Chapter 16: Chapter 16
The thick silk blindfold stayed tied. Beth stood shivering in the darkness, the server hum vibrating her bare feet. Exposed. Utterly exposed. The phantom touches of the men – rough palms, cold fingers, demanding pressure – still burned on her skin, mingling with the cool air. Her breasts felt heavy, nipples tight against the lace that barely contained them. The taste of panic was metallic in her mouth. None correct. The failure echoed louder than the machines.
Thompson’s voice cut through the drone, calm and terrifyingly close. "A disappointing result, Bethany. Zero percent accuracy suggests… insufficient data acquisition." His hand settled on her shoulder again, a heavy weight. "We require a more… intimate sensory input for the second round."
Her breath hitched. "Second… second round?" The words felt thick.
"Mm. Taste." His fingers brushed her jawline, then tapped her lower lip. "The palate is a powerful identification tool. You'll kneel before each colleague. Perform oral intimacy. Identify them… by the taste of their completion."
The world tilted. Kneel? Taste them? Not just touch, but… take them inside her mouth? Until…? The air felt suddenly too thin. She swallowed hard, her throat impossibly dry. The silence from the men was thick. Waiting. Watching her blind panic. She could feel the heat radiating from their bodies nearby.
"But… I…" she started, the protest weak, dying before it fully formed. The engagement ring felt like an ice cube in her folded clothes. What would Derrick think? The thought was distant, drowned out by the immediate, suffocating pressure of the server room, Thompson’s expectation, the watching men.
"Problem, Bethany?" Thompson’s voice held a dangerous edge. "Your hesitation suggests a lack of commitment to team cohesion. Or perhaps… a lack of the adventurous spirit I sensed?" His thumb stroked the side of her neck, right over her frantic pulse.
"No!" The word burst out, surprising her. "No problem. Sir. I… I want to do it." The lie tasted sour. Or was it truth? Part of her, a confused, humming part deep inside the fear, was curious. What would they taste like? How different? It was a sickening thought, yet it coiled there, undeniable. "I’ll do it. Let’s… do the second round."
"Excellent initiative," Thompson purred. His hand guided her roughly down to her knees. The cold concrete bit into her skin. The position was profoundly vulnerable, blindfolded, kneeling on the hard floor, surrounded by men she’d just felt up, soon to have their cocks in her mouth. She felt the heat radiating from the first figure standing before her. Smelled the heavy scent of male sweat and… was that motor oil?
"Begin," Thompson commanded.
Hands fumbled with a belt buckle, a zipper. Then the thick, blunt head of an erection nudged against her lips. It was hot, slightly sticky. She opened her mouth, bracing herself. He pushed in immediately, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, eyes watering uselessly behind the blindfold.
"Easy, girl," a gruff voice grunted above her. Hank. It had to be Hank. He smelled like solder and workshop grime. His grip tightened on the back of her head, pulling her forward onto him. He wasn’t gentle. Short, thick thrusts. The taste was salty, musky, earthy. Old sweat and something vaguely metallic. She choked, trying to breathe through her nose, focusing on the flavor. Solder. Oil. Hank. She sucked tentatively, her tongue pressing against the underside. He groaned, thrusting harder. The taste intensified. Definitely Hank. He finished abruptly, a hot, bitter jet hitting the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, the taste clinging.
"Hank?" she rasped, pulling off, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Damn right," he chuckled, zipping up. "Good girl."
Thompson’s hand guided her shoulders, turning her slightly. She shuffled blindly on her knees towards the next wave of heat. Different smell. Mint. Chemical cleaner. Marcus. Cold hands cupped her face. His erection was smoother, slimmer. It slid in easier. Cleaner taste. Like mint toothpaste, but underneath, a faint, sharp tang. Disinfectant? He sighed softly as she took him deeper, his fingers threading into her hair, not forcing, just guiding. Gentle thrusts. The mint was overwhelming at first, masking everything else. She sucked, trying to parse the subtleties. Clean… minty… but sharp… Marcus? He shuddered, his release less forceful, a warmer, slightly sweetish gush. She swallowed.
"Marcus?" she asked, less sure.
A soft sigh. "...Yeah." He sounded almost disappointed. Disappointed she guessed? Or disappointed it was over? His fingers lingered in her hair for a second before withdrawing.
On to the third. Before she even knelt fully, she smelled it. The sickly-sweet chemical tang of cheap energy drink. Gary. Big hands clamped onto her shoulders, pulling her down. His cock was thick, veined, already wet at the tip. It filled her mouth instantly. Aggressive. He thrust deep, holding her head still. The taste was overpowering – like artificial berry and battery acid, cloying and chemical. It coated her tongue. He grunted, low and animalistic. "Suck it," he commanded. She tried, the chemical taste making her want to gag again. He pulsed in her mouth, the bitterness flooding her senses. Definitely Gary.
"Gary," she managed, pulling away, coughing slightly.
"Wrong," he muttered, stepping back.
Fourth. She sensed a leaner frame. The air smelled different. Faint cologne? Not Thompson's. More… aquatic? Sporty? Dave, the intern? His cock slid in tentatively. Average size. Salty. Clean sweat. A little nervous? He tasted… unremarkable. Like skin. Salt. Maybe a hint of laundry detergent? She worked her tongue, trying to find something distinctive. He gasped, his hips twitching. His release was minimal, thin. Almost apologetic. She drew back, confused. Clean. Bland. Who? "Um… D-Dave?"
A beat of silence. Then a quiet, embarrassed, "Robert."
Shit. Robert. The network security guy who barely spoke. Her cheeks burned under the blindfold. Zero again? No, she got Gary right.
Thompson guided her roughly to the final position. She knew the scent instantly. That expensive, woody cologne, layered over clean starch. Him. The air crackled. He didn't fumble. His trousers rustled smoothly. His erection was thick, heavy, perfectly smooth. He guided himself to her lips with cool precision.
"Open," he commanded softly.
She did. He pushed in, deep but controlled, filling her mouth completely. The taste… clean skin, expensive soap, something uniquely him – power and control distilled into a flavor. He held himself there, letting her adjust, then began a slow, deliberate rhythm. Not rough, not gentle. Absolute. His hand rested firmly on the crown of her head. She tasted salt, musk, the faintest hint of sandalwood. She sucked, her tongue swirling, trying to commit every nuance to memory. Thompson. It has to be. He made a low sound of approval. His thrusts deepened slightly. She felt the tension building in him, the restrained power. His climax hit like a wave – hot, thick, flooding her mouth with a complex, intense flavor she couldn't place. She swallowed, then swallowed again, the taste lingering, potent.
"Mr. Thompson," she breathed, utterly certain.
Silence. Heavy. Then, the blindfold was finally, abruptly, untied. The harsh, blinking lights of Server Room B stabbed her eyes. She blinked, tears streaming from the sudden brightness and the residual choking. She was still on her knees. Thompson stood before her, perfectly composed, tucking himself away. His gaze was cold, assessing, fixed on her tear-streaked face, her swollen lips, the smear of something white at the corner of her mouth.
He didn't move to help her up. He just looked down, his expression unreadable. "One out of five," he stated flatly. The disappointment hung heavy in the ozone-thick air.
The disappointment hung heavy in the ozone-thick air. Beth’s knees ached on the unforgiving concrete, the cold seeping up into her bones. Tears stung her raw eyes, still adjusting to the harsh fluorescent glare after the blindfold’s darkness. One out of five. Her throat burned, a cocktail of salt and bitterness lingering from the men she’d just swallowed. She kept her gaze fixed on Thompson’s polished leather shoes inches from her face, too afraid to look up. The silence stretched, thick with the relentless server hum and the pounding of her own heart. She could feel the weight of the other men’s stares, a mixture of pity, amusement, and lingering heat.
Thompson finally stirred. He crouched down slowly, bringing his face level with hers. His expensive cologne, sandalwood and power, cut through the metallic tang still coating her tongue. His expression was unreadable, coldly analytical. "One," he repeated, the single syllable sharp as glass. "A twenty percent success rate. Marginally better than abject failure." His finger, cool and dry, lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Your methodology needs refinement, Bethany. Your palate is… uneducated." His thumb brushed roughly across her lower lip, wiping away a smear. He examined the residue on his thumb distastefully before wiping it on her bare shoulder.
Beth flinched at the contact, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over her. "I… I tried, sir," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "The tastes… they were confusing. Hank was obvious, but the others… Robert tasted like nothing, and Gary tasted like those awful drinks he chugs…"
"Excuses," Thompson cut her off, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. He stood up, looming over her again, his shadow engulfing her kneeling form. "Data acquisition requires focus. Elimination of variables. You were distracted. Hesitant." He paced slowly around her, a predator circling prey. The IT guys shifted uneasily, the tension ratcheting higher. Hank cleared his throat. Marcus looked at the floor. Gary just smirked.
Beth felt a fresh tremor run through her. The cool air prickled her exposed skin under the flimsy lingerie. Her soaked underwear clung uncomfortably. Part of her screamed to run, to gather her clothes and flee this humming tomb. But another part, deeper and hotter, pulsed with a traitorous thrill. The feeling of being utterly controlled, the sheer wrongness of it, sent jolts through her core she couldn’t deny. She’d tasted them. All of them. And that final, potent taste of Thompson himself… it lingered more powerfully than the others.
Thompson stopped his pacing, directly in front of her again. He reached down, not to help her up, but to smooth a stray blonde hair off her damp forehead with a gesture that felt chillingly possessive. "Clearly," he stated, his voice resonating with absolute authority in the confined space, "a more rigorous approach is necessary." He let the words hang, the server hum filling the void. Beth held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. She knew what was coming. The dread was icy, but beneath it, that treacherous spark flared brighter. He looked down at her, his gaze stripping her bare more effectively than the lingerie ever could.