Chapter 12: Completely Stretched Out
The silence in her own home had become a living thing. It followed Pam from room to room, a dense fog that muffled David’s questions, the television’s drone, the ringing of her own phone. She moved through the week in a state of suspended animation, her body going through the motions of her life while her mind remained in Julian’s penthouse, bent over that desk.
At work, it was business as usual, but with a new, horrifying rhythm.
“Pam, my office. Bring the Fischer contracts.”
His voice over the intercom wasn’t a request. It was a summons. The first time, two days after the night he’d dismissed her, her hands shook as she gathered the files. She walked in, her heels sinking into the plush carpet.
He didn’t look up from his computer. “Lock the door.”
She did. The click echoed. He finally swiveled his chair, his gaze appraising. He said nothing about her appearance, her work, the files. He simply stood, walked to the door connecting to his private residence, and held it open.
“Now.”
In the stark, cool expanse of his home office, with the morning sun glaring off the steel and glass of the city, he unzipped his trousers without a word. He was already hard. He didn’t touch her, didn’t kiss her. He just pointed to the desk.
“Assume the position.”
She knew what he meant. A flush of shame, hot and immediate, spread up her chest. But beneath it, a treacherous pulse beat between her legs. She bent forward, laying her cheek against the cool mahogany, the same spot as before. She heard the rustle of his clothes, the snap of a lube bottle cap. But there was no cold gel this time.
His hands were on her hips, yanking her slacks and underwear down to her knees. The air was cold on her exposed skin. A thumb, rough and demanding, pressed against her asshole.
“You’re still loose from the other night,” he observed, his voice clinical. He pressed inward.
There was resistance, but it was minimal. A tight, burning stretch, but not the searing tear of the first time. He slid in, an inch, then two, with a low, gratified hum. “Good girl. You remember.”
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a ruthless, piston-like rhythm, gripping her hips hard enough to leave prints. Each thrust was a deep, claiming punch that drove the air from her lungs. She bit her lip, her eyes squeezed shut.
“This is all you’re for now,” he grunted, his pace increasing. “This tight little ass. Look at you. Taking it like a pro.”
She was mortified. Aroused. Empty. The fullness was overwhelming, a brutal invasion that left no room for thought. He didn’t touch her clit, didn’t fondle her breasts. His entire focus was on the slick, tight channel of her ass, on the obscene sound of his flesh slapping against hers. She came suddenly, a sharp, shocking clench around him that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with brutal, physiological overload. He cursed, his rhythm faltering for a second before he slammed into her, deeper, and spilled inside her with a harsh gasp.
He pulled out abruptly. A wet, messy sound. He tossed her the box of tissues from his desk.
“Clean yourself up. The Fischer contracts need to be on Ballard’s desk by eleven.”
It became the pattern. Every afternoon. Sometimes late morning. A summons, a silent walk to the penthouse, the bend over the desk. He never used lube again after that second time. Her body had adapted, betraying her utterly. He would slide into her now with a single, steady push, burying his thick cock to the hilt in her ass with a sigh of pure ownership.
He fucked her ass on Wednesday as she clutched the edge of the conferencing table, her forehead pressed to the cold glass of a video screen, dark and dead. On Thursday, he took her over the back of the severe leather sofa, his hand fisted in her hair, his other hand squeezing a handful of her ass cheek, spreading her wider for him. He came quickly, sighing as if completing a tedious but necessary task.
Friday was the worst. It was raining, a grey sheen on the windows. He was on a call when she entered, speaking in smooth, persuasive tones to a Tokyo investor. He gestured for her to come closer. He unzipped himself while discussing yen fluctuations, pulled her onto his lap facing away from him, and guided himself into her ass as he said, “I concur, Kenji, the projections are conservative.”
She had to sit perfectly still, impaled on him, her body screaming as he conducted his business. He was rock hard inside her. He muted the phone.
“Move,” he whispered, a dark command.
She rocked back and forth, a tiny, desperate motion, as he unmuted and continued talking about equity shares. His hand snaked around, not to her clit, but to pinch and twist her nipple hard through her blouse. She gasped. He covered the receiver.
“Quiet.” He returned to his call. “Apologies, a slight cough. You were saying?”
He finished the call with a final, “Sayonara,” and then, finally, put his phone down. He used both hands on her hips then, driving her down onto him with force, fucking up into her with short, brutal jerks until he came, his teeth sinking into the shoulder of her blouse to stifle his groan.
Afterward, he pushed her off onto the floor. She landed on her knees, feeling the warm trickle of his release down her thigh.
“You can go,” he said, already typing an email. “I need the quarterly reports summarized by end of day.” He didn’t look up.