Chapter 10: Back to Work
The elevator doors hissed open on the 25th floor, spilling Roger into the low thrum of fluorescent lights and hushed keyboards. The air tasted stale, recycled, a world away from the champagne-soaked debauchery of Mri's New Year's Eve. He adjusted his ill-fitting suit jacket, the cheap polyester scratching his neck. Across the expanse of cubicles, muffled bass pulsed from the large conference room Mri had commandeered for this supposed 'networking mixer' in Roger's honor. Roger frowned. The 'honor' felt thin, brittle, especially after the phantom image of that suspended woman with the mole – Betty’s mole – kept flashing behind his eyes whenever he blinked. He hadn't slept. Hadn't spoken to her properly since, only mumbled exchanges about bills, her eyes avoiding his, her movements tense.
Pushing through the frosted glass doors into the conference room was like stepping into a different dimension. The overhead lights were dimmed, replaced by pulsing, colored spotlights. The long boardroom table was shoved against a wall, laden with cheap platters of deli meats and a sweating keg. But the focus was the cleared center space. And the woman standing there. She wore a cheap, glittering silver mask covering the upper half of her face, a tiny black thong, and impossibly high stilettos. Her skin gleamed under the lights. She moved with a hesitant, yet deliberate sway to the thumping music, running her hands over her small breasts, her flat stomach, down towards the scrap of fabric between her legs. Roger froze, his throat tightening. The curve of her hip, the way she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her masked ear – it was a sickening echo of the woman suspended in rubber.
"Roger! There's the man of the hour!" Mri's voice cut through the bass, smooth as aged whiskey. He materialized beside Roger, clapping him hard on the shoulder, a predatory smile playing on his lips. "Thought we'd liven up this dreary corporate shithole in your honor. Found some cheap entertainment." He gestured loosely at the dancer. Roger’s eyes darted from Mri’s knowing smirk to the dancer. She’d turned, bending forward, presenting her ass in the thong, glancing back over her shoulder. Her eyes, visible through the mask slits, met Roger’s for a fractured second. Wide. Terrified. Betty.
"Like the view, Rog?" boomed a familiar, grating voice. Bill Henderson, Roger’s perpetually red-faced boss, lumbered up, a plastic cup of beer sloshing in his meaty hand. "Bit classier than the usual Friday night titty bar, eh?" He nudged Roger lewdly. Behind Bill stood Carl Davies and Mark Stevens, Roger’s main rivals for the upcoming senior account manager promotion – smirking, predatory. "Come on, sweetheart," Henderson called, thick fingers fumbling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. "Show these tightasses how it’s done. Give us a proper show." He waved the bill. Betty hesitated, her body taut with fear. Mri gave an almost imperceptible nod towards her.
Betty moved towards Henderson, the music pounding. She swayed close, running a trembling hand over his chest. He grinned, grabbing her ass roughly with one hand, shoving the bill into the waistband of her thong with the other. "That's more like it! Now get that scrap off and show us the goods, honey." Carl and Mark whistled. Roger felt sweat bead on his upper lip. His cock, traitorously, began to thicken in his pants. It’s not her. It can’t be. But the mole on her inner thigh, just visible above the thong strap, screamed the truth.
With visible effort, Betty hooked her thumbs into the sides of the flimsy thong. She bent forward again, slowly peeling it down over her hips, revealing the smooth curve of her ass, then lower. The fabric caught for a moment, stretched taut, before snapping free. She stood upright, turning fully to face the men, completely naked from the waist down except for the mask and heels. Her shaved pussy glistened faintly in the spotlights. Henderson’s breath hitched. "Fuck yeah. Now that's a promotion celebration." He reached out, his thick fingers roughly parting her labia. Betty gasped, flinching but holding her ground, her eyes screwed shut behind the mask.
"Look at that pretty cunt," Mark Stevens sneered, stepping closer. "Bet it’s tight. Needs breaking in properly, doesn't it, Rog?" He elbowed Roger, whose face burned with a toxic cocktail of shame and arousal. "Yeah," Roger managed, the word thick, forced out. "Break it in good." The permission, the encouragement from her own husband, seemed to shatter something in Betty. A low whimper escaped her. Henderson didn't hesitate. He unzipped his trousers with a harsh rasp, freeing his thick, already hard cock. He spat wetly into his palm, slicked himself, then grabbed Betty's hip, yanking her towards him. "Hands and knees, slut. Now."
Betty dropped to the polished conference room floor, the cold linoleum shocking against her knees. Henderson positioned himself behind her, his bulk looming. He rubbed the broad head of his cock against her exposed opening, smearing her wetness. "Little tight cunt for Roger's whore," he grunted. Then, with a brutal shove of his hips, he buried himself inside her to the hilt in one punishing thrust. Betty cried out, a sharp, muffled sound choked by the mask, her body jerking forward from the force. "Fuck! Like a vice!" Henderson groaned, grabbing her hips and immediately setting a rough, pounding rhythm, his balls slapping against her ass cheeks with wet smacks. Roger watched, mesmerized and horrified, as his boss violently fucked his wife on the office floor. "Jesus, Bill," Carl Davies laughed, unzipping his own pants, his cock springing free. "Leave some for the rest of us. My turn on that mouth." He moved towards Betty's head as Henderson slammed into her, the obscene sounds of wet flesh and grunts filling the room. Roger’s hand drifted unconsciously to the hard ridge in his trousers, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Fuck her harder, Bill," he urged, his voice hoarse, the words tasting like ash. "Make her squeal."