Chapter 5: Graduate Studies
The peace that had settled over Margaret after the encounter with the rose-gold device lasted exactly three days. It was a fragile, newfound quiet, like the first frost on her garden, beautiful and easily shattered. On the fourth day, Marge called.
“Get dressed. We’re going out. My place.”
“Marge, it’s a Tuesday evening. I have a stack of storyboards to review for the Henderson account.”
“Which is exactly why you need this. You’re too tense. You’ve had a taste, now you need an education. Don’t argue. I’ll order Chinese.”
Marge’s apartment was a warm, cluttered cave in the heart of the city, a stark contrast to Margaret’s muted suburban sanctuary. The air smelled of sesame oil and old paper. Marge poured them both a generous glass of wine and then, with a magician’s flourish, produced a small, locked velvet box from a drawer in her sideboard.
“What’s that?” Margaret asked, her pulse quickening.
“Advanced coursework, darling.” Marge unlocked it with a tiny key from her keychain. Inside, nestled on black velvet, were two objects that made Margaret’s breath catch. One was a pair of delicate platinum nipple clamps, connected by a fine, glittering chain. The other was a sleek, obsidian-black silicone shape, slightly curved, with a small, discreet antenna nub at its base.
“That’s a…” Margaret’s voice trailed off.
“A remote-controlled plug,” Marge finished, her eyes gleaming. “And these,” she picked up the clamps, letting the chain dangle from her fingers, “are for accessorizing. You’re not just having an orgasm, Maggie. You’re curating an experience.”
“I can’t wear those.”
“You can, and you will. Consider it a… a professional development exercise. You’re always talking about stepping outside your comfort zone for the client. Well, here’s your client.” Marge pointed at the toys. “You.”
Margaret’s protest died in her throat. The memory of the shattering release in her bedroom was too fresh, too potent. The hunger was back, different now, more specific. It was a curiosity that burned.
“What’s the remote for?” she asked, her voice hushed.
Marge smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. “That’s for me. Now, go into the bedroom and put them on. And keep your phone handy. You have that Zoom check-in with the Henderson team at eight, right?”
A cold, thrilling dread washed over Margaret. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly. Go on. The meeting’s in twenty minutes. Just enough time for you to get comfortable.”
In the guest bathroom, under the harsh fluorescent light, Margaret followed the instructions Marge had texted her. She fumbled with the latch on her bra, her hands trembling. The platinum clamps were heavier than they looked. She took a deep breath, pinched her left nipple, and closed the first clamp. The pressure was sharp, immediate, a bright point of pain that quickly bloomed into a deep, throbbing ache. She gasped, her eyes watering. The second one was easier. The chain between them lay cold against her skin, a constant, humiliating reminder. Then, using the lubricant packet Marge had provided, she prepared for the plug. The silicone was cool and unforgiving. She had to bend over the sink, her reflection a wide-eyed mask of shock and anticipation, to work it inside. The stretch was intense, a feeling of being filled, possessed. It settled deep within her, a foreign, intimate weight.
She straightened up, adjusting her sensible cream-colored blouse and pencil skirt. She looked like Margaret Von Duel, senior ad executive. But underneath, she was someone else entirely.
She walked back into the living room, her gait slightly altered by the object nestled inside her. Marge looked her up and down, a satisfied smirk on her face.
“Perfect. Now, sit.” Marge pointed to a chair directly in front of her laptop, which was set up on the coffee table. “You look very professional. No one will ever know.”
Margaret sat, the movement causing the plug to shift inside her. She bit her lip. Marge settled on the couch beside her, the small, black remote held casually in her hand, just out of the camera’s view.
The Zoom call connected. Brenda from marketing, young and relentlessly cheerful, filled the screen. “Margaret! Hi! Just wanted to run through the final mood boards before the big presentation tomorrow.”
“Of course, Brenda. Go ahead.” Margaret’s voice was miraculously steady.
Brenda began clicking through images. “So, we’re really leaning into the ‘serenity and stability’ angle, lots of soft blues, gentle gradients…”
Marge’s thumb moved. A low, deep hum ignited inside Margaret. It was a subtle vibration, but it was there, a relentless, intimate buzzing that seemed to resonate in her very core. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the coffee table.
“That’s… a good direction,” Margaret managed, her smile feeling brittle.
“We thought so!” Brenda chirped. “Now, for the tagline, we’re between ‘Your Anchor in the Storm’ and ‘Quiet Confidence.’”
Marge increased the setting.
The vibration intensified, becoming a demanding, insistent thrum. The pleasure was laced with the sharp ache from the clamps, the two sensations intertwining, building on each other. Margaret could feel a flush creeping up her neck. She crossed her legs tightly, a useless, instinctive gesture.
“I… I prefer ‘Quiet Confidence,’” Margaret said, her voice tight. She could feel a trickle of sweat run down her spine.
“Really? Interesting. The team was leaning towards ‘Anchor.’”
Marge pressed the button again. The device inside her seemed to come alive, the vibrations shifting into a pattern, a slow, pulsing rhythm that was pure torture. It was all Margaret could do not to rock her hips against the chair. Her cunt was clenching around nothing, desperate for friction, for release. The professional words on the screen—‘serenity’, ‘stability’—felt like a cruel joke.
“The data,” Margaret forced out, “suggests that ‘confidence’ tests better with our target demographic.” She was digging her nails into her own palm.
“Does it? I’ll have to check the reports again.”
Marge’s thumb hovered over the remote. She looked at Margaret, her eyes asking a silent question. Margaret gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
The vibration pattern changed instantly to a high, relentless buzz. It was unbearable. The coil in her belly tightened to a breaking point. The clamps felt like they were branding her. She was wet, painfully aroused, her body screaming for culmination.
“Margaret? You’re looking a little flushed. Are you feeling alright?”
“Fine!” The word came out as a strangled squeak. “Just… a bit warm. Please, continue.”
She was going to come. Right here, on a Zoom call with Brenda from marketing. The absurdity of it was almost as powerful as the vibrations. Her body was betraying her, convulsing around the intruder, the pleasure a wave about to crash.
“Well, that’s all I had,” Brenda said, her face pixelating slightly. “Unless you have any other feedback?”
“No!” Margaret gasped. “None. ‘Quiet Confidence’ is perfect. Thank you, Brenda.”
“Great! Talk tomorrow!”
The second Brenda’s face disappeared from the screen, Margaret’s composure shattered. A raw, guttural cry was torn from her throat as the orgasm ripped through her. Her body seized, her back arching off the chair, her hands flying to the desk to steady herself as waves of violent, shocking pleasure wracked her. The chain between the clamps jingled with her tremors.
Slowly, the vibrations ceased. Marge had turned off the remote.
Margaret slumped forward, forehead resting on the cool wood of the coffee table, breathing in ragged, sobbing gasps. She was spent, humiliated, exhilarated.
Marge got up and poured another glass of wine. She placed it on the table next to Margaret’s head.
“See?” Marge said, her voice soft but firm. “You can be a professional and a fucking goddess at the same time. You just have to be brave enough to choose both.”
Margaret lifted her head, tears of release and overwhelming sensation in her eyes. She looked at her best friend, then down at the remote on the couch. A slow, shaky smile spread across her face. The hunger wasn’t just back. It had evolved. It had teeth.