Chapter 9: The Ultimate Betrayal Setup
The white robe became her shameful uniform for the rest of Thanksgiving. She wore it like a ghost at the feast, picking at pie, forcing laughter, feeling Richard’s gaze like a brand on her skin. Charly’s arm around her shoulders felt both like a sanctuary and a cage. She was betraying him in the worst possible way, with the worst possible person, and the knowledge was a sick, thrilling poison in her veins.
Days bled into a week. The design projects on her screen blurred into meaningless shapes. Her messages with Richard were terse, logistical. He named a time; she arrived. It was always at his mansion, always when the staff was gone. He used her body with a cold, utilitarian precision that left her feeling hollowed out and strangely addicted. The laundry room, the wine cellar, once the billiards table where he made her hold still as he took her from behind, the green felt cool beneath her cheek.
Then, the summons came not as a command, but a question. A text on a Tuesday afternoon: My office. 6 PM. Bring your phone.
It was the first time he’d referenced anything of her outside world. A sliver of ice slid down her spine. She told Charly she was meeting a potential client for a late coffee.
Richard’s home office was a temple to his own achievement. Mahogany bookshelves, leather-bound volumes never read, brass fittings gleaming in the low light of a green-glass desk lamp. The air smelled of old paper, fine whiskey, and him. He stood by the window, silhouetted against the dying light, a crystal tumbler in hand.
“Close the door,” he said, without turning.
She did. The click was softer this time, but no less final.
“Your phone. The app. Open it.”
Her heart stammered. “What?”
He turned. His face was in shadow, but his voice was clear. “The app you and my son use to find your… entertainment. Open it. Show me your profile.”
“Richard, I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.” He took a slow step forward. “You think I’m a fool? A woman like you, with that hungry look. Charles is weak. He’d allow it. He probably watches.” The accuracy of his guess, delivered with such contempt, stole her breath. “The phone, Sara. Now.”
Hands trembling, she pulled it from her purse, unlocked it, and opened the discreet, minimalist app. She handed it to him.
He scrolled, his expression one of detached disgust. He read her profile aloud, his voice dripping with scorn. “‘Creative, adventurous spirit seeking mutually respectful exploration.’ Respectful.” He snorted, tossing the phone onto the desk. It skittered across the polished wood. “You spread your legs for strangers in cheap hotel rooms and call it respect. You are a whore. My son is a cuckold. And you both live in a fantasy.”
Tears of shame and fury pricked her eyes. “You don’t understand anything.”
“I understand everything,” he said, closing the distance. He didn’t touch her. His presence was the threat. “I understand that you need a real man to show you your place. To make the fantasy real. Strip.”
The word hung in the opulent air. She didn’t move.
“You can walk out that door,” he said softly. “Go back to your husband and your little games. Or you can get on your knees and crawl to me. Your choice.”
It was no choice at all. The poison had done its work. A tremble started deep inside her, a vibration of utter ruinous need. Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse. She undressed slowly, under his impassive gaze, letting each article—blouse, bra, slacks, panties—fall to the thick Persian rug. The air was cool on her naked skin.
“On your hands and knees.”
She lowered herself, the wool of the rug coarse against her palms and knees.
“Crawl.”
She moved forward, head down, the journey across the rug an eternity of submission. Her curls brushed her shoulders. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She stopped before his polished shoes.
“Look up.”
She did. He was unbuckling his belt, his eyes locked on hers. He freed his cock, already thick and heavy. “Open your mouth. Clean it.”
She leaned forward, taking him into her mouth. She tasted soap, a hint of salt. She used her tongue, lapping at the length of him, suckling the head, trying to perform. He let her work for a moment, then grabbed a fistful of her hair.
“Enough. On the desk. Bend over. Show me what you use for strangers.”
She rose, turned, and bent over the vast, cold expanse of mahogany. Her cheek pressed against the polished surface. She saw the blurred reflection of her own desperate eyes in the wood. He moved behind her, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He rubbed the head of his cock through her slick folds, teasing, but not entering.
“This cunt,” he whispered, “belongs to me now. You understand? You will not see another man. You will not use this app. You are my property. Say it.”
“I’m your property,” she whimpered, pushing back against him, needing him to fill her.
He drove into her with one brutal, deep thrust. She cried out, the shock of it a bright pain that instantly melted into overwhelming fullness. He set a punishing pace from the start, each slam of his hips driving her hard against the desk’s edge.
“You like that, you filthy slut?” he grunted, his voice rough. “You like being fucked like a common whore in your father-in-law’s office?”
“Yes!” The confession was torn from her.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I like it!” She was sobbing now, the pleasure coiling tight, unbearable.
He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, his mouth at her ear. His rhythm never faltered. “You’re going to come on my cock. You’re going to scream. And then you’re going to get dressed. Because Charles is on his way.”
The words didn’t compute at first. They were just noise. Then their meaning detonated in her brain.
Her body went rigid. “What?”
“I texted him. Told him I needed to discuss a financial portfolio. He’ll be here in….” Richard pulled his arm from around her, glanced at his wristwatch. The casualness of the gesture was monstrous. “…eight minutes. Maybe seven if he hits green lights.”
Terror, absolute and cold, flooded her. It mixed violently with the intense arousal still throbbing from his deep strokes. Her cunt clenched around him involuntarily, a spasm of pure panic.
“Feel that?” he hissed, pounding into her harder, spurred on by her reaction. “Your body knows the truth. You’re terrified. You’re excited. This is what you really want. To be fucked by a real man while your weak husband watches, isn’t it?”
“No… stop, he can’t…” she babbled, trying to push back against him, but he was too strong, his grip iron.
“He won’t see. Not if you’re quiet. Not if you’re good.” His pace became frantic, animalistic. “But if you scream, if you fight… the door might just swing open. He’ll see his wife, his liberal, independent wife, getting railed over her father-in-law’s desk. What will he do, Sara? Will he join? Or will he finally understand what you are?”
The image was too vivid, too horrifying, too arousing. The coil inside her snapped. A crushing, silent orgasm ripped through her, milking his cock in wave after wave of intense, shameful pleasure. She bit down on her own arm to stifle the scream, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Feeling her climax, Richard growled, his own control breaking. He pistoned into her three more times, then buried himself to the hilt, pulsing hot jets of cum deep inside her. He held himself there, both of them panting, joined in the most intimate and vile betrayal.
A distant sound. The faint chime of the front doorbell.
Richard pulled out of her with a wet sound. “Six minutes early. Eager boy.” He tucked himself away, zipped up, perfectly composed. “Get dressed. Be quick.”
Sara stumbled off the desk, her legs like water. His release was already trickling down her thigh. She scrambled for her clothes, her fingers fumbling with buttons, pulling her slacks up over sticky skin. She couldn’t find her underwear. She left them.
“Sit there,” Richard said, pointing to a leather armchair in the corner. He picked up her phone from the desk, tapped it, and placed it back in her purse. He then walked calmly to his high-backed chair and sat, steepling his fingers just as a soft knock sounded at the office door.
“Come in.”
The door opened. Charly stood there, smiling, a folder in his hand. “Hey, Dad. Sorry to interrupt, I let myself in. Oh. Sara?” His smile turned to confused surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Sara’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could smell Richard on her skin, feel him inside her. She forced a smile. “Client meeting ran late. Nearby. Your dad said you were coming, so I… waited.” The lie tasted like ash.
“Great!” Charly said, his innocence a knife in her gut. He walked over, kissed her forehead. She flinched. “You okay? You look flushed.”
“Fine,” she whispered.
Richard’s voice was smooth, avuncular. “Sara was just telling me about her latest project. Fascinating stuff. Now, Charles, these statements…” He gestured to the desk, the very surface still warm from her body.
Charly sat in the chair opposite his father, his back to Sara. As they began talking about investments and interest rates, Richard’s eyes found hers over Charly’s shoulder. He didn’t smile. He simply looked at her, his gaze dropping pointedly to her purse.
With trembling hands, she opened it and pulled out her phone. The screen was still lit.
On it was her dating app profile. And across the top, in bold letters, read a new status she had not set: DEACTIVATED.
Beneath it, in the message preview pane, was a single outgoing message to every past connection, sent one minute ago: No longer available. Permanently.
Richard gave an almost imperceptible nod, then turned his attention fully to his son. Sara sat in the corner, dressed, ruined, and utterly owned, as the two men in her life discussed a future she was no longer allowed to shape.