Chapter 7: Corporate Espionage
The stale conference room air tasted like dust and Mr. Abernathy’s cheap, cloying cologne – Old Spice mixed with something vaguely medicinal. I was shuffling budget reports, the projector’s low hum a monotonous backdrop, when his shadow fell across the table. He leaned in, too close, his breath hot and damp near my ear as Ben’s words from earlier echoed in the sterile space: Piece of cake. "Finishing these projections, Raven?" he murmured, his voice a low, oily purr. "Looks like a real... piece of cake."
The words hit like a physical blow, a thousand volts jolting through my nervous system. Rational thought shattered. My body moved on its own, a puppet severed from its master. My fingers flew to the clasp of my pencil skirt. The zipper hissed down. Cool air hit my thighs as I pushed the fabric down over my hips, letting it pool around my ankles on the industrial carpet. A sound escaped my lips, half-groan, half-desperate plea, as I pressed my bare ass against the cold, unforgiving glass wall separating the conference room from the busy hallway beyond.
"Mr. Abernathy," I moaned, the sound jagged and raw against the room's quiet hum, arching my back to press my soft curves harder against the transparent barrier. "Please... fuck me. Fuck my tight little hole. Need it... now." My cheek pressed against the chilled glass, my breath fogging a small circle. Outside, the blurred shapes of colleagues moved past, oblivious. Shame burned like acid in my chest, trapped beneath the overwhelming, mechanical surge of absolute need the trigger commanded. My nipples tightened painfully against the thin silk of my blouse. Rational Raven screamed inside the locked vault of my mind, battered against the walls of this humiliating compulsion, while my body, slick and eager, begged for his touch.
Abernathy exhaled a shaky, triumphant breath behind me. His sweaty palm landed heavily on my hip, fingers digging in possessively. "Jesus Christ," he breathed, thick with lust. He leaned closer, his crotch pressing against the swell of my ass, his erection unmistakable through his trousers. His other hand traced a possessive line down my spine, making me shudder not with pleasure, but with profound, gut-wrenching violation. "Look at you," he growled, his voice thick with predatory satisfaction. "Just look at you, pressed against the glass like a fucking exhibit." He ground himself harder against me, the friction sparking unwanted, traitorous heat low in my belly. "So desperate." His breath was hot on my neck. "Perfect little office slut." His gaze was fixed not on me, but on the hallway beyond the glass. "Piece of fucking cake," he whispered again, the words a venomous promise, branding me.
The chilled glass bit into my cheek, my fogged breath obscuring the blurry figures passing just feet away. Abernathy’s fingers fumbled at his belt buckle, the metallic clink echoing sharply in the sterile room. "Been waiting for this since you walked in Monday," he rasped, his voice thick and uneven, his free hand squeezing my hip hard enough to bruise. "That little skirt... knew you wanted it." His zipper rasped down. Rational Raven slammed against the inside of my skull, screaming, clawing for control, drowned out by the roaring, mechanical need flooding my veins – the need for him inside me now. His coarse pants scraped down his thighs, pooling around his ankles. The thick, blunt head of his cock pressed against my exposed entrance, shockingly hot against my skin. I moaned, a desperate, broken sound that vibrated against the glass, my body instinctively pushing back into the pressure, slick with arousal the trigger demanded. "Yeah, that's it, slut," Abernathy grunted, his sweat dripping onto my back. "Show me how much you fucking need it." He shifted his grip, positioning himself, his breathing ragged and excited. The projector hummed its oblivious drone. A muffled laugh drifted from the hallway outside.
The muffled laugh from the hallway snapped something brittle inside me, a flicker of horrified awareness piercing the fog for a split second. Abernathy didn’t hesitate; he pushed forward, hard and sudden, driving himself deep inside my ass with one brutal thrust. Fire ripped through me, a blinding, tearing agony that stole my breath. "Ungh!" The choked sound escaped, raw and involuntary. "Oh god!"
"Quiet, slut," Abernathy hissed, his hand clamping over my mouth, pressing my face harder into the cold glass, smearing my breath-fog. His other hand gripped my hip like a vise, holding me immobile as he began to move. Short, sharp jabs, each one reigniting the tearing pain. Tears welled, blurring the distorted shapes of people walking past just beyond the transparent barrier. His heavy panting filled the small space between us, hot against my neck. "Been dreaming of this tight little hole," he grunted, his rhythm becoming harder, faster, grinding against me. "Your boyfriend doesn't fuck you like this, does he?" He punctuated the question with a particularly vicious thrust that made me gasp against his sweaty palm.
The initial agony, a white-hot lance tearing through my core, began to shift. The trigger’s deep programming, that insidious need it injected, surged forward, overriding the raw pain. It twisted the sensation, transmuting the violation into something else entirely. My body betrayed me, relaxing slightly against the invasion, slickness easing his brutal rhythm. A low moan vibrated in my throat, muffled by his hand, but building. The sharpness faded, replaced by a deep, unwanted, stretching fullness that resonated through my pelvis. My inner muscles, traitorously, began to flutter around him. Rational Raven screamed silently, trapped, drowning in shame and disgust. Yet, the physical feedback loop intensified, the friction sparking treacherous heat low in my belly, intertwining with the trigger's artificial command for pleasure. Abernathy felt the change; his grip on my hip tightened possessively.
"Knew you'd love it," he growled triumphantly, leaning his full weight onto me, his thrusts becoming longer, deeper, seeking his own release. He removed his hand from my mouth, grabbing my hair instead, yanking my head back sharply. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice thick and guttural. "Tell me how good my cock feels inside that sweet ass." The trigger, the overwhelming physical sensation, the sheer, perverse fullness – it surged up my throat, a wave I couldn’t stop. I moaned, the sound long and low and utterly involuntary, the words forming without conscious thought, dripping with a mechanical, yet deeply felt, ecstasy. "Oh god, Mr. Abernathy... yes... it feels so good deep in my ass," I gasped, my voice trembling. "So big... so fucking good."
His grunt was harsh and final against my neck, a wet burst of breath as he slammed deep one last time. I felt the hot, sudden flood inside me, pulsing deep within that violated place. Then he went limp, heavy and sweating against my back, pinning me against the cold glass.
He pulled out slowly, the slick, sliding sensation making my traitorous muscles clench weakly. "Christ, Raven," he panted, his voice thick with spent lust and smug satisfaction. He stepped back, the air suddenly cool where his body had been.
I shuddered, a deep, involuntary tremor running through me. The immediate, overwhelming compulsion of the trigger phrase – Piece of cake – was fading like a receding tide. Rationality started seeping back, cold and horrifying. Yet, even as the fog of artificial craving lifted, a strange, disorienting warmth lingered. It wasn’t the trigger now. It felt… different. Lower, deeper, a humming undercurrent beneath the rising tide of shame and pain.
I turned slowly, wincing at the sharp ache radiating from my core. My legs felt unsteady. He stood there, tucking himself back into his trousers, zipping up with deliberate nonchalance. His face was flushed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his cheap cologne now mixed with the sour tang of sex and exertion. He met my gaze, a slow, leering grin spreading across his face. "See?" he said, his voice still rough. "Told ya you needed that." He wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand. "Better than your boy toy, huh?"
The words should have made me recoil, scream, vomit. Instead, a confusing flush heated my cheeks. My gaze flickered over him – the rumpled suit, the satisfied set of his jaw, the bulge still visible in his trousers. That humming undercurrent surged. It whispered that he looked… powerful. Desirable, even. I felt exposed, my skirt still pooled around my ankles, my blouse askew, feeling his release beginning to trickle down the inside of my thigh. Instead of rushing to cover myself, a sudden, irrational urge hit me: Fix your hair. Stand straighter. Look good for him.
I swallowed hard, the movement thick in my throat. The shame was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, warring violently with this new, horrifying pull. "I…" My voice came out small, husky. I didn't know what to say. My fingers twitched, wanting to smooth my blouse, touch my messy hair. The instinct to present myself, to look appealing for him, was terrifyingly strong.
He chuckled, a low, grating sound. "Yeah," he said, picking up his jacket from the conference table. "You remember that feeling, sweetheart." He winked, the gesture obscene. As he walked towards the door, he paused, glancing back at my reflection in the glass wall. "Don't take all day cleaning up. Got reports waiting." He left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the smell of him, the ache inside, and the terrifying, burgeoning want to look sexy for the man who just raped me. I stared at my reflection in the glass – flushed cheeks, wide, confused eyes, utterly exposed. The trickle down my thigh felt like a brand.