Chapter 57: Typical Tuesday
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing Alexey in with the sterile scent of polished metal and floor cleaner. Alone for the first time since waking, the tension he’d been holding coiled tighter. Every step down the corridor towards his workstation sent a fresh, insistent throb radiating from his ass, a constant, humiliating echo of Sharon’s lesson. His jaw ached with a dull persistence, making swallowing an ordeal. He adjusted his tie, the starched cotton collar grating against the raw feeling in his throat.
The tech startup office buzzed with its usual Tuesday energy – the clatter of keyboards, the low murmur of conference calls bleeding from glass-walled rooms, the sharp tang of over-brewed coffee hanging in the air. He navigated the open floor plan, passing clusters of ergonomic chairs and glowing monitors, forcing his gait to appear normal despite the discomfort. He sank into his own chair with a subtle wince, the mesh groaning slightly under his weight. The familiar glow of his triple monitors offered a fragile sense of routine.
"Volkov. You look like you wrestled a bear… and lost." Brenda Sunders’s voice cut through the ambient noise, sharp and amused. His boss leaned against the partition wall, arms crossed. Tall and striking, her fiery red hair pulled back in a severe knot, she assessed him with intelligent green eyes. There was no malice, only the blunt observation he’d come to expect.
Alexey cleared his throat, the sound grating and painfully hoarse. "Just… late night," he managed, avoiding her gaze, focusing intently on waking his computer screens. "Bad connection on a call with Moscow." The lie felt clumsy.
Brenda chuckled, a low, smoky sound. "Sounds like you were doing the yelling. Lose your voice screaming at incompetent relatives?" She pushed off the wall, her expression shifting to something more serious, though a flicker of amusement remained. "Check the specs Jenkins sent over for the Baxter project. Needs your eyes before the 10 AM sync."
"Da. On it," he rasped, opening the file. The numbers swam slightly. Brenda lingered for a moment, her gaze lingering on the strained lines around his eyes, the obvious tension in his shoulders, before nodding curtly and striding away, her heels clicking decisively on the polished concrete.
Alone again, he took a slow, painful sip of lukewarm water from his bottle. His phone, face down on the desk, vibrated softly. He flipped it over.
> Sharon: Missing my good cucky already 😘 How’s the throat? Bet it feels like you swallowed sandpaper. Serves you right for taking it so deep 😈
Attached was a selfie. She was in her office, the muted tones of therapy bookshelves visible behind her. She wore the ivory silk blouse, leaning slightly forward, offering the camera a warm, dimpled smile. The top buttons were undone, revealing the delicate gold chain resting against the swell of her F-cup breasts hinted at beneath the fabric. It was simultaneously sweet, sexy, and deeply teasing. His cock twitched treacherously against his slacks, a direct, humiliating response to her words and that knowing look.
He typed slowly, his raw throat protesting each mental composition.
> Alexey: Surviving. Brenda thinks I yelled at family.
He hesitated, then added:
> Throat is… sore. Miss you.
Almost instantly:
> Sharon: Aww, poor baby. Tell Brenda you were practicing your deep-throating technique. Might explain the voice 😂 Joking! Mostly. Hang in there. Drink honey tea. Think of my hands on your shoulders later. Or maybe lower… 💋
He choked on his water, a small cough escaping his bruised throat just as a colleague walked past, throwing him a curious glance. He wiped his mouth, heat creeping up his neck. He didn’t dare reply.
He buried himself in the Baxter specs, the technical diagrams a welcome distraction, forcing his mind into the cold logic of tolerances and load capacities. For about twenty minutes, the numbers held his focus, the ache in his body a distant thrum. Then the phone vibrated again.
> Katya: AMERICAN COFFEE IS WEAK SAUCE. NEED VODKA INJECTION STAT.
Followed by another buzz.
> Also, Arthur just walked past my desk wearing THAT grey t-shirt. The one that clings. To EVERYTHING. Especially the shoulders. And the… well. You know. 😏
A photo arrived. Katya had clearly taken it surreptitiously, angled slightly upwards from her desk. A tall, broad-shouldered young man with tousled blonde-ish hair was walking away down an office corridor. The grey cotton t-shirt did indeed cling, outlining powerful shoulders, a tapered back, and, unmistakably, the defined curve of his buttocks beneath the fabric. It was candid, undeniably attractive, and infused with Katya’s signature playful appraisal.
Alexey stared at the image. Arthur. The coworker she’d befriended instantly. The one with the… he remembered her earlier breakfast comment. 8.5 inches. He shifted in his chair, the movement aggravating his sore asshole. A confusing cocktail of emotions churned – amusement at Katya’s audacity, a pang of something that felt suspiciously like envy looking at Arthur’s physique, and a strange, unwelcome flicker of curiosity. His cock, traitorously, stirred again.
> Alexey: Focus on presentation, Katyusha.
He sent, trying for stern older cousin. It felt hollow.
> Katya: Oh, I’m focused. Focused on how distracting he is! Presentation prep is boring. Send nudes? 😂 Kidding! Mostly. Break a leg at 11. Not literally. Unless Arthur carries me… 💪🏻
He shook his head, a reluctant smile touching his lips despite himself. Katya’s relentless, shameless energy was exhausting but impossible to truly dislike. He put the phone aside, determined to regain focus.
Lunchtime brought a brief reprieve. He ate a bland sandwich at his desk, the bread scraping his throat. The office noise dipped to a low hum. His phone lit up. Another message from Sharon.
> Sharon: Lunch break! Surviving the emotional minefield that is Tuesday. Priya says hi! 😉
The photo attached stopped his chewing mid-bite. Sharon and Priya were squeezed together in what looked like a cozy restaurant booth. Priya, tall and stunning with warm brown skin and intelligent dark eyes, grinned at the camera, holding up a peace sign. Sharon was pressed close, her head tilted affectionately against Priya’s, flashing her dimples. They both looked effortlessly beautiful and relaxed. But it was Sharon’s caption that sent a jolt straight to Alexey’s groin, hardening him instantly against the constraints of his slacks.
> Sharon: Told Priya about last night’s ‘oral skills development seminar’ for my favorite student. She’s VERY impressed with your… dedication. Said ‘Hot Mulatto’ sends her regards to ‘Cucky’. 😉🍆💦
The words blurred for a second. Priya knew. Priya, Sharon’s sharp-witted best friend, knew about him on his knees, choking on the strap-on. Knew about the raw throat, the soreness. She was calling him ‘Cucky’ now, too, amplifying Sharon’s pet name into something shared, something known outside the sacred, terrifying space of their bedroom. The humiliation was scalding, a public flaying disguised as a casual lunch selfie. Yet, beneath the shame, the visceral image of Sharon recounting the details – his details, his desperate sounds, his submission – to her friend ignited a furnace in his belly. His cock throbbed, painfully hard now, trapped and straining against his zipper. He could almost hear Priya’s rich laugh, see the knowing glint in her eyes. The exposure was terrifying. The arousal, sparked by that exposure and Sharon’s obvious pride in sharing it, was undeniable.
He couldn’t move. He stared at the photo, at their smiling faces, at the words that burned. He was simultaneously mortified and painfully aroused, pinned between conflicting tides of shame and desperate need. His fist clenched on the edge of his desk, knuckles white. The hum of the office receded, replaced by the pounding of his own heart and the insistent pressure in his groin. He needed air. He needed to hide. He needed… he didn’t know what he needed.
The phone buzzed again, vibrating against the desk surface like a live wire. He flinched. It was Katya.
> Katya: PRESENTATION NAILED IT! Arthur said I was ‘brilliant and captivating’! Pretty sure he meant the slides… or maybe not? 😉 He’s having people over Friday. Cool apartment. GREAT view, he says. You and Shar HAVE to come! You can tell him about your… engineering projects 😉🍆🍆🍆 Seriously though, come! It’ll be fun!
Friday. Arthur’s apartment. Katya’s suggestive emojis echoing Sharon’s. His secret, his shame, his confusing arousal, felt like it was spilling out, leaking into the wider world – his boss, Sharon’s best friend, now his cousin’s attractive coworker. The momentum was terrifying. Unstoppable. He stared at Katya’s message, then back at Sharon’s photo with Priya. The echo of Priya’s imagined voice saying "Cucky" reverberated in his raw throat. His cock pulsed, a relentless ache beneath his desk. Friday loomed. The world outside the silken sheets felt perilously small.
The world outside the silken sheets felt perilously small. Alexey’s phone screen pulsed with the promise and peril of Friday night, Katya’s emojis winking like tiny grenades. He shoved the device into his pocket, the phantom taste of Sharon’s strap-on plastic and his own release clinging to the back of his raw throat. He forced himself back into the Baxter schematics, the sterile lines a fragile bulwark against the insistent throb in his ass and the chaotic flutter in his chest. Numbers, tolerances, load vectors – cold, logical anchors in the rising tide of exposure. Brenda’s pointed comment about his voice echoed, a public footnote to a deeply private humiliation. He drank more water, the lukewarm liquid scraping like gravel.
The afternoon crawled, each minute weighted by bodily reminders and buzzing texts. Sharon sent another photo mid-afternoon: a close-up of her lips, berry-glossed and curved in a knowing smile, captioned simply: Thinking about your throat. How deep it took me last night. How deep it will take me later. His cock jumped against his zipper, a traitorous pulse of heat cutting through the lingering ache. He leaned back carefully, the mesh chair groaning, pressing the cool screen of his monitor briefly against his forehead. Focus was a slippery thing. Katya pinged him again: Arthur just brought me an iced coffee! Unprompted! Total gentleman. Also, confirmed Friday. BE THERE OR BE SQUARE, LOSER! 😉 Her relentless cheer was a bizarre counterpoint to his internal turmoil, a sunny spotlight on his hidden shame. He replied with a thumbs-up emoji, the bare minimum. The invitation felt like stepping onto a precipice, Arthur’s unseen 8.5 inches a looming presence behind Katya’s enthusiastic words. Images flickered: Sharon recounting his submission to Priya, Katya’s knowing breakfast grin, the casual cruelty in ‘Cucky’ morphing into a shared secret. His stomach knotted.
Finally, the workday bled into dusk. He drove home through the city’s twilight rush, the rhythmic ache in his lower body syncing with the stop-and-go traffic. Letting himself into the apartment, the warm aroma of garlic, ginger, and soy sauce washed over him – Sharon cooking. The familiar scent was a balm and a trigger, inextricably linked to her possession. He found her in the kitchen, swaying slightly to low music, wearing soft leggings and an oversized t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Steam rose from a wok as she stirred, her dark hair loosely piled up, tendrils escaping to frame her neck. She turned, her dimples flashing instantly.
"Hey, cucky," she murmured, her voice warm honey laced with steel. She crossed the space in two strides, her hands finding his hips. Her kiss was soft, lingering, tasting faintly of the soy glaze she was cooking. "How’s the poor throat?" Her thumb brushed his neck, sending a shiver unrelated to pain down his spine. "And… elsewhere?" Her other hand drifted lower, pressing gently against the base of his spine, right above the tender spot. He inhaled sharply.
"Sore," he admitted, his voice still rough. "Manageable." He leaned into her touch, craving the comfort despite its source. "Smells amazing."
Katya burst into the kitchen moments later, shedding her professional armor. She wore bright pink sweatpants and a cropped t-shirt, her blonde ponytail bouncing. "Lesha! You're alive! Brenda didn't work you to death?" She beamed, snagging a piece of stir-fried broccoli from the wok before Sharon could swat her hand away. "Presentation was epic, by the way. Arthur said I blew everyone away. Like, literally." She winked at Alexey, popping the broccoli into her mouth.
Dinner was set on the small round table. Plates piled high with fragrant noodles, glistening vegetables, and seared chicken. They sat. Katya immediately launched into a breathless recap, gesturing with her chopsticks. "It was intense, right? Q&A was brutal, but I handled it. Arthur – he’s the one I told you about? – totally had my back. Gave me this little nod when I was crushing it." She took a large bite. "He’s seriously cool. Super chill, funny. Not like some of the stiffs there." She pointed her chopsticks at Alexey. "You’d like him, Lesha. Real easygoing. Shar, you’d definitely approve."
Sharon took a sip of water, her eyes glinting with amusement over the rim of her glass. She nudged Alexey’s knee under the table. "Oh? This is the famous Arthur? The one with the… impressive coffee delivery service?"
Katya grinned, unashamed. "The very one! And he invited us all to his place Friday night. Said it’ll just be a chill thing, few friends, drinks, music. Apparently has this killer view." She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You guys have to come. Seriously. It’ll be fun. Sharon, you need to meet him. Lesha, you need to get out of your engineering cave." Her gaze darted briefly between them, a flicker of something knowing beneath the enthusiasm. "He’s exactly your kind of people. Fun, smart… open-minded." The last word hung in the air, weighted.
Sharon placed her glass down. She turned her head slowly towards Alexey, a slow, deliberate smirk spreading across her lips, her dimples deepening. Her grey-blue eyes locked onto his, holding him captive across the noodles. "Well," she said, her voice soft but carrying absolute clarity. "We definitely should, right hun?" The smirk widened, a silent challenge wrapped in affection, acknowledging everything – the soreness, the texts, the strap-on, the exposure to Priya, the unspoken tension around Arthur’s name and Katya’s description. Her gaze didn’t waver, demanding his answer, his complicity in stepping further out onto that precipice.
Alexey felt the familiar dual currents – a rush of heat flooding his chest and groin at her command, the smirk, the sheer ownership in her tone, warring with the cold prickle of exposed nerves at the thought of Friday, of Arthur. He saw Katya watching him intently, her own expression a mix of playful expectation and genuine curiosity. He swallowed, the motion still scraping his bruised throat. The momentum Sharon had built since dawn, since Priya’s text, since Katya’s photos, felt unstoppable. Resistance was futile, perhaps even undesired in the deepest, most confusing part of him. He met Sharon’s eyes, saw the fierce love beneath the dominance, the therapist’s understanding beneath the mistress’s smirk. His voice was a low rasp, scraped raw yet decisive. "Da. We should."