Chapter 6: Professional Facade
The office was a cage of polished glass and muted greys, every surface reflecting the sterile overhead lights. Garrett sat stiffly in Katy’s expensive ergonomic chair, the leather groaning softly as he shifted. The Henderson contracts were a blur of legal jargon on the massive screen. He’d signed three already, scrawling Katy’s signature with a hand that trembled just enough to be noticeable.
Every time he moved, the whisper-soft fabric of her blouse rubbed against skin that was hypersensitive, a constant, maddening reminder of the morning. Of his own—her—hands on her body. He crossed his legs tightly under the desk, the pressure a feeble attempt to quell the low, persistent thrum of arousal that had been his companion since he’d left the cabin. It was like a background app he couldn’t force quit, draining his battery.
The door to the corner office opened without a knock. Robert from accounting leaned against the frame, his smile a little too wide, his eyes lingering a little too long. "Katy. Those signatures come through yet? Need to get the ball rolling."
"Almost done," Garrett said. It still felt like putting on a bad puppet show.
Robert sauntered in, ignoring the clear boundary of the desk. He placed a hand on the back of Garrett’s chair, leaning over to peer at the screen. His cologne was overpowering, a cloud of synthetic musk. "You look flushed. Everything okay? Big weekend?"
Garrett froze. The proximity was invasive. He could feel the heat from Robert’s body, see the pores on his nose. This wasn't the casual backslapping he was used to. This was something else, something predatory draped in a suit. "Just a lot going on," he managed, staring rigidly at the monitor.
Robert’s hand moved from the chair to his shoulder, giving it a squeeze that was meant to be reassuring but felt possessive. "You know, you don't have to carry all this yourself. A pretty young thing like you… you should be out having fun, not buried in paperwork. I could take some of the load off you."
His thumb stroked the curve of her shoulder through the blouse. A wave of cold nausea washed over Garrett, followed by a flash of white-hot anger. He wanted to shove the guy back, to tell him to get his fucking hands off him. But he was in Katy’s body. He was the pretty young thing. This was her daily reality.
He shrugged the hand off, a sharp, jerky movement. "I've got it, Robert. Thanks." The words came out clipped, colder than he intended.
Robert’s smile tightened, but he didn’t move. "Suit yourself. Just remember the offer stands. Door's always open." He winked before finally turning and leaving, the click of the door feeling like a gunshot.
Garrett sat there, breathing heavily. His—her—heart was hammering against her ribs. The arousal was gone, completely erased by the acidic burn of violation. He looked down at Katy’s hands, now clenched into small, furious fists on the keyboard. He finally understood the sharp, guarded look she sometimes got in her eyes at family functions. He’d just thought she was being moody.
Back at the cabin, the silence was a physical weight. Katy paced the length of the living room, Garrett’s long legs eating up the floorboards with an impatient, restless energy. The memory of the morning was a live wire under her skin, a constant, buzzing static. Her own body’s responses, seen and felt from the outside, were a loop playing behind her eyes. The feel of her own—his—lips. The shock of sensation.
She stopped in front of the closet, yanking the door open. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just needing to move, to act. A duffel bag was shoved in the back, half-hidden behind winter coats. She pulled it out, the zipper rasping in the quiet room.
Inside, nestled next to a pair of old running shoes, was a black plastic case. She knew what it was before she twisted the case open. She stared at it, her breath catching in her throat. His throat.
This was the line. The real one. The one they hadn't even needed to verbalize because it was so obvious. This was too personal, but she was so horny from making out earlier.
Her hand, his hand, reached out and picked it up. The material was softer than she expected, yielding. A bizarre and intimate piece of him. A tool for his solitude. Her curiosity was a sharp, hungry thing, eclipsing the whisper of wrong. He was her. She was him. This was just… more exploring.
She took it into the bathroom, the white light harsh on the tiles. She didn't look in the mirror. She didn't want to see his face, his expression. This was between her and this new body, this alien nervous system.
The persistent, throbbing erection she’d been fighting for hours now felt less like desire and more like a medical alert. A commercial jingle about priapism echoed in her mind, a stupid, singsong warning about four-hour limits. She’d been like this for three.
This was just preventative maintenance, a necessary release to avoid a trip to the emergency room in her cousin’s body. She positioned the device, took a steadying breath, and pushed. The dry, synthetic material dragged painfully against the sensitive skin, a sharp, burning friction that made her gasp and recoil. "Shit, okay, no," she muttered to the empty bathroom, the deep voice a jarring counterpoint to her frustration.
A memory, sharp and unwelcome, flashed behind her eyes: her first boyfriend, fumbling, drunk, trying to enter her ass from behind without any preparation. The searing, tearing feeling. The same principle applied here, a lesson in basic biology she’d somehow forgotten in her hormonal panic. Lube. She needed lube.
She padded quickly into her own bedroom, the one she’d lent to Garrett, and yanked open the nightstand drawer. Her fingers closed around the familiar bottle of clear silicone gel. The irony was not lost on her as she returned to the bathroom, to his body, with her solution.
She applied a generous amount, the cool slickness a immediate relief. This time, when she guided himself into the device, the sensation was completely different. It was a smooth, yielding pressure, a tight, silken heat that made her knees feel weak. A low groan ripped from her throat, entirely involuntary.
Her hips began to move on their own, a slow, experimental rhythm. As the pleasure built, her mind, ever analytical, began to compare. This felt good, a focused, intense friction. But it was a tunnel. It made her think of the difference between this and what she knew, the complex, encompassing warmth of a vagina. How would that feel on this nerve-packed skin? The thought was a lightning strike. How would her own pussy feel wrapped around this cock?
The comparison shattered her concentration, sending her tumbling over the edge. A raw, guttural sound escaped her as the climax ripped through her, a convulsive wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Her vision whited out for a second, her body shuddering against the cold bathroom counter.
When it was over, she was left panting, staring at their reflection in the mirror—his flushed face, his dazed blue eyes. The medical urgency was gone, replaced by a hollow, complicated shame. She had just crossed a line they hadn't even known existed, and she had no idea how to tell him.