Chapter 11: The Mirror Punishment
The stickiness between her thighs had cooled to a phantom presence by morning. Clara dressed in the same clothes from the day before, the fabric carrying the faint, museum-like scent of his penthouse. She followed his silent instruction to leave, the elevator’s descent feeling like a dive back into murky water. The memory of his claim was a brand on her skin, unseen but throbbing.
Work was a sterile dream. The keys of her keyboard were too loud. The hum of the photocopier was an industrial scream. Every time Martin walked by her desk with a polite, shallow smile, her stomach twisted. She heard the echo of Harding’s voice: He’ll never have any part of you.
The intercom on her phone buzzed, a sound like a trapped insect. “Clara. My office. Now.”
His voice was all business, the same tone he used with the board. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she walked the short corridor, the click of her heels too pronounced. She opened the door.
He wasn’t at his desk. He stood by the window, his back to her, a silhouette against the grey sky. “Lock the door.”
She did. The click of the deadbolt was final.
He turned. His eyes raked over her, from her sensible flats to the conservative neckline of her blouse. There was no warmth in that gaze, only assessment. “Come here.”
She approached, stopping a few feet away. He closed the distance in one swift stride, his hand tangling in her curly red hair. He didn’t pull gently. He fisted it, right at the scalp, and a sharp, bright pain made her eyes water. He used his grip to turn her, to steer her, marching her out of the office, across the empty executive floor, and into the private elevator that led to the penthouse.
He didn’t speak. The elevator ascended. She could see their reflection in the polished bronze doors: him, immaculate in his suit, his face a mask; her, wincing, held captive by his fist. It was a prelude.
The penthouse doors hissed open. He didn’t take her to the bedroom. He marched her into the living area, towards a large, antique mirror in a deep mahogany frame that hung beside a bookcase.
He halted her in front of it. “Look.”
Her own wide, frightened eyes stared back. Her glasses were slightly askew. His fist was still in her hair, a dark anchor against the copper red.
“Look what you do to me,” he growled, his voice low and ragged against her ear.
With his free hand, he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers. He freed his cock. It was already fully erect, thick and angry-looking, the head flushed dark. He began to stroke it, his fist moving in a slow, relentless rhythm right beside her cheek, his knuckles brushing her skin. The obscenity of it, reflected back at her, was paralyzing. Here she was, in her work clothes, being held by her hair while her CEO masturbated against her.
“See how hard you make me? Just existing. Just walking past my door with your head down and your cunt wet for me.” His strokes sped up, his breath coming heavier. “You’re a fucking drug, Clara. A secret I have to jack off to five times a day just to function.”
He let go of her hair suddenly, shoving her forward slightly. “Bend over. The chair.”
A low-backed chair sat by the fireplace. Trembling, she bent over it, gripping the carved wooden edges. He moved behind her, his hands rough on her hips. He yanked her skirt up, then her tights and panties down to her knees in one brutal motion. The cold air hit her exposed flesh.
“Spread your legs. Wider.”
She shuffled her feet apart, the position deeply vulnerable, her ass in the air, her sex exposed to the cool room and the mirror beyond. She could see it, a pink, glistening slice of herself in the reflection, a view she’d never had, never wanted.
He leaned down, his mouth near her ear, his eyes locked on the mirror, on her opened body. “Look at it. Look how open you are. How ready. Even after last night. It’s always ready for me, isn’t it?”
He spat.
It wasn’t a delicate thing. It was a rough, wet glob that landed directly on her vulva, a cold shock that made her jerk. She watched, hypnotized, as it shimmered on her folds in the mirror.
“Now,” he said, straightening up. He began stroking himself again, his gaze fixed on her reflected pussy. “You’re going to watch me. You’re going to watch me get off on the sight of this hungry little hole. And you’re going to slap it. Every time I tell you to. You’ll slap your own wet, dirty cunt for me.”
Clara’s breath hitched. A hot coil of shame and arousal tightened low in her belly.
“Do it.”
His voice was a whip-crack. She lifted a hand from the chair, trembling. She brought it down in a soft, tentative tap against her own flesh.
“Harder. Make it red. Make it sting. I want to see it jiggle.”
She bit her lip and slapped herself, a sharper, more forceful sound that echoed in the quiet room. A bloom of heat spread through her sex. In the mirror, she saw the faint reddening, saw her own body react, a fresh trickle of wetness coating her inner lips.
“Again.”
Slap.
She did it. The pain was bright, sharp, and it fed directly into the ache. Her hips pushed back involuntarily.
“Good girl,” he breathed, his fist flying on his cock. “Look at you. Taking it. Needing it. That’s my good, filthy girl.”
He was mesmerized by the image, by her obedience, by the lewd display. His strokes became harder, faster. “Slap it until I tell you to stop.”
Slap. Slap. Slap.
She fell into a rhythm, her hand connecting with her own flesh, each impact sending a jolt through her nerves, a mixture of degradation and intense, direct stimulation. Her breathing grew ragged. Her cunt was throbbing, soaked, the spit mixing with her own arousal. She was watching herself degrade for him, and it was unraveling her.
He was close. His face in the mirror was a study in tense ecstasy, his eyes glued to the spectacle she made. “Don’t stop,” he choked out. “Make it pink for me. Make it glow.”
She spanked herself harder, lost in the cycle of command and reaction, her world narrowed to the sound of her hand meeting wet flesh and the sight of his furious, jerking fist.
With a guttural groan, his body tightened. His release shot onto the small of her back, hot and sudden, a stripe of possession marking her. He shuddered through it, his gaze never leaving her in the mirror.
When he was spent, he let his cock go, tucking himself away with deliberate, slow movements. He stepped closer. He ran a finger through the cum on her back, then brought it to her lips. “Taste it.”
She opened her mouth. The salt-bitter taste of him flooded her senses.
He pushed her off the chair, onto the deep rug before the fireplace. He got on his knees between her sprawled legs. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked, his eyes burning with a dark intensity. Then he bent his head.
His tongue was flat and ruthless. It licked a broad, slow stripe from her perineum all the way up to her clit. She cried out, her back arching.
“You took your punishment so well,” he murmured against her, his breath hot on her sensitive flesh. “Now you get your reward.”
His mouth descended on her fully. This was not gentle coaxing. It was a devouring. He fucked her with his tongue, plunging it deep inside her before swirling it around her clit with relentless pressure. He sucked. He laved. He used his hands to spread her wider, to hold her open for his feast. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room, mixing with her sharp, gasping cries.
It was too much, an overload after the degradation, after the watching, after the slapping. Her orgasm built like a pressure wave, vast and inescapable.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice vibrating against her. “Forget everything. Forget your name. Forget who you are. Just come.”
The command was the trigger. It shattered her. Her climax roared up from her toes, convulsing through her, blinding and absolute. She thrashed under his mouth, her hands clawing at the rug, a broken, wordless sound torn from her throat. He didn’t let up, drinking from her, until the last involuntary twitch subsided into exhausted stillness.
He lifted his head, his mouth glistening. He looked down at her, her glasses fogged, her body limp and splayed. He smoothed her skirt down over her knees with a curious tenderness.
“Get up,” he said softly, helping her to her feet as her legs wobbled. He fixed her glasses. He smoothed her hair. “Go to the bathroom. Clean up. Then go back to your desk.”
She stared at him, her mind empty, hollowed out.
“Go on,” he said, his thumb brushing her cheek. “The work day isn’t over.” He turned and walked towards his study, leaving her standing there, marked, used, and utterly, devastatingly his.