Chapter 5: Boardroom Betrayal
The spark from the cognac diamonds wasn't love. It was a dare. A gauntlet thrown down in a room full of ashes and roses. She’d slipped it onto her finger the next morning, the platinum cold and heavy.An acceptance. Not of a fairytale, but of a merger. A hostile takeover of their shared pathology. The choker was now a wedding gift, and the ring was its brutal, complementary shackle. Their relationship had entered its second act, and the first scene was already written in her mind. It needed a witness.
Now.
The boardroom on the fortieth floor was empty, a temple of glass and stainless steel. The sun, a pale disk behind winter clouds, cast a dull sheen across the vast cityscape. On the polished walnut table, Janmal looked baffled, his pleasant face a mask of polite confusion.
“A meeting? With Nabil? But he’s out, Sapna. His assistant said he’s at the Guildhall until four.”
Sapna leaned against the table, directly opposite him. She’d worn grey today. A severe, knee-length pencil skirt and a sleeveless silk shell. The colours of business. The choker was absent, replaced by the single, stark band of the engagement ring. It caught the flat light.
“It’s not that kind of meeting,” she said, her voice steady. “It’s a… contractual review. Concerning the new partnership.”
Janmal blinked. “Partnership?”
“Between him and me.” She held up her left hand, turning it slowly. The diamonds flashed. “He proposed.”
“Oh!Wow. Congratulations!” Janmal’s smile was genuine, if slightly bewildered by the venue. “That’s amazing.Really. But… why are we…?”
“Because you’re part of the arrangement.” She let the words hang. She saw the moment his brain caught up, the pleasantness evaporating, replaced by a dawning, uncomfortable suspicion. He remembered the club. The bathroom. Her, breathless against a wall.
“Sapna…”
She didn’t let him finish. She turned and walked to the head of the table, to Nabil’s chair. It was a throne of black leather and brushed steel. She didn’t sit in it. She pressed a button on the armrest. With a low hum, the smart-glass of the interior windows opaqued, turning the room into a sealed, private cube. Another button killed the main lights, leaving only the cool, blue-tinged glow of emergency strips along the floor and the grey daylight from the still-clear exterior windows.
From the drawer built into the table’s pedestal, she withdrew a small, black remote. She pointed it at the far wall. A hidden panel slid back, revealing a large monitor. It flickered to life.
On screen, Nabil sat in his study at home. He was wearing a white shirt, untucked, the sleeves rolled up. He was looking directly into the camera, his face a careful blank. He held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. He gave a single, slight nod.
Janmal stared, his mouth agape. “What the hell is this?”
“Due diligence,” Sapna said, placing the remote on the table. She began to unbutton her silk shell, slowly, from the top. “He needs to see the asset being stress-tested. One final time. To understand what he’s acquiring. And by whom it has been… previously assessed.”
She let the shell fall to the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her small, firm breasts were exposed to the cool, conditioned air, her nipples tightening. Janmal’s face flooded with colour—embarrassment, arousal, shock.
“This is insane,” he breathed, but his eyes were glued to her.
“It’s the terms,” she said, her voice dropping into a lower register. She walked back to him, around the table. She stopped behind his chair. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders. She felt him jump. “You liked it last time, Janmal. In that disgusting bathroom. You came so hard you saw stars. Remember?”
He swallowed, a thick, audible sound. “That was different. We were drunk. This is… he’s watching.”
“He’s participating,” she corrected, her lips close to his ear. She could smell his aftershave, a faint, citrusy scent undercut by the sharp tang of nervous sweat. “He’s giving you permission. He’s granting you this. One last time.”
On the monitor, Nabil took a long sip of his drink, his eyes dark holes in the glowing screen.
Sapna’s hands moved from Janmal’s shoulders to his chest. She slid them down, over his shirt, to his belt. Her fingers made quick work of the buckle, the button, the zip. He was half-hard already, a predictable, eager betrayer. He made a weak sound of protest that died in his throat as she slipped her hand inside his trousers, wrapping her fingers around his thickening cock.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his head lolling back against her stomach.
She stroked him, slow and firm, feeling him swell to full erection in her grasp. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against the back of his head. “Stand up.”
He did, shakily, his trousers and briefs pooling around his ankles. His cock stood out, flushed and urgent. She guided him to turn around, to face the table. To face the monitor where Nabil watched, unmoving.
“Bend over,” she instructed. “Put your hands flat on the table.”
He obeyed, the muscle memory of their first encounter overriding his mortification. His back was tense, his ass exposed. Sapna stepped out of her heels, then her skirt and panties. She left them in a heap on the floor. Naked except for the ring, she approached him.
She didn’t prepare him. She didn’t touch herself. She spat into her palm, a crude, wet sound in the silent room, and slicked his length with it. Then she positioned the head of his cock at her entrance. She was dry, tight. The discomfort was a point of focus.
“Look at him,” she commanded Janmal, her voice a harsh whisper. “Look at your boss. And tell him what you’re about to do.”
Janmal’s eyes, wide with a mixture of terror and lust, fixed on the screen. “I’m… I’m going to fuck her,” he rasped.
“Louder.”
“I’M GOING TO FUCK SAPNA!” he shouted, the words bouncing off the glass walls.
She impaled herself on him in one brutal, downward stroke.
A sharp cry tore from her throat—part pain, part theatrical triumph. He was big, and her body resisted, then yielded, stretching to accommodate him. It burned. It was perfect. She rested there for a second, her inner muscles fluttering around the invasion, catching her breath. On screen, Nabil’s knuckles were white around his glass. He hadn’t moved.
“Now,” she panted, “fuck me. And tell him how it feels.”
Janmal, unleashed, began to thrust. It was clumsy at first, his hips stuttering against hers. Then he found a rhythm, a deep, driving piston stroke that slammed her pelvis against the hard edge of the table with every push. The slapping of skin, their ragged breaths, filled the sterile room.
“It feels… god… it feels so tight,” Janmal groaned, his eyes locked on Nabil’s image. “She’s so fucking tight around me.Hot. Jesus.”
“Compare,” Sapna moaned, the sound ripped from her as he hit a deep spot. She reached a hand between her own legs, her fingers frantically seeking her clit. It was swollen, sensitive. She rubbed hard, circular presses against it, the pleasure a bright, sharp counterpoint to the brutal fullness. “Compare me to him. You’ve fucked others. Tell him.”
Janmal was lost now, consumed by the raw physicality and the insane spectacle. “Deeper,” he grunted, pumping into her with abandon. “Takes me… takes me deeper than anyone. Your fucking cunt is wrecking me. So much deeper than…”
He hesitated.
“Say it!” she screamed, her own climax coiling, a spring wound to breaking.
“SO MUCH DEEPER THAN MY FUTURE HUSBAND’S!”
The words hung in the air, a vile, perfect incantation. On the monitor, Nabil’s blank façade shattered. His eyes squeezed shut. A tremor ran through his body. His free hand vanished below the frame of the camera.
Sapna came.
It wasn’t a gentle wave. It was a seizure. Her body clenched around Janmal’s cock in a series of violent, milking spasms that pulled a shout from him. Her vision whited out at the edges, her fingers still grinding on her clit, extending the crashing, deafening pleasure. She heard herself making sounds, raw, animal noises that had nothing to do with love.
Janmal followed, driven over the edge by her contractions. He slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and shouted something wordless as he emptied into her.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their desperate panting, echoing in the chilled air. Janmal slumped over her, his weight pinning her to the table. Sapna’s cheek was pressed against the cold, polished wood. Her eyes opened. She looked directly at the monitor.
Nabil was staring back. His face was slick with sweat. His expression was one of utter devastation and ferocious, undeniable arousal. He looked ruined. He looked like he’d just come harder than either of them.
Slowly, Janmal softened and slipped out of her. A trickle of his release leaked down her inner thigh. He stumbled back, looking down at himself, at her, at the screen, with the dazed horror of a man waking from a trance.
“Oh, god,” he whispered, fumbling for his clothes. “Oh, god, oh, fuck.”
Sapna pushed herself upright. Her legs trembled. She felt sore, used, utterly hollow. And victorious. She turned to face the monitor. She lifted her left hand, wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of it, making the ring glint.
“Due diligence complete,” she said, her voice hoarse but clear.
On the screen, Nabil gave one final, almost imperceptible nod. The feed went black.
Janmal was dressed now, his shirt untucked, his tie a crumpled noose. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I need to go. I can’t… I shouldn’t have…”
“You were perfect,” Sapna said, gathering her own clothes. She didn’t dress. She stood there, naked and gleaming with sweat, the evidence of him on her skin. “You’ll be compensated. A promotion. The Singapore office. You’ll leave next week.”
He stared at her, his morality, his sense of self, lying in tatters at his feet. He had been a prop. A well-hung plot device. He nodded, mute, and practically ran from the boardroom, the door sighing shut behind him.
Alone, Sapna finally dressed. The silk felt abrasive against her sensitized skin. She walked to the head of the table, to Nabil’s chair. This time, she sat in it. She swiveled slowly, gazing out at the grey, indifferent city.
The high was already fading, the brutal emptiness rushing back in, colder and deeper than before. She had staged the ultimate scene. She had humiliated her fiancé, degraded his colleague, and debased herself in the very seat of his corporate power. She had taken their twisted dynamic to its logical, terrible zenith.
And as the last sparks of physical pleasure died, a single, chilling thought crystallized in the silence.
Now what?
Now what?
The question echoed in the padded silence. Sapna’s body ached, a dull symphony of bruises and stretched muscles. She could still smell Janmal on her skin, a mix of sweat and salt and spilled sex. She could still feel the cold edge of the table biting into her flesh. She pulled out her phone from her discarded skirt pocket. The screen was blank. No reply from him yet. Not after the photo of the choker, not after this live-streamed coronation of his own cuckoldry.
Had she finally broken the mechanism? Had she pushed him past a line where the arousal turned to ash? The hollowness expanded, a physical cavity behind her ribs.
She typed a single question mark. She sent it.
A new sound. Not a chime, but the electronic purr of the room’s main door unsealing. Her head snapped up. The door hadn’t opened again, but the lock had disengaged. Then, from a private entrance hidden in the wall panelling behind her—a door she’d only ever seen him use—it slid open.
Nabil stepped into the boardroom.
He wasn’t at the Guildhall. He hadn’t been at home either, a pre-recorded scene playing on her monitor. He’d been here, in an adjacent viewing suite, a ghost in his own machine. He wore a flawless charcoal suit, but his face was pale, stripped. His eyes were dark hollows. They fixed on her, sitting in his throne.
He’d watched everything from yards away. She had felt powerful then, a director. Now she felt exposed, her script ripped to pieces.
“Get out of my chair,” he said. His voice was quiet.Rough. It wasn’t a command. It was a fact.
A tremor, a lightning bolt of fear mixed with pure, undiluted thrill, shot up her spine. This was the reaction. This was the line. She was standing on it. She didn’t move. “I was just admiring the view.”
He crossed the room in five swift, silent strides. He didn’t touch her. He stood over her, the cold glare from the windows haloing his form. The scent of him reached her—his cologne, peat and bergamot, but underneath, the sharp, unmistakable musk of his own spent arousal. He hadn’t just watched.
He’d participated.
“Stand up,” he said.
This time, she obeyed. The space between them vibrated with a current of unspent violence and need. As she rose, her gaze fell to his waist, to the line of his suit trousers. A slight, unnatural bulk was visible beneath the fine wool along his hip, beneath the belt line.
“What did you do?” she breathed, her earlier arrogance gone, replaced by a ghoulish curiosity.
“I had my own celebration.” His hand went to his belt. He didn’t unbuckle it. He unfastened the top button of his trousers and tugged the zipper down just an inch. Then he pulled the fabric aside.
Nested against his skin, stark white against the dark hair of his pelvis, was a scrap of lace.Her lace. The thong she’d been wearing a week ago at the boutique, the one she’d worn home after buying the choker with his money. They were dirty, the gusset stained a faint yellow from her own secretions, from a day’s wear. He had put them on, like a sacred vestment, before coming to watch his fiancée get railed on his boardroom table.
A sound escaped her.Not a laugh. A punch of air, stunned.
“Jesus, Nabil.”
“You liked the show,” he stated. His eyes were black, consuming. “You orchestrated every second of it. The line about going deeper. That was for me. Wasn’t it?”
She couldn’t lie. Her nod was barely perceptible.
“Then finish it.”
Her mind stuttered. “What?”
He pointed a finger at the panties nestled against his skin. “Take these off. Put them in your mouth. That’s the price for this…review.”
Her stomach twisted. Not disgust. A filthy, plunging excitement. This was the language. This was the only language they had left.
Her fingers, which had texted him with such flippant cruelty, trembled as she reached for his waistband. She hooked her thumbs into the lace and the elastic of his briefs beneath. She pulled them down.
His cock, semi-hard and glistening at the tip with his own recent climax, sprang free. The damp, soiled thong fell to the marble floor between them.
“Now pick them up,” he said, his voice a low vibration. “Put them in your fucking mouth.”
She bent, the motion igniting fresh aches from Janmal’s pounding. The lace was soft, stale. The intimate scent of her own body, days old, filled her nostrils as her fingers closed around it. She stood, meeting his gaze. She opened her mouth and stuffed the fabric in, pushing it past her lips with her fingers until it was a wad against her cheek.
The taste was bitter, musky, overwhelmingly her.
Tears of a complex and unspeakable humiliation pricked at her eyes. She’d never been more completely owned.
“Good girl,” he whispered, a benediction and a curse. He didn’t touch her. “Now touch yourself. Show me what that did to you.”
He stepped back, sinking into his chair, the one still warm from her body. He made a temple of his fingers, watching.
With the dirty lace in her mouth, Sapna reached under her skirt. She was sore, wet again, a fresh slickness that had nothing to do with Janmal. Her fingers found her swollen lips, her tender clit. She gasped around the fabric, her breath hot and trapped.
“Use your other hand,” he instructed calmly. “On me.”
She stepped forward, into the space between his knees. She wrapped her free hand around his cock. It hardened instantly, a thick, live wire in her grasp. She began to stroke him, a slow, firm rhythm, her other hand rubbing frantic circles on herself.
The room was silent except for her wet sounds, her choked breaths through her nose. The taste of her own ass, her own cunt, filled her head. She was violating herself for him. It was the most degrading, most honest thing they had ever done.
His composure was a wall. Only the tightening of his jaw, the predatory focus of his eyes, betrayed him. “Keep going,” he murmured. “Make yourself come. I want to see your face when you taste that filth and feel your cunt spasm.”
Her hips began to jerk against her own hand. The dual sensations—the rough lace on her tongue, the silken heat of his cock in her fist, the sharp pleasure she was grinding into herself—coalesced into a pressure she couldn’t contain. A low, desperate moan vibrated against the fabric in her mouth. Her body bowed, her knees buckling.
She came, a silent, shuddering earthquake that locked her muscles and blurred her vision. Her grip on him tightened involuntarily, milking him in her convulsions.
The sight of her climax, the feel of her hand clamping down, broke him. He let out a sharp, guttural curse. His hips thrust up off the chair into her fist. His release shot out in hot, urgent stripes, painting her wrist, her forearm, spattering the grey silk of her blouse.
They stayed there, frozen in the aftermath, a tableau of mutual ruin. Sapna’s hand fell away from herself, wet and trembling. She slowly, gingerly, pulled the soaked thong from her mouth. It trailed saliva. She stared at it, then at him.
Nabil’s breathing was ragged. He looked spent, emptied. He looked up at her, his gaze clear now, free of the earlier storm.
“Wipe yourself with them,” he said, his voice spent.She did. She used the damp, filthy lace to clean his come from her skin, from her blouse, smearing it into the fabric.
He zipped himself up, stood, and took the ruined thong from her numb fingers. He tucked them, a sodden trophy, into his breast pocket, a dark patch spreading on the fine wool.
He placed a hand on her cheek. The gesture was almost tender.
“Now we’re engaged,” he said. Then he turned and walked out through the hidden door, leaving her standing alone in the vast, grey light, the scent of their violent communion hanging heavy in the air.
Then he turned and walked out through the hidden door, leaving her standing alone in the vast, grey light, the scent of their violent communion hanging heavy in the air.
The silence was absolute. Her own ragged breath sounded monstrous in it. Sapna stared at the closed panel where he’d vanished, the damp chill of the marble floor seeping up through her stockinged feet. He’d left her there. Used, discarded, a prop in his own theater of punishment. The damn thong was a wet spot on his suit. Her submission was in his pocket.
A slow, cold crack spread through the numbness in her chest.Not hurt. Fury.
It was a chemical reaction, instantaneous and white-hot. The taste of her own stale underwear was still a phantom on her tongue, but it curdled now into something acrid and poisonous. She’d given him that. She’d performed his vile script, and he’d rewarded her by leaving her standing in their filth. He’d taken the scene back. He’d walked away holding the power, holding her fucking soiled lace against his heart.No.
The word didn’t form, it detonated. It shattered the fragile shell of her post-coital stupor. Sapna moved.
She snatched her heels from the floor, not putting them on, gripping the sharp stilettos like weapons. She hit the button to clear the smart glass, flooding the room with the city’s indifferent glare. She yanked open the main boardroom door, her silk blouse sticky with his semen, and strode into the empty executive corridor. Her bare feet slapped against the polished concrete. She knew where the viewing suite was. A discreet, soundproofed box adjoining the main room, accessible only from the private executive wing.
The door was ajar.
She pushed it open without knocking.
The suite was small, dark, and hot. A bank of monitors showed empty angles of the boardroom she’d just left. The air reeked of male sweat, whiskey, and spent lust. Nabil stood at a small sink in the corner, his suit jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He was washing his hands, methodically, watching the water run. He didn’t turn.
“You think this is over?” Her voice ripped through the quiet, raw and uneven. “You think you just won something?”
He shut off the tap. Reached for a towel. He dried each finger with slow precision. “I think the review concluded. Terms were met.”
“Your terms!” She flung one of her shoes. It struck the wall of monitors with a plastic crack, leaving a scuff. “You recorded it! You sat in this little rat’s nest and jacked off while he fucked me, and then you walked in and made me suck on my own fucking panties. That was your little game. Your little revenge for the choker, for making you watch. You wanted to prove you could degrade me deeper.”
He finally turned. His face was a careful blank, but a vein pulsed in his temple. “You seemed responsive.”
“I allowed it!” she screamed, the words tearing her throat. “I set the stage! I brought Janmal in! I used your money! I let him come inside me on your fucking table! I did that for you!” She was shaking now, the adrenaline making her vision swim. “I did it to see you break. And you did. You came in your pants watching it, then you came again in my hand. Don’t you dare pretend this was your victory.”
He took a step toward her. “It was my price.”
“It was your allowance!” She closed the distance between them, stopping a foot away, tilting her head up to his height. The scent of him, of them, was overwhelming. “You don’t get to set prices. You submit.To me. Not the other way round. You always have. Since the first time I saw you look at me in a meeting, that hungry, frightened-animal look. You knew then.”
He went very still.
“I let you have your fun,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “I let you play the director for five minutes. I put your little filthy trophy in my mouth. But you can’t forget, not for a single second, that I own you. I own this sickness. I feed it. I decide when you eat.” She jabbed a finger into his chest, right over the pocket holding the ruined thong. “I allowed that scene because I wanted it. I wanted to see if you had the guts to join in. And you did. You pathetically, beautifully did.”
He caught her wrist. His grip was iron. “Careful.”
She laughed, a short, ugly bark. “Or what? You’ll spank me? You’ll make me kneel? You’ve tried. It just makes you harder. It makes you beg.” She twisted her wrist, not to break free, but to feel the strain in his hold. “I am not Zaina.”
The name hung between them, a third ghost in the room. His stepmother. The architect of his original ruin. His eyes darkened, the blankness melting into something dangerous and wounded.
“Don’t,” he breathed.
“I’m not her,” Sapna pressed, her voice relentless. “She was a weak, greedy slut who took what she wanted from a scared boy. She broke you for fun and threw the pieces away.” She leaned in, her lips almost brushing his. “I’m collecting every single one of those pieces. I’m going to break you again and again, Nabil. I’m going to break you with other men’s cocks, and with your own money, and with this ring you gave me to chain yourself. And after every time, you’re going to beg. You’re going to beg for the next second of it. You’re going to beg me to let you taste him on me. You’re going to beg to wear my dirty clothes. You’re going to crawl.”
His grip on her wrist tightened to the point of pain. His other hand came up, fingers tangling in her hair, wrenching her head back. His breathing was harsh, hot against her face. The fury in his eyes was molten, indistinguishable from want. “You think you know what I am.”
“I know what you need,” she spat back, her scalp screaming. “And only I’m cruel enough to give it to you. She was just a thief. I’m the curator.”
For a long moment, they were frozen, a snarling sculpture of mutual hatred and dependence. The air was too thick to breathe.
Then his mouth crashed down onto hers.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. A violent reclamation and a surrender all at once. He bit her lip, and she tasted blood, coppery and sharp. She clawed at his back, dragging his shirt from his trousers. His hands went to her skirt, yanking it up, his fingers digging into the sore, tender flesh of her ass, still marked from the table’s edge.
He spun her around, pushing her forward against the control console. Monitors wobbled. Keys dug into her stomach. He didn’t fumble with his zipper this time. He was already hard, prodding against her.
“You want to own this?” he growled in her ear, his voice ragged with fury and desire. “Own it.”
He shoved into her without preamble. The stretch was brutal, a撕裂 of tender, overused tissue. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the console. He was bigger than Janmal, and she was raw, dry. It burned. It was perfect. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each thrust a deep, punishing piston stroke that drove the air from her lungs.
“Is this owning?” he grunted, slamming into her. “Is this you breaking me?”
She pushed back against him, meeting each drive. “Yes! Fuck you, yes! This is you proving it!”
One hand anchored on her hip, the other snaked around her front, his fingers plunging into the soaked, swollen mess between her legs. He found her clit, already throbbing from her earlier climax and the violent heat of this new invasion. He rubbed it with hard, circular presses, not to please, but to overwhelm.
“You want me to beg?” His breath was hot and ragged against her neck. “Beg for this?”
“You will!” she screamed, her body coiling tight under the dual assault. The pain and pleasure blurred into a single, blinding signal. “You’ll beg to be inside me after another man’s been here! You’ll beg to lick his fucking mess from my cunt!”
His fingers worked her furiously, his cock pounding into her with a desperate, ragged tempo. The sounds were obscene—wet flesh, grunts, the creak of the console under their weight.
“Then take it,” he snarled. “Take what you own.”
His rhythm fractured. His thrusts became short, frantic jerks. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest, a sound of utter defeat and release. He buried himself to the hilt, his body going rigid against hers as he emptied inside her in hot, pulsing waves.
The feel of it, the claim of it, triggered her own collapse. Her climax wasn’t a wave; it was a short-circuit, a violent, full-body spasm that clenched around his still-pulsing cock. She saw static, her fingers scrabbling against the smooth console surface.
He stayed there for a moment, slumped over her, his weight pinning her. His breath heaved against her back. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A fresh trickle, his this time, ran down her thigh.
He stepped back. The silence returned, heavier now, freighted with what they’d just done, what they’d just said.
Sapna turned around. Her legs barely held her. She looked at him. He was dishevelled, his shirt untucked and stained, his hair wild. He looked utterly conquered. He looked at her with a stark, naked need that bordered on terror.
She reached into his trouser pocket, the one without the thong. She pulled out his phone. She held it up, her own face illuminated on the locked screen—a picture he’d taken months ago, laughing, unaware.
She wiped her fingers, slick with their mixed fluids, across the sensor. The phone unlocked.
She opened a new text window. To Janmal. She typed, her movements deliberate. Singapore is confirmed.Flight details tomorrow. Never contact me again.
She sent it. Then she dropped the phone onto the console. It clattered against the keys.
“Clean yourself up,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of all the earlier fury. It was a command. “We have dinner at Le Caprice at eight. Wear the tie I bought you.”
She straightened her skirt, a futile gesture. She found her other shoe. She didn’t look back at him as she walked to the door, barefoot, holding her heels. She stopped on the threshold.
“And Nabil?” she said, without turning.
A shaky breath from behind her. “Yes.”
“The next man won’t be a colleague.” She paused, letting the implication settle in the fouled air. “He’ll be a stranger. And you’ll watch from the floor.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her. The click of the latch was the only sound. In the dark room, surrounded by screens showing empty tables, Nabil slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He brought his fingers to his mouth. They tasted of her blood, her sweat, her climax.
He closed his eyes. A single, silent tremor ran through him.
Then he began, very quietly, to weep.