Chapter 31: The Monday Pt. 2
The sterile office hum faded into background static as Alexey stared at his phone, the ghost of Sharon's cleavage photo still burning behind his eyelids. The schematics lay forgotten, numbers blurring into meaningless lines. Work felt like trying to swim through concrete. He hadn't replied to her last "Cucky" text – a small rebellion instantly punished by a fresh, low throb of need. The jasmine scent from home seemed embedded in his sinuses, a cruel olfactory reminder. He was about to force himself back into torque calculations when the phone pulsed again.
Sharon (1:18 PM): Decision time, engineer! ✨ Got my ‘date armor’ options laid out. Need expert consultation. Or… should I just send them to Mark? Let the man of the hour choose? 😉 [Attachment: 3 Images]
Alexey’s breath hitched. Three photos filled the screen in rapid succession. The first showed Sharon standing before her full-length mirror, holding the phone high. She wore a tight, short black dress constructed of panels – some opaque, some sheer mesh – strategically revealing flashes of skin at her waist and thighs. High, sharp stilettos made her legs look impossibly long. Her expression was pure, smoldering confidence, head tilted, lips slightly parted. It screamed ‘take me somewhere expensive.’
The second: She’d changed into dark, high-waisted leather-look trousers that clung like a second skin, emphasizing the powerful curve of her hips and ass. Paired with a sophisticated, off-white silk blouse unbuttoned daringly low, revealing the black lace bra beneath and the deep valley between her breasts. Her hair was sleek, pulled back severely, highlighting her elegant neck and cheekbones. Professional, powerful, undeniably sexy. ‘Intimidatingly alluring,’ Alexey’s traitorous brain supplied.
The third: A stark contrast. A flowing, knee-length floral sundress in vibrant reds and pinks. Soft, feminine, the fabric hinting at the curves beneath without clinging. Strappy sandals, hair loose in cascading waves around her shoulders. She smiled warmly in this one, the dimples deep, radiating approachable charm. ‘Girl-next-door who knows exactly what she’s doing.’
Alexey swallowed hard. Each outfit was a weapon aimed directly at his conflicted core. The black dress promised visceral, public display; the trousers and blouse screamed forbidden power play; the sundress was pure, agonizing sweetness masking the sting. Choosing felt impossible. Agreeing to let Mark choose felt like handing Sharon the knife she’d use to flay him open later. He typed, fingers trembling slightly.
Alexey (1:21 PM): They all look… incredible. You know that.
Sharon (1:21 PM): Flattery gets you nowhere, Leshka. 😘 But thanks! Now… consultant or delegate? Tick tock. My Uber to Mark’s place arrives in 90 mins. Need to prep the battlefield. 😈
Mark’s place. The words landed like stones. Not a neutral bar or restaurant. Mark’s territory. Alexey squeezed his eyes shut, the image of Sharon in any of those outfits in Mark’s apartment – laughing, drinking, flirting, maybe more – flooding his mind. The ache intensified, a physical pressure demanding release. He remembered her whispered "Imagine explaining that over coffee" from the morning. Now he had to imagine her explaining her outfit choice… to Mark. The humiliation was a live wire. The arousal was undeniable. He typed quickly before he could think.
Alexey (1:23 PM): Send them to Mark.
Sharon (1:23 PM): Oooh! Brave boy! 🎉 Or maybe… just a very good cucky? 😏 Let’s see what the man prefers. Will report back! 💋
His stomach clenched. ‘Report back.’ He pictured Mark scrolling through the photos, scrutinizing his girlfriend’s body, deciding which presentation of her he wanted to enjoy tonight. Deciding how Alexey would see her presented for him. It was excruciating. It was everything he secretly craved and feared. He felt exposed, even alone in his cubicle.
The afternoon crawled. He managed fragments of work, his concentration shattered. Every notification jolt sent adrenaline spiking. He jumped when his desk phone rang – a mundane query from the production floor supervisor. He answered tersely, voice rougher than intended, startling the poor man. He mumbled an apology, hanging up just as his personal phone buzzed again. Not Sharon. Katya.
Katya (2:47 PM): Designers are arguing about ARTISANAL LIGHT SWITCHES. 🤯 I swear. My brain is melting. How’s the factory grind? Still scheming schematics? 🧠💥 Need cute animal pics? Or… distraction? 😉 [Attachment: 1 Image]
The photo wasn’t of an animal. Katya sat perched on a stack of drop cloths amidst the hotel construction chaos. Her hard hat was off now. She’d taken off the cream linen blazer, leaving her in the sleeveless burgundy top. She’d also seemingly undone an extra button or loosened the tie at the neckline, revealing significantly more cleavage than at breakfast or her earlier site photo. A smudge of dust adorned her cheekbone. She winked playfully at the camera, holding up a comically oversized, dusty light switch plate. The contrast between the dirty environment and her vibrant, intentionally displayed allure was jarring and potent.
Alexey (2:49 PM): Light switches? Seriously? Hang in there. Schematics are… progressing. Slowly. You look like you need a shower more than I did this morning.
Katya (2:50 PM): Ugh, tell me about it! Dust in places dust shouldn’t be! 😫 And yes, shower is priority numero uno when I get home! Hope Sharon hasn’t used all the hot water prepping for her hot date! 😜🔥
Alexey flinched. Katya’s casual mention of the date, combined with the provocative image, felt like salt rubbed into a raw wound. He stared at her cleavage, the dust smudge, the playful wink. It was impossible not to picture her stepping out of the shower later, towel-clad, maybe, steam curling around her… He shook his head violently, shoving the thought away. He typed a non-committal "Haha, good luck with the switches," and forced his eyes back to his screen, the schematics swimming before him.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed with a ferocity that felt like a physical shock. Sharon.
Sharon (3:15 PM): Drumroll please! 🥁 Mark has spoken! And the winner is… the POWER SUIT! 😎 Leather trousers & silk blouse combo! He said, and I quote, ‘The blend of elegance and ‘don’t fuck with me’ is fucking hot. Also, the buttons look very… undoable.’ 😏 Clever boy. [Attachment: 1 Image]
She’d sent a mirror selfie. She wore the winning outfit – the tight, dark faux-leather trousers and the creamy silk blouse, now unbuttoned even lower than in the selection photo, revealing more of the intricate black lace bra beneath. Her expression was triumphant, a feline smirk playing on her lips, dimples deep. She held the phone slightly lower, emphasizing the dangerous plunge of the neckline and the curve of her breasts beneath the sheer-ish silk. It was a declaration. Alexey pictured Mark reading that text, seeing this photo, knowing exactly the effect it would have on Alexey. Knowing Alexey would see her looking like this for him.
Sharon (3:16 PM): So, what do you think, Cucky? Did Mark choose well? Bet you’re picturing it now, huh? Me walking into his place like this? Him undoing those ‘undoable’ buttons? 😘 Remember, you agreed to this. You sent him the options. This is your doing too. Enjoy the visual. I know I will. 💋 Packing my little bag now! See you at the bar later… ready to watch. Xxx
The words hit him like a physical blow. "This is your doing too." The culpability slammed into him, twisting the arousal with a sharp spike of shame. He had chosen this. Agreed to it. Facilitated it. He stared at the photo – the powerful lines of the trousers, the deliberate, open invitation of the blouse, the smug triumph in her eyes. He pictured her selecting underwear specifically for Mark, packing a small bag… for Mark’s place. The image of the unbuttoning, the lace being revealed to Mark’s eyes, not his… it was vivid, torturous, and devastatingly arousing.
A wave of heat surged through him, undeniable and urgent, centering low in his belly. His cock hardened insistently against the fabric of his trousers, a painful, trapped throb. He shifted desperately in his chair, but the cubicle walls felt flimsy, transparent. Anyone walking by… He glanced around wildly. His project manager, Brenda, was approaching his cubicle, holding a thick printout, her brow furrowed.
"Alexey? These torque specs for Line 3B seem… Alexey? Are you alright? You look flushed."
Alexey snapped his head up, instinctively angling his body away, hoping his open laptop screen partially shielded his lap. He could feel the heat radiating from his face, the frantic pulse in his neck. Brenda’s eyes held genuine concern. He tried to speak, his throat tight, dry. The phantom scent of jasmine was suffocating. Sharon’s final words echoed: "See you at the bar later… ready to watch."
He was trapped. Trapped in his cubicle. Trapped in his clothes. Trapped in the agonizing, self-inflicted anticipation of watching Sharon walk into that bar, dressed for Mark’s pleasure, by his own choice. Brenda waited, the printout hovering between them, her expression shifting from concern to faint puzzlement. Alexey opened his mouth, no sound emerging, the weight of the afternoon crashing down as the first cold prickle of sweat broke out on his forehead. The schematics lay abandoned, a forgotten puzzle beneath the overwhelming reality of the choice he’d made, and the long, excruciating hours of watching that still lay ahead.
The schematics lay abandoned, a forgotten puzzle beneath the overwhelming reality of the choice he’d made, and the long, excruciating hours of watching that still lay ahead. Brenda’s tall frame filled the cubicle entrance, the thick torque specs printout hovering like an accusation. Her sharp green eyes, usually focused and analytical behind stylish glasses, narrowed slightly as they scanned Alexey’s flushed face, the damp sheen on his forehead, the rigid way he angled his body away from her. "Alexey?" Her voice, normally crisp and efficient, softened with genuine concern. "You look like you just ran a marathon in that shirt. Everything okay? These figures for Line 3B seem… off."
Alexey cleared his throat, the sound rough and unconvincing. He kept his gaze fixed on a random spot on his monitor, avoiding her perceptive stare. "Fine, Brenda. Just… warm. Stuffy in here." He gestured vaguely at the air vent above, hoping she’d buy it. The phantom scent of Sharon’s jasmine perfume seemed impossibly strong. "The specs. Yeah. I’ll… double-check them. Must have transposed a value." He reached for the printout, his hand trembling slightly.
Brenda didn’t move. She leaned a hip against the cubicle partition, her posture relaxed but observant. Her vibrant red hair, pulled back in a sleek twist, caught the fluorescent light. "Stuffy? Feels fine to me." Her gaze flickered down, just for a fraction of a second, towards his lap, then back up to his burning cheeks. A faint, knowing arch appeared in one eyebrow, completely devoid of judgment but utterly devastating. "Right. Well. Double-check those figures. And maybe… grab a cold drink from the break room, Alexey. Cool down." She tapped the printout lightly against her palm. "Deadline’s still EOD." She turned and walked away, her heels clicking a measured rhythm on the linoleum that echoed the frantic pounding in Alexey’s chest.
He slumped back in his chair, releasing a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The cool plastic felt clammy against his back. Brenda’s brief glance, that subtle arch of her eyebrow – it hadn’t been accusatory, but it had seen too much. It confirmed his worst fear: his turmoil wasn’t just internal. It was leaking out, visible, humiliating. The image of Sharon in Mark’s chosen outfit – the powerful trousers, the deliberately undone silk blouse revealing the black lace beneath – slammed back into his mind with renewed force, amplified by Brenda’s quiet observation. His cock throbbed insistently, trapped and aching, a physical counterpoint to the cold dread pooling in his stomach.
He glanced at the clock. 3:45 PM. Sharon would be leaving for Mark’s place soon. Packing her little bag. Applying her makeup. Imagining Mark’s hands undoing those buttons. Alexey shoved himself away from the desk, the chair rolling back with a jarring scrape. He couldn’t sit here. Not with Brenda’s knowing look lingering, not with Sharon’s phantom scent and Mark’s phantom hands crowding him. He needed air. Space. Distance from the schematics that suddenly felt like hieroglyphs mocking his distraction. He grabbed his phone, keys, and wallet, abandoning his laptop and the damning torque specs.
The walk through the open-plan office felt like navigating a minefield. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, acutely aware of every glance, real or imagined. The scent of stale coffee and machine oil did nothing to erase the jasmine. He pushed through the heavy fire door into the stairwell, the sudden silence and cooler air hitting him like a physical blow. He leaned against the concrete wall, the rough surface cold through his shirt, and closed his eyes. Sharon’s text echoed: "See you at the bar later… ready to watch." He wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready. But he’d agreed. Facilitated it. Chosen the path to his own public evisceration.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He flinched, half-expecting another photo, another twist of the knife. It was Katya.
Katya (3:48 PM): ESCAPED THE ARTISANAL LIGHT SWITCH HELL! 🥳 Heading home early to de-dust. Place is a warzone. Sharon buzzing about her date? You surviving? 😅
The normalcy of it, the cheerful obliviousness, was a small anchor. He typed quickly, fingers still unsteady.
Alexey (3:49 PM): Surviving. Barely. Brenda noticed… something. Awkward. Heading out early too. Need air. See you at home.
Katya (3:50 PM): Uh oh! Brenda radar locked on? 😬 She misses NOTHING. Hot shower awaits me! 🚿 Try not to combust before the big show tonight! 😜🔥
Alexey shoved the phone back in his pocket, Katya’s teasing ‘big show’ landing with uncomfortable accuracy. He pushed off the wall and took the stairs down two at a time, the clanging echo a welcome counterpoint to the frantic buzz in his head. Emerging onto the street, the city’s afternoon roar – honking cars, snippets of conversation, the rumble of a bus – felt jarringly loud, a chaotic symphony after the sterile office silence. He turned not towards home, but towards the direction of the bar where he was expected to watch. The walk stretched before him, each step laden with the unbearable weight of anticipation. Sharon would be at Mark’s place now. The silk blouse would be coming off. The black lace revealed. And he was walking straight towards witnessing the aftermath, dressed in his own silent, agonizing consent. The amber glow of the bedroom, the cold shower spray, Brenda’s knowing eyebrow – they all blurred into a single, relentless pressure behind his eyes as he moved through the crowded sidewalk, a man marching towards his own exquisite, self-inflicted unraveling. The city pulsed around him, indifferent, as he braced for the impact of seeing her walk into that bar, marked by Mark’s choice, by his own hand.
The city pulsed around him, indifferent, as he braced for the impact of seeing her walk into that bar, marked by Mark’s choice, by his own hand. The thought of sitting alone in the silent apartment, surrounded by Sharon’s lingering scent and the unbearable quiet before the storm, felt suffocating. He walked past the turn leading home, the streetlamps flickering on in the early autumn dusk, casting long, distorted shadows. His feet carried him, seemingly of their own accord, towards the small, tree-lined park two blocks away. It was a pocket of green amidst the concrete, usually filled with dog walkers or kids kicking a ball, now quietening as evening settled in.
He found an empty bench beneath a gnarled oak, its leaves rustling dryly overhead. He sank onto the cold, painted slats, letting his bag slump beside him. The distant city hum was softer here, replaced by the chirp of late-season crickets and the whisper of wind through the branches. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes against the fading light, trying to silence the relentless loop in his mind: Sharon packing her bag, the deliberate unbuttoning, Mark’s approving gaze. The weight of his consent pressed down, a physical ache in his chest. Time stretched, thin and taut. He pulled out his phone, stared blankly at the dark screen, willing it not to buzz, yet dreading the silence just as much.
"Alex? Hey!" A bright, familiar voice cut through the quiet. He opened his eyes. Katya stood at the path's edge, silhouetted against the park lights now glowing softly. She wore comfortable joggers and a loose hoodie, her wheat-blonde hair escaping the messy braid, cheeks flushed from her walk. She looked freshly showered, radiating casual energy. "Fancy meeting the hermit engineer here! Ran out of schematics to hide behind?" She grinned, those bright blue eyes sparkling with amusement as she walked over and plopped down beside him on the bench. The wood creaked slightly under her weight. "I thought you’d be prepping your brave face for the bar."
Alexey managed a weak half-smile, the normalcy of her presence a small relief, yet also a new layer of exposure. "Just... needed air. Work was... intense." He avoided her gaze, focusing on a couple tossing a frisbee in the distance. "You de-dusted okay?"
"Mostly!" Katya laughed, stretching her legs out. "Seriously, Alex, the light switch drama today? Epic. But enough about my design nightmares. Spill! How are you holding up? Sharon texted me earlier, buzzing like a bee about that outfit Mark picked. Those leather-look trousers? And that blouse?" She let out a low, appreciative whistle. "She looked like a sexy CEO about to negotiate a hostile takeover... of Mark’s dick. Serious power move. She must be at his place right now." She nudged him playfully with her elbow. "Bet she’s already got him wrapped around her little finger... or maybe something else. Wonder how many buttons are actually undone by now?"
Alexey flinched. Katya’s cheerful, blunt assessment was a knife twisting in his gut. Her vivid imagery – the power play, the unbuttoning happening right this second – was horribly accurate. He could see it: Sharon’s confident smirk, Mark’s hungry gaze, the silk parting. "Katya..." he started, his voice tight, a protest that died before it fully formed. He didn’t want to confirm, didn’t want to deny.
"Come on, Lesha," she persisted, using the Russian diminutive with a teasing lilt. "You saw the selfie she sent after he chose. She was radiating ‘mission accomplished’. Can you imagine? Her walking into his place like that? The look on his face?" Katya chuckled, shaking her head. "Probably dropped his jaw onto that fancy hardwood floor he bragged about. Then, pop, first button. Pop, second..." She mimicked the motion with her fingers, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Bet he didn't wait long to get his hands on those 'undoable' beauties. Wonder if he ripped the silk or was...delicate?" She winked. "Wonder what she's doing to him right this second?"
The specificity was torture. Alexey squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the mental pictures Katya painted with such gleeful precision. The park sounds faded; he was trapped in the phantom apartment with them. His hand clenched around his phone. Right this second. The phrase echoed. What was she doing? Flirting? Touching? More? The uncertainty was worse than knowing. A wave of heat washed over him, a confusing mix of nausea and unwanted arousal. The crickets' chirp seemed deafening.
Then, his phone vibrated. A harsh, insistent buzz against his palm. His eyes snapped open. A notification lit the screen: Sharon: [2 Images Attached]. Time froze. Katya saw it too. Her teasing grin faded into keen, curious interest. "Ooh? Report from the front lines?" she murmured, leaning closer.
His thumb hovered, trembling, over the screen. A cold dread warred with a terrifying, compulsive need to see. He tapped. The first image loaded. Instantly, Alexey’s breath locked in his chest. Sharon. On her knees. Her dark, glossy hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her face was tilted up towards the camera, eyes wide open and fixed directly on the lens. Between her parted, glossy lips stretched the thick, mushroom-shaped head of an enormous cock. Veins snaked down the shaft, visible even in the intimate lighting. Her expression was intense, focused, yet held a raw vulnerability. Submission, but not surrender. Her gaze pleaded directly into the camera – into him.
"Whoa," Katya breathed beside him, her voice hushed now, devoid of teasing, filled with stark, genuine surprise. "Fuck me sideways. That is...substantial." She leaned in further, her shoulder pressing against his arm as she stared at the image on his phone. "Look at the girth of that thing! Jesus, Alex. No wonder she looks..." Katya trailed off, searching for the word, her eyes wide. "...determined."
Before Alexey could react, could process the gut-punch of the first image, his thumb instinctively swiped. The second photo loaded. Sharon again, eyes squeezed tightly shut now, tears glistening on her lashes. Her cheeks were hollowed with profound effort. Significantly more of the thick shaft filled her mouth, stretching her lips obscenely wide. The angle showed a large, masculine hand firmly gripping the back of her head, fingers tangled possessively in her hair, applying clear pressure, holding her in place. Her own hands were clenched into fists at her sides. The sheer strain on her face, juxtaposed with the controlling hand, was visceral. Her watery eyes, even closed, seemed to radiate a silent plea towards the lens.
Alexey couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The images burned into his retinas. He felt disconnected from his body, yet acutely aware of a traitorous, immediate tightening in his groin, a swift, involuntary surge of blood. It was a biological betrayal, a physical echo of the shocking visual stimulus, completely divorced from the storm of anguish, possessiveness, and profound shame crashing through his mind. He sat rigid on the cold bench, the park a distant blur, the phone a poisonous weight in his hand.
Katya let out a slow, low whistle, the sound cutting through the sudden, charged silence between them. She leaned back slightly, her gaze fixed on the frozen image of Sharon straining, tears evident, under Mark’s guiding hand. Her voice, when she spoke, held a strange mix of awe, blunt assessment, and an unsettling, newfound understanding. "Holy dedication, Batman," she murmured, shaking her head slowly. "Look at her go. Taking that absolute monster halfway down? With him holding her head like that? Damn, Sharon. That’s... commitment." She glanced sideways at Alexey’s frozen profile, his knuckles white on the phone. "She’s really giving him the whole performance, huh? For the camera. For you."