Chapter 7: Begging
He circled her, his eyes fixed on the triangle of black lace. “Take them off,” he said, his voice flat.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slid the panties down her thighs, stepping out of them, the air hitting her bare, shaved mound. He knelt, not to worship, but to inspect, his thumb brushing the smooth skin. “You shaved for me,” he observed, his tone clinical. “You’re forty-two, and you did this because a boy half your age demanded it. You wanted to be used.” He stood, walked to a drawer, and returned with a crumpled pink fishnet top and a matching g-string, the cheap fabric reeking of plastic and someone else’s sweat. “Put these on.”
She did, the fishnet scratching her nipples, the g-string a thin, flimsy wedge between her cheeks. He took her wrists, cuffing them behind her back with a pair of fur-lined metal cuffs. “Kneel.”
She sank to her knees on the hard floor, the carpet rough against her shins. He stepped back, looking down at her. “You look like a cheap whore in a porn video. Is that what you are, Jenna? My cheap whore?” He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a harsh whisper, then unzipped his jeans. He pulled out his cock, already thick and hardening in his hand. He stroked it slowly, his eyes locked on her face. “You want to suck my cock, don’t you? Then beg. Beg me to let you put your mouth on it.”
She swallowed, her mouth dry. “Please,” she whispered.
“Louder. Say my name.”
“Please, Chris. Please let me suck your cock. I need it. I need to taste you.” The words, once released, hung in the air, a greasy confession.
“Open your mouth.”
She obeyed, tilting her head back. He stepped forward, the blunt, swollen head of his cock brushing her lips. He pushed past them, not gently, the taste of salt and skin flooding her tongue. He fed her an inch, then two, his hand tangling in her hair to hold her still. “That’s it,” he muttered, looking down at her. “Take it. You’re a vice president, and you’re on your knees gagging for a junior analyst’s dick. Fucking pathetic.”
He began to move, a shallow, testing rhythm. She focused on her breathing, on the stretch of her jaws, on the overwhelming, musky presence filling her mouth. He pulled back until just the tip rested on her tongue. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes, her gaze blurry with unshed tears.
“Tell me what you are while you do this.”
She tried to speak around him, producing a muffled groan.
He pulled out completely, a string of saliva connecting her lip to his glistening shaft. “Words, Jenna. Use them.”
She gasped for air. “I’m… I’m your whore.”
“Again.”
“I’m your cheap whore. I’m on my knees sucking your cock because I asked for it.”
“Good.” He shoved back in, deeper this time, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, her body convulsing, but he held her head firm, not letting her retreat. “Swallow it. Take it all.”
He withdrew again, leaving her mouth empty and wet. “Not like that.” His hand tightened in her hair, tilting her head back further. “You just take what I give you? No. Work for it.” He guided himself back to her lips, but not inside. “Do your job. Show me how desperate you are.”
Understanding dawned, a fresh wave of humiliation. She leaned forward, her bound hands making her awkward, and pressed her face to the coarse hair at the base of his shaft. His scent was overwhelming here, animal and intimate. She nuzzled lower, her tongue finding the heavy, tight sac beneath. She licked a slow, tentative stripe across it.
“That’s a start,” he said, his voice above her sounding almost bored. She opened her mouth wider, taking one testicle gently inside, suckling the skin, then the other. Her tongue worked carefully, lapping and sucking, treating them with a deference that felt obscene. She was forty-two years old, and she was nursing his balls like a wanton novice.
“Now,” he commanded, pulling her head up by her hair. “The rest. Show me you want it.”
She took him into her mouth again, this time with fervor, bobbing her head, using her tongue along the throbbing vein underneath. She lost herself in the rhythm, in the taste, in the degrading act of service. She wanted to prove she could do this, that she was good for something here. She took him deeper, feeling the head nudge the back of her throat. She relaxed her jaw, trying to will her body to accept him.
She pushed forward, aiming to take him all, to feel him hit that limit. The thick crown breached the tight ring of muscle, and her body rebelled instantly. Her throat sealed shut in a violent, convulsive gag. She choked, pulling back sharply, strings of saliva and a fleck of bile spattering her chin. She coughed, her eyes streaming, her body shuddering with the effort not to retch.
He looked down at her, his expression one of cold appraisal. He hadn’t moved to comfort her. He just watched her struggle for air, his cock standing wet and angry before her face. “Look at you,” he said, the words dripping with contempt. “Forty-two. And you still don’t know how to suck a cock properly. You can’t even take it all. That’s why you begged me, isn’t it? Because you need to be taught? Because you’re fucking useless at this?”
The truth of it, stated so plainly, was a knife twist. She stared at his feet, tears of shame mixing with the spit on her face. She couldn’t speak, could only nod, a slight, broken movement of her head.
“Use your words, Jenna. That’s why you begged, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she rasped, her throat raw. “Yes. I’m useless. I need to be taught.”
“Then we continue the lesson.” He pulled her to her feet by her bound arms, the motion jarring. He walked her backward until her calves hit the edge of the bed. “On your back. Legs over the side.”
She complied, scooting back until her head was on the pillows, her cuffed hands trapped beneath her. Her legs dangled off the side, spread wide by his stance between them. The pink fishnet was a ridiculous taunt against her skin. He looked at her exposed cunt, slick and bare, and then back at her face.
“You’re wetter now than you were before you choked,” he noted, pressing two fingers hard against her opening. “You get off on this. On being told you’re a failure.” He pushed his fingers inside her, curling them, and a ragged moan escaped her. “You’re a messy, desperate puddle. And it’s mine.”
He removed his fingers, wiped them on the fishnet over her stomach, and positioned himself. He pushed into her with a single, relentless thrust, filling her completely in one stroke. The stretch was breathtaking, a brutal claim. He didn’t move for a moment, letting her feel every inch of him buried inside her. “This,” he said, his voice low and rough now, “this is what you begged for. This is what you are for.”
Then he began to fuck her in hard, deep, piston strokes, the bed frame slamming against the wall with each drive. The force was overwhelming, punching the air from her lungs. He leaned over, bracing one hand by her head, his face inches from hers. “You take this cock better than you take the one in your mouth. But that’s a low bar, isn’t it, Jenna?”
She could only nod, her world reduced to the pounding rhythm, the slap of skin, the raw and perfect fullness. The cheap fabric of the fishnet top scratched with every jolt. Her heels dug into the small of his back, pulling him deeper, demanding more. She was unraveling, coming apart under his relentless, degrading pace. A sharp, climbing tension coiled in her gut, threatening to break. He saw it on her face.
“Don’t you dare,” he growled, slowing his pace to a torturous grind. “You don’t come until I say. You haven’t earned it yet.” He pulled out of her abruptly, leaving her clenching around nothing, aching and empty. “Turn over. On your knees.”
She scrambled, clumsy with her wrists bound, getting onto her hands and knees. He shoved a pillow under her hips, arching her back. He ran a hand over the curve of her ass, then brought his palm down in a sharp, stinging smack. The sound cracked in the quiet room. A bloom of heat spread across her skin.
“You wanted description?” he said, landing another slap, then another, the impacts lighting up her nerves. “You’re a middle-aged executive with a red ass, about to get fucked like an animal because you asked for it. Your pretty pussy is dripping onto my sheets. You’re trembling.”
He positioned himself again and drove back into her from behind, the angle even deeper, more invasive. One hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back. The other gripped her hip hard enough to bruise. His pace was frantic now, unrestrained, the obscene wet sounds of their joining filling the room. “You feel that? You feel how deep I am? This is what you are now. This is all you are.”
The buildup returned, a tidal wave she couldn’t stop. She was panting, begging into the mattress. “Please, please, Chris, please.”
“Come on, then,” he snarled, his rhythm fracturing. “Come all over this cock you begged for. Show me.”
The permission shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming, her muscles clamping around him in relentless pulses. A broken, sobbing cry was torn from her throat. He swore, a guttural sound, and drove into her one final, searing time, his own release hot and abrupt inside her. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as they both shuddered through the aftershocks.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then he withdrew. The cool air hit the wetness between her legs. She collapsed onto her side, her bound arms an awkward weight. She felt utterly ruined, a vessel emptied.
He walked away, into the small bathroom. She heard water running. He returned with a warm, damp cloth, just as he had before. This time, he didn’t hand it to her. He knelt and cleaned her himself, his touch surprisingly methodical, wiping the sweat and spend from her thighs. He uncuffed her wrists. The blood rushed back into her hands with a painful tingling.
The blood rushed back into her hands with a painful tingling. He saw her wince, her fingers curling stiffly. Without a word, he sat on the edge of the bed, took her left forearm in his hands, and began to massage it. His thumbs worked methodically up from her wrist, applying firm, knowing pressure to the muscles.
He was focused, clinical, his touch devoid of the earlier cruelty. He moved to her right arm, kneading the feeling back into the flesh he’d bound. The silence was thick, a tangible entity in the room beside the scent of sex and sweat. When the color and sensation had fully returned, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of the cheap pink g-string.
“Lift your hips,” he said, his voice quiet.
She complied, and he peeled the flimsy scrap of fabric down her legs, discarding it onto the floor with the fishnet top. The relief from the scratchy material was immediate. He stood, gathered the garish items, and tossed them into a dark corner near the dresser. He walked to the kitchen area, and she heard the crisp pop of a cork, the glug of liquid into glass.
He returned with two large glasses of red wine. He handed one to her, then sat in the room’s lone armchair, facing the bed. He took a long swallow, his eyes on her over the rim. She pulled the sheet up over her nakedness, more from habit than modesty, and sipped. The wine was bold and cheap, biting her tongue.
“We need to talk,” he said, resting the glass on his knee. “About how we both want to continue this.”
Jenna felt a different kind of tension seep into her muscles. This was the negotiation. The merger terms. She gripped her glass tighter. “The trial period is concluded.”
“It is. You passed. I’m willing to continue.” He stated it plainly. “But the parameters have shifted. You’ve pushed soft limits into permissible territory. You asked for verbal degradation. You took it. The game is different now.”
“It’s not a game,” she said, her executive tone reflexively returning.
“No. It’s not.” He held her gaze. “Which is why we’re talking. You need to articulate what you want from this, beyond getting fucked hard and called names. And I need to know if I’m capable of giving it to you without this…” He gestured vaguely between them, at the apartment, at the invisible line to their office. “…without this destroying the rest of it.”
She looked into her wine, the dark liquid a murky mirror. “I want the silence in my head to stop,” she said, the words emerging raw and unplanned. “For a few hours. The deals, the projections, the constant pressure of being the one who decides. I want it to stop. You make it stop.”
“By hurting you.”
“By controlling me.” She corrected him, her green eyes sharp. “The pain… clarifies. It’s a focal point. It’s real. The rest is just noise.”
Chris nodded slowly, absorbing this. He swirled his wine. “And the humiliation? The things I say?”
“It’s permission.” She took another drink, fortifying herself. “To be… base. To have no value except the value you assign in the moment. It’s a vacation from being valuable. From being important.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “It’s perverse, isn’t it?”
“It’s not uncommon.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But here’s my line, Jenna. I can dominate you in this room. I can use your body. I can make you say filthy things. But I won’t break you. I won’t create a crisis that follows you out that door. That’s a responsibility I don’t want and you can’t afford.”
“My hard limits are my safeguards.”
“Hard limits are technical,” he countered. “Emotional limits are foggy. You asked me to talk about you. To describe you. That gets inside in a different way. I need to know where that wall is. Because I’ll push against it.”
She fell quiet, considering the minefield. The Clayton deal was done. Her professional armor was intact. But he was right—the words he’d used tonight, cheap whore, useless, pathetic—they had seeped into a hidden chamber of her psyche and echoed. “Don’t touch my competency at work,” she said finally, her voice firm. “That’s the foundation. Mock my age. Mock my body. Mock my desperation for this. But the mind I use out there… leave it alone.”
“That’s fair.” He sipped his wine. “Now my concern. The disparity. The power imbalance out there is all yours. In here, it’s all mine. That’s the dynamic. But it’s leaking.”
“What do you mean?”
“The elevator. This Monday.” He watched her closely. “You looked at me, and for a second, you were here. Not there. That’s a problem. If you can’t compartmentalize, this ends. I won’t be responsible for you freezing in a boardroom because you’re remembering where my cock was.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I handled it.”
“This time. What about next time? What about when you’re supposed to be reprimanding me for a typo on a memo, and all you can think about is how I tasted?” His voice was low, practical. “We need a protocol. A clean shift. A ritual to get you from Jenna Thorne, VP, to… this. And back again.”
And back again.”
He set his glass down on the floor with a soft tap. “We have two options. The first is the full separation of identities. We use our old dating names. You will stay Penelope and I will stay Malik. Then you’re not Jenna anymore. You’re not my VP. The power dynamic resets entirely. And I am not the junior, Chris her employee” He watched her face, gauging her reaction. “It’s clean. It builds a wall.”
Jenna considered it, rolling the used names in her mind, when she knocked at his door one week ago. Penelope. Malik. It felt like a whole life away. She sipped her wine, the tannins bitter on her tongue. “This solution felt like hiding. Like I’m admitting this is something so shameful it needs a separate person to contain it.” She shook her head, auburn hair sticking to her damp neck. “I asked for description. For you to use my name. Using the old ones … it seems like a retreat from what I said I wanted.”
Chris nodded once, as if he’d expected that. “Option two, then. We stay Jenna and Chris. But we build airlocks. Rituals for beginning and ending a scene. Concrete actions. Words. A process that your mind can latch onto, to shift gears.” He leaned back in the chair, the old leather creaking. “You walk in that door, you’re the boss. The ritual dismantles that. The closing ritual rebuilds it before you leave.”
“What kind of rituals?” Her voice was low, curious. The part of her that managed complex processes was engaged now, analyzing the proposed framework.
“For entering,” he said, his eyes dark and intent. “You state your purpose. Out loud. You present the physical symbols of your other life. Your watch, your rings, your phone. You place them in the box I’ll put by the door. You kneel. You wait for my touch on your head. That’s the threshold. The moment you feel my hand, the scene has begun. You are mine.” He paused, letting the imagery settle. “For leaving… I restore you. I return your things. I help you dress. We share a drink, like this. We speak as equals for a fixed period, ten minutes. Then you walk out. You re-enter your world already Jenna Thorne.”
The clinical beauty of it struck her. It was a structured surrender, a managed descent and ascent. It honored the duality instead of fleeing from it. “The timeframe,” she said, shifting the topic to the next logical clause. “We need a schedule. This can’t be… spontaneous. The risk is too high.”
“Agreed.” He picked up his glass again. “Weekends are cleanest. Friday night through Sunday evening. A contiguous block. It allows for extended scenes, for proper aftercare, for the transition back to be gradual. It mimics a business trip.” A faint, ironic smile touched his lips. “You can tell your assistant you’s ‘unplugging for deep strategic review.’”
The practicality was blistering. It would work. Her weekends were often empty, barren stretches of time she filled with more work. This would be a different kind of work. “Every weekend is unsustainable. For both of us. It would consume everything.”
“Every other weekend, then,” he countered. “And mid-week, if needed, we can have contact. But not physical. A text. A call after ten PM. A way to… check in. To sustain the dynamic without the physical risk of seeing each other at the office the next day with fresh marks.” His gaze dropped to the faint redness on her ass, still visible where she sat. “Those need to fade before Monday.”
She felt seen, and managed. It was, perversely, a relief. “The mid-week contact. What would that entail?”
“You’d report. Truthfully. Your mental state. Any lingering physical effects. Your headspace. And I might give you an instruction. Something small. Private. To be completed before we next meet.” He swirled the wine. “Wear a specific color of underwear on Thursday. Don’t wear any. Edge yourself once before bed but don’t come. It’s a thread. A reminder of the hierarchy.”
A slow flush warmed her skin. The idea of walking through her days on Madison Avenue with a secret command nestled against her skin, or denying herself relief in her sterile penthouse because he’d ordered it, was powerfully compelling. It was a tiny, continuous leakage of his control into her world, but one she could conceal perfectly. “And if I refuse the instruction?”
“Then you text me why. We discuss it. It’s not about punishment from a distance. It’s about maintenance.” His tone was utterly reasonable, which made the content all the more potent. “This only works with total honesty. The moment you lie to me, or to yourself, about what you want or what you can take, it fails. And it ends.”
The finality in his voice was a cold splash. She believed him. This was the contract. She looked around the cramped studio, at the fading erotic prints on the walls, at the single lamp pooling light on the rumpled bed where he’d just fucked her raw. This shabby, hidden kingdom. Then she looked at him—the sharp, knowing young man in the chair, who understood systems and control as instinctively as she did.
“Jenna and Chris,” she said, her decision solidifying. “With the rituals. Every other weekend. Starting now.” She gestured weakly to the room, to herself under the sheet. “This was… the first night of the first weekend.”
“Yes.” He didn’t smile, but his body seemed to ease minutely. “And we’re in the ten-minute window now. The re-equilibration.” He checked his watch, a simple, black-faced chronograph. “Eight minutes left.”
She took a deeper drink, the wine now tasting less like bitterness and more like substance. “The verbal degradation. Today. You said I was useless.”
“You gagged. You failed to deep-throat. By the standard you set, it was an accurate assessment in the moment.” His reply was unflinching.
“It stung.”
“It was meant to.” He held her gaze. “Did it work?”
She didn’t answer immediately. She recalled the sharp, clean shame of it, the tears, the way her arousal had spiked immediately afterward, a confusing torrent of humiliation and need. “Yes,” she admitted softly. “It worked too well. The word… ‘useless.’ It’s a landmine. My father used to say it. About everything. It’s a trigger I didn’t list.”
Chris was very still. “Thank you for telling me.” He said it with gravity. “That word is retired. It’s now a hard limit.”
The swiftness of his amendment, the absolute respect it conveyed, unmoored her more than any cruelty had. She nodded, swallowing against a sudden tightness in her throat that had nothing to do with his cock.
“Six minutes,” he said, his voice gentler. “How are the wrists?”
She looked down at them, turning them over. The faintest pink lines from the cuffs were visible, but they’d be gone by morning. “They’re fine. The massage helped. Thank you.”
“Good.” He finished his wine. “You should shower before you go. I’ll lay your clothes out.”
The domesticity of it was startling. She stood, holding the sheet around her, and walked to the bathroom. The hot water was a shock, sluicing away the sweat, the scent of him, the sticky evidence of their scene. She washed her hair with his cheap, herbal shampoo, scrubbing her skin until it felt new.
When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, her clothes were indeed laid on the made bed: her cream blouse, her black skirt, her underwear, all folded. Her watch and rings sat atop the pile. He was by the door, holding her coat.
She dressed in silence, each article a layer of her public self returning. The silk blouse was cool. The skirt’s zipper sounded precise. She fastened her watch, the weight of it familiar and grounding. She approached the door.
“The ritual for leaving,” he said. He held her coat open. She turned, sliding her arms into the sleeves. He settled it on her shoulders, his hands lingering for a moment, smoothing the fabric. It was an intensely caring gesture. He turned her to face him. “The ten minutes are up. We are now equals. The scene is over.”
“Yes,” she said.
“How do you feel, Jenna?”
“Sore.” A small, honest smile touched her lips. “Clear. "