Chapter 3: The Office and the Decision
The Barclay files leaned against Mark’s chest like a barricade, smelling of cheap paper and impending doom. Gerald’s dismissal echoed in the silent corridor. Non-negotiable. The red exit sign at the far end pulsed like a taunt. His phone vibrated again beneath the heavy stack. Insistent. Demanding.
He stumbled back into his airless office, letting the folders slide onto the desk with a heavy thud that scattered loose pens. His hand dived into his pocket, fingers closing around the buzzing phone. Dave. The screen glowed, casting harsh shadows on Mark’s face as he swiped it open.
The text was brief: Dude. U rly need 2 c this. WTF?
Below it, another video thumbnail. A punch to the gut.
It was Becca. Kneeling on what looked like rough wood planking, maybe the deck outside the party barn. Bonfire light flickered orange and red behind her, painting monstrous, dancing shadows. Her pirate wench blouse was shoved down, bunched around her waist. Her breasts, exposed and pale in the uneven light, heaved with slow, hypnotized breaths. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on something – someone – out of frame. Utterly vacant. Empty.
Mark’s thumb hovered, trembling. The familiar ache of arousal surged, hot and immediate, warring violently with the cold dread twisting his insides. He tapped.
Chad’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the crackling fire and distant party thump. "...so warm... so relaxed... Isn't it nice to just... let go?" His voice was pure velvet poison. Becca remained motionless, kneeling, her posture unnervingly submissive.
Then Chad’s hand entered the frame. Not holding a popsicle. Holding himself. Thick, already hard. He nudged gently against Becca’s slack lips. "See?" Chad murmured, the sound intimate, obscene. "Just a popsicle, Becca. Cold and sweet. Go on. Taste it."
Mark stopped breathing. The office air tasted like ashes.
Becca, her blank eyes still staring forward, her expression disturbingly serene, leaned forward slightly. Her lips parted. Slowly, mechanically, she took the tip of Chad’s cock into her mouth.
A choked sound escaped Mark’s throat. He dropped heavily into his chair, the cheap plastic groaning in protest. He couldn't look away. The glow of the phone screen was the only light, illuminating his horrified, rapt expression.
He watched. Becca’s head began to move with that same slow, dreamlike rhythm she’d used on her own skin earlier. Up. Down. A sensual, mindless glide. Her cheeks hollowed slightly. Chad’s low groan was perfectly audible. "Yeah... that’s it... sweet girl... just like a popsicle..."
Rage, white-hot and blinding, roared through Mark. He wanted to smash the phone, to scream, to drive his fist through the monitor broadcasting this violation. His Becca. Her playful wink that morning, adjusting her bodice, flashed in his mind. The sheer, terrifying vacancy in her eyes now gutted him.
But beneath the fury, beneath the icy terror for her, the treacherous heat flared brighter, hotter. The visual was visceral, undeniable. The curve of her exposed breast. The slow slide of her lips. The absolute surrender in her posture. It was her body, the body he knew and craved, performing an act of intimate possession for someone else while her mind was stolen. The dissonance was sickening. Electrifying.
His hand, seemingly of its own volition, moved. It slid down the front of his slacks, fingers fumbling with the button, the zipper. The rasp of metal teeth sounded obscenely loud in the quiet office. The pressure against his own erection was unbearable, demanding release against the tidal wave of conflicting emotion.
He kept his eyes glued to the screen. Becca’s movements remained rhythmic, trance-like. Chad’s hand came down, tangling gently in her dark hair, guiding her deeper. "Good girl," he breathed. "So good for me."
Mark’s free hand tightened on the phone. His other hand worked urgently beneath his waistband, rough and desperate. Shame warred with the overwhelming physical compulsion. Shame that he was reacting this way. Shame that he wasn't already racing out the door. Shame that the sight of her, used and blank-eyed, was pushing him towards this frantic, solitary act. The stale coffee smell clawed at his throat, mixing with the scent of his own sweat and the phantom scent of bonfire smoke and something else – something primal and awful.
His breath came in ragged gasps now, matching the frantic rhythm of his hand. He saw Chad’s hips shift slightly, pushing deeper into Becca’s mouth. Saw the flicker of firelight on her skin. Saw the utter absence in her gaze. Each image drove him harder, faster, a grotesque feedback loop of horror and need.
He was close. Tension coiled impossibly tight at the base of his spine. The Barclay files were a forgotten grey mass beside him. Gerald’s demands were meaningless static. There was only the flickering screen, the phantom sounds, the frantic friction, the suffocating cocktail of jealousy, fear, and dark, undeniable arousal threatening to combust.
Then the phone buzzed sharply in his hand. A text notification sliced across the top of the paused video.
Dave: Yo? U alive? Chad’s really goin for it! Lol.
The word "Lol" glared at him, absurd and brutal. Lol. Laugh out loud. While his fiancée knelt, mind-wiped, performing for Chad under the cold stars. The spell shattered.
Mark froze. His hand stilled. His breath hitched. The roaring in his ears subsided into a sickening silence. He stared at Dave’s text, then down at his own lap, his fly open, his hand buried inside. A wave of cold, crushing revulsion washed over him, colder than any office AC.
What am I doing? The thought sliced through the haze, sharp and clear and utterly damning. He jerked his hand away like it was burned.
The phone clattered onto the desk, screen still glowing with Dave’s oblivious "Lol". Mark stared at his own hand, pale and trembling above his open fly. Disgust curdled in his stomach, thick and sour. He fumbled his zipper shut, the sound obscenely loud in the silent room.
His breath hitched, ragged and shallow. The Barclay files lay forgotten, a monument to a life suddenly meaningless. That vacant look in Becca’s eyes – it haunted him. Was she trapped? Violated? His knuckles whitened on the edge of the desk.
The phone buzzed again. Sharp. Insistent. He flinched. A new text notification sliced across the screen.
Dave: Yo update. Chad bounced back inside. Said she needed air? Dunno. Looks kinda spaced still. Gonna go check on her.
The words blurred. Chad left her. Alone. Outside. Dave was going to her. Relief warred violently with a fresh spike of panic. Was she safe? Was she herself? The image of her kneeling, exposed and vacant, flashed behind his eyelids.
He snatched the phone. His thumbs flew over the glass, clumsy with adrenaline.
Mark: Is she ok? Talk to her. NOW. What’s happening?
He hit send. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The fluorescent lights hummed their indifferent tune. He strained, listening for a reply that wouldn’t come fast enough. Every second was an eternity.
His gaze darted around the tomb-like office – the grey walls, the dead monitor, the stale coffee stench. Trapped. He couldn’t breathe here. He needed to move. To do something. Anything.
The phone remained stubbornly silent. Dave was probably already outside, approaching Becca. Was she crying? Confused? Still hypnotized? The uncertainty was torture.