Chapter 43: Anya teases Alex at work
The coffee in his mug had gone cold and oily. Alex stared at the lines of code on his dual monitors, the symbols blurring into a grayish soup. Every particle of his awareness was pulled taut, focused southward, a constant, low-frequency hum of denied need. The chair felt like an instrument of torture. The soft fabric of his chinos was a sandpaper friction with every minor shift. He’d already adjusted himself covertly a dozen times, each motion a fleeting, futile relief that only amplified the ache.
His phone, facedown on the desk, was a silent black rectangle. A landmine.
He’d obeyed. He hadn’t touched it for anything but a brief, necessary work call. The discipline was a rigid cage around his mind. He functioned. He attended the 9:30 stand-up, nodding at the right moments, offering a one-sentence update on his propulsion simulation algorithms. His voice sounded flat, robotic, even to himself. His project lead, Martin, had squinted at him. “You getting that flu that’s going around, Alex? You look… tense.”
“I am fine,” Alex had said, the Russian accent thickening under stress. “Just a poor sleep.”
Now, alone in his cubicle, the sterile quiet was worse. The hum of the HVAC, the distant chatter from the marketing pod, the click-clack of a keyboard two rows over—all of it was just white noise framing the screaming silence from his phone.
He lasted until 10:47.
A single, muted buzz. Not a call. A text notification.
His hand shot out, betraying him. He flipped the phone over.
It was from her. Just a message. No photo. Yet.
‘Good morning again, my engineer. Thinking about your… focus. Remember the view from table seven? He asked for a picture. I was feeling generous.’
His mouth went dry. Table seven. The corner booth by the window, overlooking the harbor. He’d pictured her there all night, the candlelight on her face.
Then, the second buzz. An image loaded, pixel by pixel.
His breath hitched.
It was taken from a low angle, from the seat opposite her in the booth. The restaurant’s moody lighting was kind, romantic. Anya was under the white-clothed table. Only her head and shoulders were visible, peeking up from beneath the tablecloth. Her eyes were looking up at the photographer, wide and dazzlingly blue, her lips stretched into a devastating, naughty smile. They were wrapped, in a perfect O, around the thick, dark head of Toby’s cock. Just the first inch or so. It was posed, cinematic. A beautiful woman playing a forbidden game in a public place. Her hand was out of sight, presumably at work below the linen.
‘He liked the contrast,’ came her follow-up text. ‘White linen, my lipstick. My submission.’
Alex’s grip on the phone tightened. His knuckles whitened. He could feel his pulse in his trapped, straining erection. It was a clean photo, almost artistic. It was also profoundly lewd. The intimacy of her gaze aimed upward at another man, the secret shared right there in a room full of clinking silverware and murmured conversations… it sent a violent twist through his guts. He could smell the phantom scent of last night, the jasmine and sex, cutting through the office’s smell of stale coffee and ozone.
He typed back, fingers clumsy. ‘You are breathtaking.’
‘I know,’ she replied instantly. ‘It gets less pretty. Wait.’
The workday became a granular, minute-by-minute slog. He chased a bug in his code, the numbers swimming. Every minute or two, his eyes would flick to the dark screen of his phone. The anticipation was a physical weight on his chest.
At 11:23, it buzzed again.
This photo was different. Candid, slightly blurred, as if taken quickly. It was a closer shot. Her face filled the frame. Her mascara was smudged, a single, perfect teardrop traced a path through her cheekbone’s contour. Her eyes were clenched shut, her eyebrows knotted in a strain that was impossible to fake. Her lips, slick and red, were stretched wider than he’d ever seen them. She had taken more of him. Half, maybe. The sheer girth of him distorted her beautiful mouth. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to his shaft.
The text followed: ‘It hurt my jaw. So much. I cried a little. He told me I was beautiful when I cried. He pulled my hair and pushed.’
Alex swallowed hard. He felt a sympathetic ache in his own jaw. A bizarre, protective impulse flared and was instantly consumed by a hotter, darker wave of arousal. He wanted to kiss those tear-tracks. He wanted to be the one making her cry from overwhelm. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t. He traced the line of her strained neck on the screen.
He wrote: ‘Did you swallow?’
The reply took five minutes. ‘Not then. I gagged. He pulled out and came on my face at the end. After. I’ll show you later. Be good.’
He put the phone down, screen facing down again. He was hard to the point of pain. He stood up abruptly, pretending to reach for a binder on a high shelf, just to change the unbearable pressure. From the window, the San Diego sprawl glittered, indifferent.
Lunch was a protein bar he didn’t taste. His phone was silent. The respite was its own peculiar agony.
At 1:55, as he was in a deep, technical debate with a colleague about thrust coefficients, it buzzed in his pocket. He flinched.
“You alright, man?” the colleague, Ben, asked.
“Phone. Girlfriend. Sorry,” Alex muttered, already stepping away, the numbers and equations dissolving like smoke.
He retreated to a vacant phone booth-style enclosure in the corridor. The buzz had been a single photo. No caption needed.
It was a portrait of possession. Anya was on her back, on what looked like a expensive, charcoal-gray sofa. Her dress was gone. Her perfect body was on full display, D-cup breasts sloping to the sides, her stomach a flat plane. Toby’s cock rested on her like a claim staker. It lay along her torso, thick and heavy and veined. The tip, an angry plum color, extended a full inch past her navel. The visual was staggering, a brutal ruler against her petite frame. Her own hands were cupping her breasts, presenting them, but the focus was irrevocably on that foreign object dominating her landscape. Her face was turned toward the camera, her expression one of awe and slight fear, her lips parted as if in a silent “oh.”
The math was obscene. The proof was irrefutable. Alex stared, his mind doing useless, involuntary calculations of length, of girth, of the stretch she had described. The “rearranging” she’d whispered about last night. Here it was, documented. His own six inches felt like a forgotten toy.
His phone buzzed in his hand. A new message. ‘He just laid it there and laughed. He said ‘Look at that. It owns you.’ I just nodded. It did. It felt heavier than it looks. I couldn’t have moved it if I tried.’
Alex leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the booth. He was breathing heavily. He typed, the truth spilling out. ‘It looks impossible. You look so small under it.’
‘I felt small,’ she replied. ‘In the best way. You have no idea how safe that feeling is. To be that… overwhelmed. To know you can’t possibly be in charge.’ A pause. Then: ‘It’s the opposite of hollow, isn’t it?’
The callback was a precision strike. Hollow. Erect. He was painfully the latter, while she described being filled with the antithesis of the former. The synaptic connection between those two states was his own straining, neglected flesh.
‘Yes,’ he typed.
‘Good,’ she answered. ‘Sit with that. I have a 2:30. Think about these pictures. Let them work on you. I want you dripping in your pants by the time you clock out.’
The afternoon was a special kind of hell. The images were burned onto the back of his eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes to think, he saw the tear, the tip past her navel, the awe on her face. The hard, professional shell he’d built over years of engineering discipline felt paper-thin, ready to tear. He made basic errors, had to re-run simulations. The clock on his monitor seemed frozen.
At 3:55, five minutes before his official end time, his phone buzzed one last time. It wasn’t a photo. It was a text.
‘I’m home. I’m naked. I’ve been thinking about your tongue. And your punishment for being so good and so hard all day. Don’t be late. The rule is still in effect. Your suffering belongs to me.’
Alex was out of his chair, computer locked, before the minute hand clicked over to four. He power-walked to the parking garage, his gait slightly awkward. The cool leather of the driver’s seat was a shock against his backside. He sat for a moment, hands on the wheel, staring ahead but seeing nothing but the phantom slideshow behind his eyes.
The drive home was a blur of sun and traffic. Every red light was a personal affront. The pressure in his groin was a constant, urgent throb, now mixed with a churning anxiety about what form her “punishment” would take. The promise of relief felt simultaneously within reach and impossibly far away.
He pulled into his parking space, the engine ticking as it cooled. He looked up at their balcony. The sliding door was open, the white curtain drifting out on the sea breeze. She was in there. Waiting. With his suffering.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, retrieved his bag, and went to meet it.