Chapter 3: Investor Relations
The black credit card sat on her kitchen table for two days. It looked like a scar against the cheap wood veneer. Amari didn’t touch it. She went through the motions: applying for jobs she was now grotesquely overqualified for, reheating leftovers, answering her father’s cheerful texts. She showered twice a day, scrubbing her skin until it was pink, but the feeling of Shoto’s hands, his ownership, lingered like a tattoo under the surface.
The limousine came at eight a.m., just as he’d said. Every morning since. It waited downstairs while she dressed in simple, elegant clothes she’d never afford—clothes that appeared in her closet overnight, wrapped in silent black tissue paper. The driver never spoke. He just delivered her to the soaring titanium tower that housed Shoto Global, and whisked her up a private elevator that opened directly into his office suite.
It wasn’t an office. It was an aerie. A vast expanse of polished midnight-mahogany and charcoal granite. One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out over a city that seemed to cower beneath it. The air smelled of aged leather, single-malt whiskey, and beneath it all, the clean, cold scent of him. There were no personal photos, no trivial decorations. Only a monolithic desk, a pair of severe leather chairs, and on one wall, a single, violent abstract painting in slashes of red and black.
Her role was undefined. “Mentorship,” he called it. She sat in a chair by the window, a sleek laptop open before her. He gave her files—acquisitions, mergers, hostile takeover strategies. “Tell me what you see,” he’d say, and she would, her voice growing steadier as the days passed, dissecting financial reports with an instinct that made his eyes darken with something that wasn’t just lust. He listened. He argued. He treated her mind with a ruthless respect that was more intoxicating than the money.
And then, always, there was the other thing.
A glance that lasted too long. A hand on the nape of her neck as he leaned over to point at a clause on her screen. A firm, guiding pressure that would steer her to her knees behind the desk. He never took her on the desk itself. That was for business. The space beneath it was hers.
It was there she knelt on the third morning, the thick wool carpet imprinting on her bare knees. The investor call was scheduled for 10:15. Her father, promoted to a new project management role—a promotion Shoto had announced with a bland smile—was due to present at 10:30. He was in the building, likely pacing a conference room downstairs, going over his notes.
“Remember,” Shoto said, his voice low as he settled into his high-backed leather throne, his hand curling possessively in her curls. “Not a sound.”
The phone on his desk buzzed. He hit a button. “Shoto.” His voice transformed, becoming the crisp, confident instrument that commanded boardrooms. “Gentlemen. Let’s begin.”
As the voices of men in distant cities filtered through the speakerphone—discussing margins, growth, vertical integration—Shoto unzipped his trousers.
He was already hard. His cock, thick and heavy, sprang free, the head flushed a dark, angry red. He guided it to her lips without looking down, his eyes fixed on the skyline as he replied to a query about quarterly projections.
“We’re exceeding targets in the Asia-Pacific sector,” he said, his tone effortless. “The volatility is anticipated, and factored into our models.”
Amari opened her mouth. The first touch of him against her tongue was salt and musk. She took him in, the solid, warm weight of him filling her mouth. She heard the faintest hitch in his breathing, a barely-there stutter that was instantly controlled. On the phone, a man praised his foresight.
She began to move, a slow, hidden rhythm beneath the polished wood. Her world narrowed to the stretch of her lips, the press of him against the back of her throat, the sound of his voice above her, discussing billion-dollar sums while her saliva slicked his length. He rested a hand on her head, not forcing, just holding, his thumb stroking her temple. It was a gesture of terrifying tenderness amidst the debauchery.
“The labor cost analysis needs refinement,” Shoto said, his fingers tightening slightly in her hair. “David Jones is leading that review. He’ll be presenting fresh data shortly.”
Dad. The name screamed in her mind. Her eyes flew open. She could see the office doors through the gap beneath the desk—tall, panes of frosted glass. A shadow moved beyond them. A familiar, stooped silhouette. He was here. Early.
A cold wave of panic washed through her. She tried to pull back, but Shoto’s hand firmed, holding her in place. He pushed forward, just an inch, his cockhead nudging deeper into her throat. Her gag reflex fluttered, tears springing to her eyes.
“—concerned about the timeline, Edmund,” a voice crackled from the speaker.
“The timeline is non-negotiable,” Shoto replied, his voice rock-steady even as he began a subtle, rolling thrust of his hips, feeding himself deeper into her mouth. “We have the personnel. We have the strategy. The execution will be flawless.”
The shadow beyond the glass doors paused. Her father was right there. Maybe checking his tie. Maybe taking a steadying breath. If he opened the door… if he walked in… he would see the back of Shoto’s chair. He would see nothing amiss. Unless he looked down. Unless he heard the wet, subtle click of her throat accommodating him.
Shoto was fully seated now, his entire length buried in her mouth, her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. She couldn’t breathe. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. Her hands, which had been resting on her thighs, flew up to grip his, her nails digging into the fine wool of his trousers.
He held her there, impossibly deep, while the investor asked another question. He let her struggle, let her lungs burn, before he finally pulled back, allowing her a ragged, silent gasp of air. Spit and pre-cum dripped from her chin onto her chest, onto the expensive silk of her blouse.
“I agree completely,” Shoto said into the phone, his voice placid. He looked down then, for the first time. His eyes met hers in the dim space under the desk. They were dilated, black with a feral heat, but his expression was one of icy, detached control. He mouthed a single, silent word. “Good.”
He fucked her mouth then in earnest, a slow, relentless piston motion. Each thrust was deliberate, timed between his own measured sentences. She lost herself in the rhythm, the obscene contradiction of it. The clinical financial jargon above, the raw, wet sex below. Her own arousal was a hot, shameful coil in her belly, tightening with every push, every muffled groan he stifled.
The shadow beyond the glass door shifted, then moved away. Her father was leaving, perhaps to wait in the outer lounge. The immediate danger passed, leaving only the intense, brutal intimacy of the act.
Shoto’s breaths were becoming shorter, his replies to the investors more clipped. His hand in her hair was a vise.
“We’ll reconvene next week,” he said suddenly, his voice growing thicker. “I have another commitment.”
He ended the call without ceremony, slamming the phone down. In the sudden silence, the only sound was the wet, rhythmic noise of her mouth on his cock and his ragged breathing.
“Look at me,” he growled.
She tilted her head up, her eyes streaming, her lips stretched and swollen.
“You take me so well,” he murmured, his thumb swiping over her slick chin. “Even when you’re terrified. Especially when you’re terrified.”
His pace quickened, turning brutal. He was no longer the CEO. He was just a man, chasing his pleasure in the mouth of a woman he owned. His hips snapped forward, hitting the back of her throat with each drive. She surrendered, letting him use her, her own muffled sounds of submission seeming to spur him on.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a harsh scrape. “Swallow it. Every drop.”
She prepared herself, tightening her throat. With a final, deep thrust, he shuddered, a low, guttural curse tearing from him as his release pulsed hot and bitter down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, again and again, until he was spent, until he softened in her mouth.
He slid out, looking down at her wrecked face, her smeared makeup, her utter submission. For a long moment, he just stared, his chest heaving.
Then, with a tenderness that jarred her, he reached for a box of monogrammed handkerchiefs from a drawer. He crouched down, his expensive trousers knees touching the carpet, and carefully wiped her chin, her cheeks, the front of her blouse. His touch was clinical, yet intimate.
A soft knock sounded at the frosted glass doors.
“Mr. Shoto?” Her father’s voice, muffled but clear. “They said I should come up for the ten-thirty?”
Shoto’s eyes never left hers. He didn’t shout. He simply placed a finger against her swollen lips.
“One moment, David,” he called back, his voice perfectly even, as if he hadn’t just been emptying himself down her throat.
He stood, tucked himself back into his trousers, and zipped up. He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his tie in the reflection of the darkened window. He was the picture of composed authority.
He turned and walked toward the doors, pausing only to look back at her, still on her knees under the desk. He pointed a single, commanding finger downward. Stay.
He opened the door just wide enough to block the view inside. “David. Come in. We’ll review your presentation here before we go down to the conference room.”
Her father stepped into the room. Amari could see his shoes from her hiding place—his best, freshly-polished oxfords. They moved toward the chairs in front of the desk.
“Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” her father said, his voice brimming with gratitude.
“It’s earned,” Shoto replied smoothly. The leather of his chair creaked as he sat back down, his legs a barrier between her and her father. “Show me what you have.”
As her father began speaking, clicking through a slideshow on a tablet, Shoto slowly, silently, rolled his chair forward. The space under the desk became darker, more enclosed. His hand came down, not roughly, but with absolute certainty. He parted her blouse, his fingers finding her nipple through the lace of her bra. He pinched, rolling the tight bud between his fingers as he made a thoughtful hum about market saturation rates.
Amari bit her own hand to keep silent, the pain a sharp counterpoint to the electric pleasure-pain his fingers wrought. She listened to her father’s voice, earnest and hopeful, while Shoto’s other hand slid under her skirt, pushed her damp panties aside, and slid two fingers inside her with the same ruthless efficiency he’d shown in the boardroom.
She was drenched. Her hips jerked involuntarily. Above, her father faltered mid-sentence.
“Is something wrong, David?” Shoto asked, his fingers curling deep inside her.
“N-no, sir. Sorry. Just a bit nervous.”
“Don’t be,” Shoto said, his voice a mask of encouragement. His fingers began to move, a slow, penetrating rhythm that matched the cadence of his speech. “The data is solid. Your analysis is sound. You have nothing to worry about.”
As her father resumed, Shoto worked her with a terrifying expertise. He found the spot inside that made her vision blur, rubbing it with relentless precision while his thumb circled her clit. He played her body like an instrument, tuning her arousal higher and higher as he discussed profit margins and scalability.
The orgasm built, a silent, screaming wave she could not contain. It crashed over her as her father said, “…and that concludes the preliminary overview, Mr. Shoto.”
Her body convulsed in violent, silent spasms around his invading fingers. She shook, her teeth sinking into the meat of her palm to stifle any sound. Shoto kept his hand there, letting her ride it out, milking every last pulse from her as he addressed her father.
“Excellent work, David. Truly. I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes.”
“Thank you, sir! Thank you.”
She heard her father’s footsteps retreat, heard the door open and close. Only then did Shoto withdraw his hand. He leaned back, rolling his chair away, letting the light from the office flood her hiding place.
She crawled out, her body trembling, her clothes disheveled, her face a mask of spent ecstasy and profound shame.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. He picked up the black credit card from his desk drawer—not the one he’d given her, but another, platinum. He held it out.
“Your father’s mortgage,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s paid. In full. The bank will notify him tomorrow.”
The words were a physical blow. The kindness, if it was kindness, was more brutal than the act. It was the final binding. She took the card, the cool metal searing her skin.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, turning to look out at the city. “The driver will take you home.”
He didn’t look at her again. She was dismissed. She stumbled to the private bathroom, locking the door behind her. In the mirror, a stranger stared back: a girl with puffy lips, tear-streaked cheeks, and eyes that held a knowledge that would forever separate her from the man just outside, proudly preparing to present his work.
She heard the main office door open and close. Shoto was gone, off to hear her father’s presentation. She splashed water on her face, the cold a feeble shock. The weight of the platinum card in her hand felt heavier than the world outside the window. It was a payment. It was proof. It was the chain that would forever link her, on her knees, to the sound of her father’s grateful voice.
The platinum card was a brand against her palm all weekend. Friday night, she stared at it on her nightstand, its metallic edge catching the streetlight glow. By Saturday afternoon, a furious, reckless energy had replaced the numb shame. It was his money. His control. She would burn a piece of it.
She texted her old college friends, Maya and Chloe. “Drinks. My treat. Somewhere loud.” They chose a new rooftop club downtown, all pulsing neon and translucent furniture. Amari wore a dress she’d bought that day, a tight, crimson thing that stopped mid-thigh, charged to the card without a second thought.
The night was a blur of bass and expensive vapor. “Girl, what got into you?” Maya shouted over the music, clutching a cocktail Amari had just bought for the whole table. “Did you win the lottery?”
“Something like that,” Amari yelled back, the lie tasting like the gin on her tongue. She flashed the black metal card, watched their eyes widen. She ordered bottle service, the kind she’d only seen in videos. Each swipe of the card was a tiny rebellion, a strike against the man who’d bought her silence with her father’s freedom. The alcohol fused with her anger, making her feel powerful, untouchable.
Later, weaving through the dense, sweating crowd toward the long bar for another round, the facade cracked. The world tilted, pleasantly blurred at the edges. She leaned against the cool marble, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
A heavy body pressed against her from behind. Beer and cheap cologne filled her nostrils. “Hey, gorgeous. You look lonely spending all that cash by yourself.” His breath was hot and sour on her neck.
“I’m not,” she said, trying to shrug him off, her voice lost in the thumping synth.
His hand closed around her upper arm, fingers digging in. “Come on. Be friendly. I saw you waving that card around.” He started pulling her, not back toward her friends, but sideways, toward a dim corridor marked by a flickering restroom sign.
“Let go of me.” Panic, sharp and sobering, cut through the gin. She tried to plant her heels, but the floor was slick, her balance gone.
“Just wanna talk,” he slurred, his grip iron-tight. He shoved open a door, the noise of the club muffling into a dull roar. They were in a service hallway, stacked with kegs and crates. At the end was the staff restroom door. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She opened her mouth to scream.
A shadow detached itself from the wall near the fire exit. A hand, larger and infinitely more terrifying, clamped over the drunk man’s shoulder.
The grip on her arm vanished. She stumbled back against a stack of boxes.
Edmund Shoto stood there, in a black sweater and dark jeans, looking utterly out of place and completely in control. His expression was calm, his eyes black pits in the poor light. He didn’t look at her. He looked at the drunk man, whose bravado was crumbling into confusion and fear.
“The lady said no,” Shoto stated. His voice was quiet, flat, and it carried more threat than a shout.
“Man, back off. This is private,” the drunk man blustered, but he was already retreating a step.
Shoto moved. It wasn’t a brawl. It was precision. One hand shot out, grasping the man’s throat, not squeezing, just holding him immobile against the cinderblock wall. Shoto leaned in, speaking directly into his ear. Amari couldn’t hear the words, but she saw the man’s face drain of color, his eyes bulging with a terror that had nothing to do with physical pain. Shoto released him. The man fled, scrabbling down the hall and vanishing into the club.
Silence, thick and buzzing, filled the corridor. The distant music felt like a memory. Amari hugged herself, the cold from the concrete wall seeping through her dress.
Shoto finally turned to her. His gaze traveled from her disheveled hair, down the red dress, to her shaky heels. His jaw was a hard line. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, words stuck in her throat. His presence here was impossible, a violation of a different kind.
He stepped closer. The scent of him—that clean, expensive cologne—overwhelmed the stench of beer. “Using my card to buy the attention of every parasite in this city.” It wasn’t a question. His hand came up, his thumb brushing roughly over the place on her arm where the drunk man’s fingers had been. “You think this is freedom? This carelessness?”
“I wasn’t—“
He pushed her then, not hard, but with absolute authority. The staff restroom door swung open under his hand. He guided her inside and locked the world out.
It was a single, stark room with a toilet and a sink. Harsh fluorescent light hummed overhead. He backed her against the locked door, his body caging hers.
“You reek of cheap liquor and poorer decisions,” he murmured, his nose skimming her jawline. His hands settled on her hips, large and warm through the thin fabric. “You wanted to be seen? You are. Only by me.”
His mouth crashed down on hers. This kiss wasn’t like the others. It was punitive, consuming, laced with a violent jealousy that electrified the air. He tasted her, the gin, the fear, the recklessness. One hand fisted in her curls, angling her head back to deepen the kiss until she couldn’t breathe. The other hand shoved the hem of her dress up around her waist.
His fingers hooked into the sides of her lace panties and ripped. The sound was devastating in the small, tiled space. Cool air hit her exposed skin. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, eyes locked on hers as he unfastened his jeans. His cock sprang out, fully erect, thick and intimidating.
“This is what you need,” he stated, his voice gravel. “To be reminded.”
He lifted her effortlessly, his hands under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. There was no preparation, no gentle guidance. The broad, slick head of his cock pressed against her entrance, and he slammed her down onto him, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal, joining thrust.
The air left her lungs in a shocked gasp. The stretch was immense, overwhelming, a full, aching possession that anchored her spinning world. Her back scraped against the door with his movement. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing, deep rhythm, using his grip on her hips to drive her down onto his length again and again.
“You think you can play at being wild?” he grunted, his forehead against hers, each word punctuated by a drive of his hips. “This is wild. This is yours. The smell of this room, the sound of me fucking you raw in a filthy bathroom—this is the truth you bought with my money.”
He was right. The degradation was a mirror. The raw, physical mastery of him, the slap of skin, the crude, wet sounds of their coupling—it was the logical end of the path she’d started on when she swiped his card. Her climax coiled, born of adrenaline, terror, and a devastating, unwanted arousal. She couldn’t fight it. It was too powerful.
“I own this cunt,” he growled, his pace becoming frantic, desperate. “I own the come I put in it, and the fucking dress you used my money to wear.”
His words unlocked her. Her orgasm tore through her, a silent, seismic shock that clenched violently around his driving cock. He cursed, a raw, ragged sound, and followed her, his own release pulsing deep inside her in hot, relentless waves.
He held her there, impaled, for a long minute, both of them shuddering, their sweat-slicked bodies clinging together in the buzzing silence. Slowly, he let her slide down until her feet, unsteady, touched the floor. He withdrew, the sensation making her whimper.
He disposed of the condom—she hadn’t even seen him put it on—and adjusted his clothes back to perfect order. He wet a paper towel under the tap and, with that same unsettling care, cleaned between her legs, wiping his own spend from her thighs. He smoothed her dress down.
He finally looked at her face, really looked. The fury was gone, replaced by something more complex, more weary. “The car is downstairs. It will take you home.” He pulled the black credit card from his wallet and placed it in her trembling hand, closing her fingers around it. “Use it. But understand what it represents.”
He unlocked the door and opened it, the roar of the club flooding back in. He didn’t look back as he walked down the service corridor, disappearing into the shadows from which he’d emerged.
Amari stood in the stark light, the cold metal of the card cutting into her palm, the deep, throbbing ache inside her a permanent reminder. The rescue had been just another, deeper form of capture. She walked out, past her confused friends, straight to the waiting limousine at the curb, its engine a silent purr in the neon night.