Chapter 4: Lap Dance Evaluation
The fluorescent hum of the corridor felt jarringly loud after the closet’s muffled intensity. Beth shuffled, each step sending a fresh trickle of wetness down her inner thigh. The sticky residue cooled rapidly in the air-conditioned hallway, tightening her skin. Her jaw throbbed with a deep, persistent ache, a dull counterpoint to the raw, stretched feeling between her legs. She could still taste him – Mr. Thompson – the bitter tang of his cum layered over the ghost of anonymous salt. Her torn pantyhose snagged around her knees with every movement, a constant, humiliating reminder.
She paused outside the heavy oak door marked ‘J. Thompson – Managing Director’. Taking a shuddering breath that did nothing to calm the frantic flutter in her chest, she knocked. Her knuckles felt weak.
"Enter." The voice was calm, authoritative, cutting through the wood.
Beth pushed the door open. The difference was staggering. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a vast space of polished chrome, deep mahogany, and butter-soft black leather. The air smelled faintly of expensive bergamot cologne and freshly brewed espresso, a world away from the dust and musk of the supply closet. Mr. Thompson sat behind his monolithic desk, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, looking as composed as if he’d just stepped out of a boardroom photo shoot. His eyes, sharp and assessing, tracked her entrance, lingering on her disheveled state – the tear-streaked mascara, the damp, tangled blonde hair clinging to her neck, the obvious tremble in her hands.
She stood just inside the door, unable to move further, acutely aware of the damp patch cooling on her bare skin beneath her skirt, the ruined hose a tangle around her calves. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"Close the door, Bethany," he instructed, his tone devoid of inflection. She obeyed mechanically, the soft click echoing in the vast room.
He leaned back slightly in his high-backed leather chair, steepling his fingers. "You look... well-used." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Efficiently so. Now, efficiency requires appropriate tools. Presentation matters." He gestured towards a sleek, black leather portfolio case resting on the corner of his desk. "Open it."
Beth approached the desk cautiously, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. The leather felt cool and expensive under her trembling fingers as she unzipped the case. Inside, nestled against black velvet, lay three lingerie sets. Each was a deliberate provocation.
One was sheer black mesh, straps thin as spider silk, the cups barely concealing anything, the panties a narrow strip of lace with a gaping hole where the crotch should be. Another was vibrant crimson lace, plunging dramatically at the front and back, the panties high-cut and flimsy. The third was stark white, almost virginal in color, but crafted from a delicate lace that offered zero concealment, the panties explicitly crotchless.
"Standard issue for certain... performance reviews," Mr. Thompson stated smoothly. "Select one. Model it. Here. Now."
Beth stared at the garments, her stomach churning. The sheer audacity, the casual command stripping her further. "Sir... I... I'm not..." Her voice faltered. She gestured vaguely towards her stained skirt, her bare legs.
"Precisely why you need re-dressing," he interrupted, his gaze hardening. "Remove your current attire. All of it. Then choose." He paused, letting the order sink in. "Unless you'd prefer I choose for you?"
The threat, unspoken but potent, hung in the air. The memory of his grip in her hair, the brutal invasion of her throat, flashed through her mind. Shame warred with a terrifying, burgeoning obedience. Hands shaking violently, she reached behind her back, fumbling with the zipper of her skirt. It slid down her hips, pooling around her ankles with a soft whisper. Her blouse followed, buttons resisting her clumsy fingers before yielding. She stood before him in only her bra – practical beige cotton – and the bunched, ruined pantyhose around her knees. Avoiding his eyes, she bent, peeling the hose off completely, leaving them discarded beside her clothes. Finally, she unhooked her bra, letting it fall. She stood naked in the CEO’s office, bathed in sunlight, exposed and utterly vulnerable.
His gaze raked over her, slow, deliberate, appreciative. "Magnificent form, Bethany. Truly wasted on filing." He nodded towards the lingerie. "Choose."
Her hand hovered. The white felt like a cruel joke. The red screamed obscenity. She picked the sheer black. It felt marginally less... definitive. She stepped into the flimsy panties, the cold lace a shocking contrast to her overheated skin. The mesh top was a nightmare of straps. She struggled, fingers fumbling, acutely aware of his unwavering stare. Finally, she managed to hook it, the sheer fabric clinging to her curves, her nipples dark and hard against the mesh, utterly visible. The crotchless opening gaped obscenely.
"Turn," he commanded.
She rotated slowly, feeling the cool air kiss her exposed buttocks through the open back of the panties. Her reflection in the vast windows was a shock – a pale, trembling figure clad in near-nothing, dwarfed by the cityscape beyond. A whore in an executive suite.
"Adequate," he pronounced, rising from his chair. He walked around the desk, stopping directly in front of her. His presence was overwhelming, his expensive cologne mingling nauseatingly with the scent of sex still clinging to her skin. "But modeling requires demonstration. Context." He gestured towards the plush leather couch against one wall. "Sit."
He settled onto the couch, spreading his legs slightly, his tailored trousers pulling taut across his thighs. Beth approached hesitantly, the unfamiliar lingerie feeling alien, restrictive yet exposing. She perched on the edge of the couch cushion beside him, her body rigid.
"Not there," he said, his voice dropping lower. He patted his thigh. "Here. Straddle me. Show me what that pretty little outfit can do."
Beth froze. The intimacy was terrifying. The power imbalance absolute. Her gaze flickered to the bulge already straining against the fine wool of his trousers. The memory of its taste, its brutal invasion, flooded her mouth with saliva. Panic flared.
"I... I don't know how..." she whispered.
"You sucked cock like a seasoned professional ten minutes ago," he stated flatly, a hint of steel beneath the calm. "You took a stranger’s cock in your cunt while swallowing mine. You think a lap dance is beyond you? Move."
The vulgar reminder, the sheer impossibility of refusing after what she’d already done and allowed, broke her resistance. Trembling violently, she awkwardly swung one leg over his lap, then the other, settling her weight onto his thighs. Her crotchless panties meant her bare, still-swollen pussy lips pressed directly against the hard ridge in his trousers. She gasped at the contact. He was already hard, thick, demanding even through the fabric.
His hands settled heavily on her hips, fingers digging in. "Now," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, "move those hips. Grind on me. Like you mean it. Like you want it."
Beth closed her eyes, humiliation burning her cheeks. She tentatively rocked her hips forward. The friction against her sensitive clit through the wool was sharp, startling. A small whimper escaped her.
"Harder," he commanded, his grip tightening, forcing her movement. "Fuck my thigh, you hungry little slut. Show me how much you loved servicing those anonymous cocks. Show me how wet you still are."
His crude words, the relentless pressure of his hands, the undeniable heat and hardness beneath her – it ignited something treacherous deep within her. The shame didn't vanish, but it was suddenly overlaid with a shocking surge of raw, physical need. Her hips began to move of their own accord, rocking harder, grinding her exposed slit against the solid length straining beneath his trousers. The friction was exquisite torture, sending jolts of electricity straight to her core. Her breath hitched, coming in shallow gasps.
"Yeah," he growled, watching her face contort. "That's it. Feel that? That's what you do. You make men hard. You make them need to fuck you. Look at you, riding my leg like a bitch in heat." One hand slid up her back, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head back sharply, exposing her throat. The other hand slid down, over the curve of her ass, fingers slipping easily through the crotchless opening, finding her slick folds. He plunged two fingers deep inside her without preamble.
Beth cried out, arching against him, impaled on his hand while grinding on his thigh. He curled his fingers, finding that spot deep inside her, rubbing ruthlessly. "Fuck, you're dripping," he snarled, his voice thick with arousal. "Still leaking cum and already soaked again? You're insatiable." He added a third finger, stretching her brutally, his thumb finding her clit and grinding hard circles against it.
The dual assault was overwhelming. The grinding friction on her clit, the deep, punishing penetration, his harsh words branding her – it shattered the last vestiges of control. Her body seized, back arching violently, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat as an orgasm ripped through her, blinding and brutal. Her cunt clenched wildly around his invading fingers, pulsing, flooding his hand with fresh wetness.
Beth shuddered violently against him, her inner muscles spasming around his thick fingers still buried deep inside her. Sweat slicked her temples as ragged breaths tore from her throat, the aftershocks making her thighs tremble against his solid legs. Mr. Thompson watched her unraveling with detached fascination, his fingers withdrawing slowly, coated in her mixed fluids. "Messy little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, wiping his hand casually on the leather couch beside her thigh. The wet smear glistened under the office lights.
He gripped her hips firmly, lifting her off his lap like discarded packaging. Her bare feet hit the plush carpet, legs wobbling. "Collect yourself, Bethany. Breathe." His tone held no warmth, only impatient command. She swayed, pressing a hand to her stomach, trying to steady the frantic hammering of her heart. The sheer black mesh clung to her damp skin, feeling suddenly cheap and inadequate in the expansive office.
"Now," he continued, nodding toward the leather portfolio still gaping open on his desk. "Model the red set. I want to see that fire properly showcased." Beth moved mechanically toward the desk, her movements stiff. Her fingers brushed past the virginal white lace, hesitated over the black mesh she wore, then closed around the vibrant crimson number. The lace felt heavier, more substantial than the flimsy black, yet somehow more exposing with its plunging neckline and razor-thin straps.
She peeled off the damp black mesh, letting it pool at her feet like shed skin. The air-conditioned room raised goosebumps on her exposed flesh. Slipping into the red panties first, she felt the high-cut legs frame her hips, the flimsy fabric doing nothing to cover the swollen lips beneath. The bra was intricate, lacing up the front with delicate ribbons. Her fingers fumbled with the ties, pulling them tight until her breasts were lifted, pushed together, the dark pink nipples peeking provocatively through the lace latticework. She turned, knowing his eyes were tracing the deep V the back created, exposing the dimples above her ass.
"Better," Thompson stated flatly. He rose smoothly and crossed to a sleek panel on the wall. A button press filled the room with the low, insistent throb of a bassline – sultry jazz fused with electronic undertones. The rhythm pulsed through the floorboards, vibrating up Beth's bare soles. "Dance. Properly this time. Show me you're more than just a warm hole."
The command hung in the smoky air. Beth closed her eyes, letting the heavy beat seep into her bones. Her hips began a slow, tentative sway, a counterpoint to the driving rhythm. The music coiled around her, loosening the knots of shame and fear. Her hands lifted, tracing the curve of her waist, sliding up over the red lace cupping her breasts. Her hips rolled with growing confidence, a fluid undulation that made the crimson fabric shimmer under the lights.
Thompson settled back onto the couch, his gaze predatory. "That's it, princess. Move that fucking ass." Emboldened by the music and the lingering buzz in her veins, Beth obeyed. She turned, bending forward slightly, letting him see the full curve of her backside framed by the high-cut panties. Her ass cheeks clenched and released as she ground in slow circles, the motion deliberate, sensual. She threw her head back, blonde hair cascading, a low hum escaping her lips as she lost herself in the movement.
Her hands slid down her stomach, fingers dipping beneath the lace waistband of the panties. She touched herself lightly, finding her clit swollen and throbbing again. A soft moan escaped as her hips jerked forward, the dance becoming less performance, more primal need. She arched her back, thrusting her lace-covered tits toward the ceiling, moving with a raw, hungry grace that matched the filthy pulse of the music. Thompson’s knuckles whitened where they gripped the armrest, his erection straining visibly against his trousers. The air crackled, thick with musk and anticipation.
The heavy bass pulsed through Beth’s bones, vibrating up her spine as she swayed. Her fingertips traced the crimson lace stretched taut over her nipples, the friction sending sparks. Thompson watched, his gaze a physical weight, eyes dark pools of hunger fixed on the deliberate roll of her hips.
"Fuck, look at that ass clench," he muttered, low and rough. His knuckles were white on the leather armrest. "Move it closer. Now."
Beth obeyed, stepping into the space between his spread knees. The scent of his expensive cologne mingled with the musky, undeniable tang of her own arousal. Her skin felt feverish, hypersensitive. His proximity was a live wire. She rotated slowly, presenting her back, bending forward just enough to make the red lace panties dig into the cleft of her ass.
"Lower," he commanded, voice tight. "Show me what you were built for."
She sank deeper, the high-cut lace framing her exposed mound, the wet gleam visible between her thighs. Her reflection in the vast window was a stranger: a wanton figure in blood-red lace, grinding before a powerful man. A flush crept up her neck. He reached out, his hand hot and heavy on her hip, guiding her rhythm. His thumb pressed against the base of her spine, urging her back towards him.
"Good girl," he murmured, the praise laced with ownership. "Feel how hard you make me?" His other hand slid around her hip, fingers splaying possessively over her lower belly, pulling her back flush against him. The thick ridge of his erection strained against fine wool, pressing insistently against the small of her back. A shudder ran through her.
His grip tightened, hauling her backwards. My. Lap." It wasn't a suggestion. Beth stumbled slightly, her breath catching as her bare ass settled onto his hard thighs. The position forced her spine straight, her breasts thrust forward against the red lace. His hands clamped onto her waist like vices.
"Now fucking dance," he growled into her ear, his breath hot. "Like you mean it." He pushed her hips forward, then pulled them back, grinding her down onto the solid bulge beneath her. The coarse wool rubbed against her exposed pussy lips through the crotchless opening. A sharp gasp escaped her.
"Yeah, that’s the spot," he hissed, forcing her into a relentless, grinding rhythm. His cock was a demanding presence beneath her, trapped yet potent. "Rub that needy little cunt all over me. Get yourself off on my fucking suit." His hands moved to her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, spreading her slightly, ensuring the bare, swollen lips made direct contact with the fabric. The friction was immediate, intense, dragging over her sensitive clit with every backward slide.
Beth’s head fell back against his shoulder. Her breath came in ragged pants. Shame warred with a dark, desperate pleasure coiling tighter in her gut. She couldn’t stop the involuntary roll of her hips now, seeking the delicious pressure. "Oh god..." she whimpered, the sound swallowed by the thumping music.
"Fucking filthy slut," he rasped, one hand sliding up to roughly palm her lace-covered breast, pinching her nipple hard through the fabric. "Leaving your slick all over my trousers. Is this what you learned servicing holes in the wall? To grind on any hard cock you find?" He thrust his hips upwards, driving his trapped erection harder against her wet, grinding pussy. The coarse texture combined with the solid pressure was overwhelming.
She cried out, her inner muscles clenching on nothing. Her hips jerked erratically, seeking release against the unforgiving barrier of his suit. "Please..." The word was stripped bare, primal.
"Please what, Bethany?" His voice was a dark caress, laced with cruel amusement. He released her breast, his hand sliding down her trembling stomach, fingers plunging unerringly through the crotchless lace. He found her swollen clit immediately, slick and throbbing. "This? You begging for my fingers after riding my leg like a cheap whore?" He circled the hard nub, rough and relentless, while his other hand kept her grinding rhythm steady against the bulge beneath her.
The dual assault obliterated thought. Her body arched, rigid against him. The grinding friction on her clit, the brutal pressure from his trapped cock, his punishing fingers – it ignited a wildfire. A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat as the orgasm detonated, a violent cascade of sensation that turned her vision white. Her cunt convulsed wildly, drenching his fingers and the fabric beneath her in a fresh wave. Her hips slammed back against him one final, desperate time as the tremors wracked her.
She slumped, trembling violently, sweat slicking her skin where it pressed against his suit jacket. His fingers remained inside her, feeling the aftershocks pulse around them. He gave her clit one final, cruel pinch that made her flinch. "Messy," he observed, his voice thick with his own arousal. He slowly withdrew his glistening fingers, holding them up before her blurred vision. "But efficient. Now get up." He pushed her off his lap, leaving her standing unsteadily on the plush carpet, legs shaking, the red lace plastered to her damp skin. He adjusted himself with a grimace, the prominent wet patch darkening the crotch of his trousers. "The white one next."