself in the mirror.” Jessie’s gaze was analytical, dissecting. “The wheel decides the specification. Spin it.”
The command was absolute. Brandy stood, her legs unsteady. She walked to the case, each step a surrender. Her hand, which had scrawled legal salvation minutes ago, hovered over the cold metal crank. This wasn’t about pleasure or pain. It was about definition.
She spun it.
The wheel turned with a soft, whirring grace. It seemed to slow too quickly, as if weighted. The pointer drifted past broad, terrifying categories: PIERCING. BRAND. SCARIFICATION. It settled with a final, metallic snick on a single word: INK.
Jessie nodded slowly, as if confirming a hypothesis. “Ink. Enduring. Unambiguous.” She closed the case. “We’ll do it now.”
“Now?” Brandy’s voice cracked.
“The design is already chosen,” Jessie said, moving toward a locked cabinet Brandy had never seen her open. She produced a small, sleek folder. Inside were not needle kits, but a single sheet of vellum. On it was a beautifully rendered, minimalist design: a bar of solid black, about two inches long and a quarter-inch wide, positioned just below the navel. It was clean, severe, and unmistakably a marker. Along its length, in tiny, elegant script, was a single word: Conscripta.
“It’s Latin,” Jessie explained, placing the design on the table. “It means ‘one who is enrolled’. A levied soldier. A thing written into service.” Her eyes met Brandy’s. “This will be written into you. On the axis of your body. Where only you and your lovers will see it. And you will see it every day.”
Brandy stared at the design. It was corporate in its starkness. It was a brand. Her breath came in short, sharp pulls. “I can’t.”
“You already have,” Jessie stated flatly. “Your signature is on the file. Your voice begged in the archive. Your body accepted the chip. This is just the cover page.” She went back to the cabinet, pulling out a pre-sterilized tattoo machine, needles, and ink. The setup was horrifyingly professional. “Lie on the sofa. Pull your shirt up to your chest. Hold it there.”
The clinical nature of the command propelled Brandy forward. She lay back on the cool leather, exposing her stomach. The skin there was pale, vulnerable. Jessie swabbed it with cold antiseptic, the smell sharp and medicinal. She transferred the design onto Brandy’s skin with a decal, a dark stripe waiting to be made real.
The machine buzzed to life, a high, angry whine.
The first touch of the needle was a bright, shocking bite. Brandy flinched, a gasp hissing through her teeth. Jessie’s free hand pressed firmly on her hip bone, pinning her down. “Be still.”
The pain was precise, iterative. It was not the blunt trauma of an impact, but a thousands-of-times-per-minute incision. Jessie worked with focused efficiency, tracing the top line of the bar. The sound filled the loft, a mechanical insect drilling into her flesh. Brandy focused on the ceiling, her jaw clenched. Each pass filled the outline with dense, black pigment. It felt like being written on with a needle of fire.
“This is the truth,” Jessie said over the buzz, her voice calm. “The corporate titan. The begging asset. They’re the same woman. This line is the equation.” She leaned into her work, the needle digging deeper for saturation.
Tears leaked from the corners of Brandy’s eyes, tracking into her hairline. It was a pain of making, not breaking. It felt irreversible. The buzz seemed to last for hours, a focused agony centered on her core. When Jessie finally switched off the machine, the sudden silence roared.
Brandy’s abdomen was a burning, throbbing slab of meat. Jessie wiped away the excess ink and blood, revealing the stark, black bar. It was perfect. Severe. A bar code on her soul. The word Conscripta was a secret etched within the public declaration.
Jessie applied a clear protective film, sealing the fresh wound. “Don’t touch it. It’ll weep. Let it breathe.” She began cleaning the equipment. “The board meets at nine. You’ll wear the gray tailored suit. The white shirt. You’ll stand and present your poison pill amendment.”
Brandy sat up slowly, a sharp, hot pain flaring across her lower belly. She looked down. The black bar glared back at her, a brutal, beautiful fact under the clear bandage. A summoned soldier. Enrolled.
“They’ll see a confident executive,” Jessie continued, putting the machine away. “I’ll see my conscript. You’ll feel the plug in your ass and the burn of your new label. You’ll integrate.” She turned, her eyes holding Brandy’s. “Now, I need to seal the ink. Blood flow is important. It needs to settle.”
She didn’t gesture or command. She simply looked at Brandy, then at the space on the floor between them.
Understanding, thick and dark, washed through Brandy’s pain. She slid from the sofa to her knees on the rug. The fresh tattoo screamed in protest. She leaned forward, her hands on Jessie’s thighs, and nuzzled the front of Jessie’s trousers. The soft wool smelled of her, of power and spice.
Jessie unzipped her flies. She wasn’t wearing the strap. Her own cunt, trimmed neat and glistening, was right there. “Lick,” she said, her voice rough. “Make it wet for me. Your mouth is the only thing that won’t hurt your new skin.”
Brandy leaned in. The scent was musky, deeply feminine, and utterly commanding. She dragged her tongue through the folds, tasting salt and power. Jessie let out a soft sigh, her hand coming to rest on Brandy’s head, not forcing, just owning.
“Good,” Jessie murmured. “Use your tongue flat. Get it soaked.”
Brandy obeyed, lapping at her, opening her with her mouth. She suckled the hard nub of Jessie’s clit, earning a sharper gasp. Her own pain faded beneath the wave of this servitude, this intimate sealing ritual. She drank from her, her knees aching, her abdomen burning, her world narrowing to this taste, this act.
After a few minutes, Jessie pushed her head back gently. “Enough. Turn around. On your hands and knees. Carefully.”
Brandy maneuvered, the fresh ink pulling angrily. She presented herself, the clear bandage over the tattoo shining under the lights. Jessie knelt behind her. Brandy heard the slick sound of Jessie’s fingers spreading her own wetness, then felt the blunt, hot press of Jessie’s cunt against her from behind.
Jessie wasn’t using a toy. She was grinding her bare, soaked flesh against Brandy’s exposed, trembling asshole. The intimacy was devastating. “This is how you’re marked,” Jessie breathed, her hips moving in a slow, dirty circle. “You’re fucking branded for me.” She reached around, her fingers finding Brandy’s dripping cunt, sliding inside easily. “And you’re still so fucking wet from the pain.”
She fingered Brandy hard, scissoring her fingers, while her own hips rocked, her clit rubbing against the tight ring of Brandy’s ass. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the deep, fulsome penetration and the hot, external friction. Jessie’s breath grew ragged in Brandy’s ear.
“You’re my conscript,” Jessie grunted, her fingers pumping. “My asset. My fucking property.” Her movements became frantic, chasing her own peak against Brandy’s body. “Come for your owner. Come around my fingers.”
The command, the filthy, grinding intimacy, the burning brand on her belly—it coalesced into a sharp, shocking climax. Brandy screamed, her cunt clenching rhythmically around Jessie’s thrusting hand as Jessie’s own moans crested and broke, her wetness smearing against Brandy’s skin.
They collapsed together on the rug, a tangle of sweat and spent desire. Jessie’s hand, wet and warm, came to rest possessively over the bandage on Brandy’s stomach, covering the fresh, hidden word.
“It’s done,” Jessie whispered into the silence.
The work,” she finished, placing the annotated file squarely in the center of the desk, “is waiting.”
Silence swallowed the loft. The hum was gone, leaving Brandy’s nerves screaming into a void. She stared at the smudged initials on the margin, her own chaotic proof. Her body felt liquid, separate from the mind that had dissected the loophole. Jessie walked away, the click of her heels receding towards the bedroom. Brandy didn’t move. The cold steel of the chair seared her bare thighs.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright. Her legs held her. She pulled her trousers up, the fabric clinging to damp skin. The simple motions—zipper, buckle—felt alien. She smoothed her rumpled shirt, her fingers trembling. The Van Halen file lay like an accusation. Professional success, etched in the same moment as her obliteration. She picked up the pen, her tool, now a witness.
Jessie returned, holding two garment bags. She laid them across the sofa. “You called in sick tomorrow,” she stated. “A migraine. Now, we integrate.” She unzipped the first bag. Inside hung an outrageously short black leather skirt, the hem barely a legal thought. The second bag revealed a lace bodysuit, sheer and complicated. “Your audience arrives at eight. Veronica. Your best friend.” Jessie’s smile was a thin blade. “The one you trust.”
A cold knot tightened in Brandy’s stomach. “No.”
“It’s not a request.” Jessie’s voice was flat. “She is the control group. The bridge. You will sit with her. You will drink wine. You will be charming. And you will do it while wearing this.” From her pocket, she produced a sleek, tapered plug of black silicone, wider at the base. It was not electronic. It was simply, profoundly physical. “A reminder. A silence. A fullness.”
Brandy’s breath hitched. The thought of Veronica’s kind, curious eyes across from her while that thing sat inside her… it was a violation of a different color. “She can’t know.”
“She won’t. Not unless you tell her. Or unless you fail to hold your wine.” Jessie held the plug up. “Your choice is in the how. Not the if.”
The degradation was arithmetic now. A series of unbearable sums. Brandy looked from the vicious skirt to the fragile lace, then to the plug. Each was a different flavor of exposure. “I choose the plug,” she whispered. The lesser, the internal humiliation.
“Wise.” Jessie nodded. “The skirt would have been a visual confession. This is a private truth. A secret you keep for me, while you talk to her.” She gestured to the floor. “Assume the position.”
Brandy knelt on the rug. The fibers prickled her knees. Jessie coated the plug with a clear, cool gel. The silence in the room was absolute, heavier than any buzz. “Breathe out,” Jessie instructed, her thumb pressing against Brandy’s entrance.
Brandy exhaled, a shaky surrender. The silicone tip breached her, a slow, insistent invasion. There was no vibration, only the relentless pressure of the stretch, the gradual, suffocating fullness as it slid deeper. It settled, a dense, occupying presence. The wide base sealed her tightly. Her body clenched around it, a futile protest.
“Good,” Jessie murmured, wiping her hand. “Now, the uniform.” She helped Brandy into the lace bodysuit. It was a web of shadows against her skin, the crotch a delicate, pointless barrier. The leather skirt followed, a slick, cold second skin that ended high on her thighs. Jessie turned her towards a mirror.
The reflection was a fracture. A powerful woman in a violently short skirt. Her eyes were hollow. “You see the contradiction?” Jessie stood behind her, a phantom in the glass. “The world sees a confident executive in daring attire. I see my asset, packed full, holding a secret.” She leaned close, her lips near Brandy’s ear. “Hold it. For two hours. Through conversation and cabernet. If it slips, if she sees, the protocol fails. And we return to the wheel. Indefinitely.”
The doorbell rang at seven-fifty-nine. The sound was a gunshot in the sterile quiet. Brandy jumped, the movement causing a deep, internal shift of the plug. She winced. Jessie gave her a final, appraising look. “Answer it.”
Veronica’s smile was bright, concerned. “You look better than I expected for a migraine victim,” she said, handing over a bottle of red. Her gaze flickered over the skirt, a flash of surprise, but she said nothing. She was kindness itself.
The wine was a bold Cabernet. It tasted of ash. Brandy sat on the edge of an armchair, her posture stiff. Every subtle shift, every laugh, sent a soft, threatening pressure through her core. The plug was a constant, mute companion to their conversation.
“So, the Van Halen merger?” Veronica asked, sipping her wine. “Leo said you were a machine in there today.”
Brandy’s smile felt frozen. “It required focus.” A direct, internal pressure made her shift again. She crossed her legs, the leather whispering.
“And this?” Veronica gestured vaguely at Brandy’s outfit, a playful glint in her eye. “New look? It’s… powerful.”
“Experimenting,” Brandy managed, her voice tight.
Jessie moved through the room like a ghost, refilling glasses, smiling politely. Her eyes, when they met Brandy’s, were pools of silent command. Hold it.
The conversation flowed—work gossip, a new restaurant, Veronica’s dating woes. Each topic was a minefield. Brandy’s attention was split, a fracturing mirror. Half her mind crafted normalcy; the other half monitored the persistent, stretching fullness inside her, the precarious seal. A laugh, a real one from something Veronica said, almost betrayed her. She felt the plug strain, a blunt threat. She clenched hard, her thigh muscles trembling.
An hour in, the wine began to blur the edges. The tension in Brandy’s body started to liquefy into something more dangerous. A warmth spread from her core, unrelated to the alcohol. The plug was no longer just an invasion; it was a taunt. Her body, trained by weeks of conditioned response, began to whisper its own needs. She grew quiet, her answers shorter.
Veronica noticed. “You okay, Brand? You seem… distant.”
“Just tired,” Brandy lied, her voice husky. “The headache lingers.”
Jessie chose that moment to stand. “I’ll get some water.” She left the room.
The silence between the two friends stretched. Veronica leaned forward, her voice dropping. “Look, for real. What’s going on? Is it her?” She glanced towards the kitchen. “You’ve been different. Sharper, but… thinner. Like you’re holding your breath.”
This was the precipice. The secret pressed against her lips, heavier than the silicone inside her. Brandy looked at her best friend’s concerned face. The truth was a chaotic, screaming thing. She opened her mouth.
Jessie returned with a glass of water. The moment shattered. Brandy took the glass, her hand shaking. “It’s nothing, V. Just work.”
But Veronica’s eyes had narrowed. She was a strategist, too. She saw the tremor, the avoidance. Her gaze dropped to Brandy’s lap, to the clenched fists on the leather skirt. She didn’t know, but she sensed. The bridge was trembling.
When Veronica left at ten, the air was thick with unspoken words. The door closed. Jessie locked it. The click was final.
Brandy remained on the chair, her muscles screaming from the sustained clench. Jessie walked over and knelt before her. She didn’t speak. She simply pushed the short skirt up, exposing the lace bodysuit beneath. Her fingers hooked into the delicate crotch and tore it aside with a soft rip.
The cool air hit Brandy’s soaked skin. Jessie’s thumb found her clit, already swollen and exposed above the wide base of the plug. She rubbed once, hard. Brandy cried out, a sound held captive for two hours finally breaking free.
“You held it,” Jessie said, her voice a low murmur. “You kept my secret. Now, you get your reward.” Her fingers slid down, finding the base of the plug. She began to work it, not to remove it, but to rotate it slowly inside Brandy. The stretch was exquisite, maddening. “Veronica knows something’s wrong. Did you see it in her eyes? She smells the fracture.”
She twisted the plug. Brandy gasped, her hips lifting off the chair. “She… she doesn’t know.”
“But she wants to.” Jessie’s other hand pressed down on Brandy’s lower belly, amplifying the internal pressure. “She wants to help her friend. And you’re going to show her.”
“What?”
“You’re going to show her exactly what’s wrong.” Jessie stood, pulling Brandy up by her wrists. She led her to the bedroom. On the bed lay a small, wicked-looking flogger with fine, silken tails. “Not like this. Not with pain. With truth. With need.” She pushed Brandy onto the bed, on her back. “You’re going to call her. You’re going to ask her to come back. And you’re going to show her what you are while I fuck you.”
The proposition was so vast, so horrifying, that Brandy’s mind blanked. Exposing herself to Jessie was one thing. To Veronica? It would incinerate her old life utterly.
Jessie picked up Brandy’s phone, pulled up Veronica’s number, and placed it in Brandy’s limp hand. She then positioned herself between Brandy’s spread legs, her mouth hovering over Brandy’s cunt. “Call her. Put it on speaker. And if you stop talking, I stop.” Her tongue, hot and flat, licked a brutal stripe from her asshole to her clit.
The shock of the contact, the explicit command, unlocked a raw, howling need. Brandy’s finger, acting on a primal wire, pressed call. It rang once, twice.
Veronica’s voice, confused, came through the speaker. “Brand? You okay?”
Jessie’s tongue plunged inside her, fucking her with wet, messy strokes.
Brandy choked. “V… Veronica. I… I need you to come back.”
“What? Why? What’s happening?”
Jessie’s mouth closed around her clit, sucking with a ruthless, rhythmic pressure.
“I can’t… explain,” Brandy panted, the words tangling with moans she couldn’t suppress. “I need… I need you to see. Please.”
“Brandy, you’re scaring me. Are you hurt? Is Jessie there?”
Jessie pulled away, her lips glistening. “Tell her,” she whispered.
“She’s here,” Brandy gasped. “She’s… she’s making me call you. She’s… oh god…” Jessie’s tongue returned, lapping at her with frantic urgency.
“Making you? Brandy, I’m calling the—
“No!” Brandy screamed, the orgasm building like a tsunami under Jessie’s merciless mouth. “Don’t! Please! I want… I want you to see! I need you to know what I am!”
The admission tore from her, louder than the wet sounds between her legs.
Silence on the line. Then, a whisper. “What are you?”
Jessie replaced her mouth with two fingers, thrusting them deep, crooking them. “Show her.”
Brandy’s body bowed. “I’m… I’m a thing. I’m a fucking thing she fucks. I’m empty unless she’s in me. I called you… I called you so you could hear her make me come. Please, Veronica, just listen. Just know.”
The line went dead silent. Brandy could hear her friend’s shallow breathing. Jessie fucked her harder, the sounds obscenely loud next to the phone.
“I’m going to come,” Brandy sobbed, no longer able to hold it back, no longer caring. “She’s going to make me come and you’re going to hear it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I need it. I need her to ruin me. I NEED IT!”
Her climax exploded, a raw, shattering convulsion that ripped through her with violent, uncensored cries. She screamed Jessie’s name, she screamed nonsense, she screamed her own degradation into the phone’s microphone. It was a brutal, public execution of her former self.
When the waves subsided, leaving her shuddering and ruined, the phone was silent. Then, a click. The call had ended.
Brandy dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor. Jessie withdrew her fingers, slick and shining. She looked at Brandy’s utterly broken form, at the shock and horror dawning in her eyes.
“Now she knows,” Jessie said softly, wiping her mouth. “The bridge is burned. There’s only this side left.”
She left Brandy lying there, exposed to the cold air and the crushing weight of what she had just done. The silence now was absolute, and it belonged entirely to Jessie.