Chapter 17: The Client Lunch
The steakhouse air was thick with the scent of aging beef and privilege. Polished mahogany absorbed the low laughter, the clink of heavy cutlery, crystal glasses catching the dim glow of chandeliers. Ellie felt the expensive weight of the linen napkin in her lap, a contrast to the feverish slickness between her thighs. The leather booth was cool through the thin fabric of her skirt, a shocking intimacy against her bare skin.
Roland was older, his silver hair cropped close, his hands broad and heavy on the table. His eyes, the color of slate, didn’t wander to her chest, not obviously. They stayed on her face, assessing, as she outlined the proposal. But she felt his attention like a physical pressure on the thin cashmere, on the tight pull of her skirt across her hips.
“The integration schema is less conventional,” she said, her voice steady, “but it accounts for legacy systems in a way the bigger firms ignore.” She took a sip of ice water, the chill a shock.“Audacious,” Roland said.His voice was a low rumble. He cut into his ribeye, a faint smile on his lips. “You’re not from this side of the street, are you, Ellie?”
The question was a probe, not an insult. She met his gaze.“I used to be a librarian.”
He chuckled, a dry, appreciative sound. “It shows.In a good way.You’ve done your research. You’re not just selling flash.” His eyes finally dipped, a deliberate, slow traverse from her collarbone down to the vee of her sweater.The acknowledgement was direct, a negotiated part of the conversation. “You’re selling substance. Wrapped very… persuasively.”
Her phone was on her thigh under the table.She activated the camera, angled it upwards.The flash was off. She tapped the shutter.A moment later, she sent it to Andrew. The image: the under-table view of the white tablecloth, her magnificent breasts swelling against the sheer cashmere, nipples clearly visible, and below, the hem of her skirt ridden up enough to show the bare, soft expanse of her inner thigh, vanishing into shadow.
She placed the phone face down on the leather beside her.
She placed the phone face down on the leather beside her.
Across town, Andrew stared at the image until the screen went black, reflecting his own fractured face. He was in their bedroom, the silence a physical weight, the ghost of her lavender scent now suffused with something foreign, something like the sterile air of a Dubai hotel room she’d never described. The photo was a calculated violation, a glimpse of the merchandise on display. His cock hardened instantly, a traitorous ache against his jeans as he imagined the heat of that steakhouse booth, the cool leather against her bare skin.
He saw her then, not as she was here a day ago in this same room bending over, but as she must be now. He pictured her long fingers, the ones that used to trace the spines of library books, now curling around the stem of her wine glass. She’d take a slow sip, her eyes not leaving Roland’s.The deal would be hanging there, a tangible thing. Andrew knew the moment.He’d seen it in her lately—a predatory patience. She’d let the silence stretch, then, with a small, knowing smile, she’d drop her hand below the level of the table.In his mind, it was inevitable. Her knuckles would brush the fine wool of Roland’s suit pants, a casual accident. Then her palm would settle, a soft weight on his thigh. Andrew could feel the dense muscle beneath the fabric, the heat of another man’s body radiating into her hand.Roland wouldn’t flinch. He’d just watch her, his steak knife resting beside his plate. Ellie’s fingers would walk inward, tracing the seam of his trousers until her fingertips pressed against the solid, thick ridge of his cock.
“The proposal is competitive,” she’d say aloud, her voice never wavering. “But I find personal assurance makes the best terms.” Her hand would knead him through the cloth, feeling him swell, grow impossibly hard. Andrew imagined the texture, the heavy pulse of another man’s erection under his wife’s deliberate touch.Would he be bigger? The thought was a spike of heat in Andrew’s gut.She’d lean forward slightly, the cashmere stretching tighter. “Do we have an understanding, Roland?”
Roland’s hand would cover hers, pushing her palm down harder. “We’re getting there.” His voice would be gravel in Andrew’s ear.Then, the fantasy fractured into brutal, perfect possibilities. Would she slide from the booth, her skirt a twisted constraint, and sink beneath the white linen tablecloth? The other diners would see nothing, just the top of her head disappearing, Roland’s knuckles going white on the table edge.Andrew saw her unzipping Roland’s trousers, freeing his thick cock. She’d spit on her hand, slick him once, twice, the sound wet and obscene in the hidden dark. Then she’d take him into her mouth, all the way, until her lips met the coarse hair at his base. She’d suck him like a starving thing, gagging slightly, then finding a rhythm, her head bobbing in the shadowy cave of their booth while silverware clinked above.Or maybe she was bolder. Maybe she’d just stand up, take Roland’s hand, and lead him to the restroom. She’d push him into a stall, lock it, and hike her tight skirt up around her waist.No panties. Always no panties now.She’d turn, present herself to him, bend over the toilet tank. And Roland would push her thong aside—no, there was no thong—and drive into her wet cunt from behind, his hands groping her huge, silicone-filled tits through the cashmere, pinching her nipples hard.
But the town car.That was the vivid one. The lunch would end with a handshake that meant more. Roland would murmur something about reviewing final numbers in transit.They’d step into the back of the black car, the partition already up. As the door closed, cutting off the city noise, she’d be on him. Not a kiss, but a claiming. She’d straddle his lap right there on the butter-soft leather, her skirt ridden up, her bare cunt finding the bulge in his pants. She’d grind against him, moaning, as the car navigated midday traffic. She’d pull her sweater off, her massive tits spilling into his hands, perfect and round and utterly unnatural, and he’d suck her nipples, biting them. Then she’d free his cock, guide it into her, and sink down, taking him deep inside her soaked pussy.
She’d ride him, slowly at first, then with a frantic, slapping rhythm, her tits bouncing in his face, the car rocking slightly. She’d look out the tinted window at the passing pedestrians, knowing none of them could see, and fuck him harder, her moans loud in the sealed cabin. She’d come with a choked scream, shuddering, then make him finish inside her, gripping his shoulders, her nails digging in. “The deal is closed,” she’d whisper, sticky and spent against his neck, and it wouldn’t be about the contract at all.
Andrew’s own hand was in his pants, his cock slick with pre-come, stroking in a frantic, jealous rhythm to the beat of his own dark imaginings. He came with a stifled groan, his body tensing, the pleasure sharp and poisoned. He was left hollow, staring at the closed bedroom door, the silence now complete, wondering which version of his wife was real, and which one was coming home.
He was left hollow, staring at the closed bedroom door, the silence now complete, wondering which version of his wife was real, and which one was coming home.The phantom scents of steak and whiskey lingered in his mind, fouling the air. He cleaned himself up with a grimace, the shame a cold, metallic taste at the back of his throat.Hours bled away, marked only by the distant sounds of the neighborhood. When her key finally turned in the lock just after ten, the sound was a gunshot in the quiet house. He heard the familiar shuffle of her heels, slower now, dropping onto the tile floor. She was humming something low, a tuneless fragment of a pop song. He stayed in bed, pretending sleep, the sheets pulled to his waist.The bedroom door opened, spilling a wedge of hallway light across the floor. She stood silhouetted, a bag in one hand. The smell that entered with her was complex: the steakhouse’s aura had faded, replaced by night air, her perfume, and beneath it, a faint, salty musk.His own.His jaw clenched. She moved into the room, a dark shape in the gloom, and began to undress with a quiet, deliberate economy.
The white cashmere sweater went first, peeled off over her head. He watched through slitted eyes as she stood in just her skirt, her massive breasts pale and round in the half-light. She turned, walking naked to the en suite, and flicked on the light. She didn’t close the door. He saw her in the mirror, wiping the remains of her lipstick away with a tissue.Her eyes were bright, focused, utterly absent. She unzipped the tight skirt, let it pool at her feet, and stepped out of it.She was completely bare. She walked back into the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at his feigned sleep. Her stillness was a question.He could feel her gaze on him, assessing, knowing.He opened his eyes. Her face was unreadable, a calm mask over whatever storm had happened in that town car. The selfie she’d sent was a crater between them.
“Productive day?” he asked, his voice rough from disuse.A slow smile touched her lips, not warm, but acknowledging. “Very.” She put one knee on the mattress, then the other, crawling up the bed towards him. The scent of her intensified, that intimate, musky fragrance now undeniable, mixed with the cold scent of the evening. She straddled his hips, her weight settling on him, her bare cunt pressing against his stomach through the sheet. She leaned down, her breasts brushing his chest, her lips near his ear.“He liked the proposal. He signed.”
Andrew’s hands found her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. A part of him wanted to shake her, to demand answers about Dubai, about Roland’s hands, about the back of a car. The other part was swelling, hardening beneath her. “What did it cost?” he whispered, the words gritty and raw.She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. Her pupils were wide, black pools swallowing the hazel.She didn’t answer. Instead, she shifted back, her hands going to the sheet, yanking it down from between them. His cock sprung free, already fully erect, aching.She looked at it, then back at his face, and that smile returned. She lifted herself up, positioned the head of his cock at her opening. She was soaked, the slick heat of her shocking against him. “What do you think it cost?” she breathed, and sank down onto him in one smooth, devastating motion.
She took all of him, a deep, slow impalement that made him arch off the bed. She was so wet, so tight, her inner muscles fluttering around his length. She began to move, a steady, grinding roll of her hips, using him with a proficiency that felt learned, foreign. He gripped her thighs, his mind a riot of images: her under a table, her bent over a toilet, her riding a stranger in the back of a black car. He bucked up into her, a sharp, punishing thrust meant to reclaim something, to break her rhythm.It only made her moan, a low, throaty sound of pleasure.
“Fuck,” she muttered, her head falling back, her short hair catching the light from the bathroom. “That’s it.” Her pace quickened, her ass slapping against his thighs now, the sound lewd in the quiet room. She rode him with a fierce, concentrated energy, her tits bouncing, her nails scratching paths over his chest. He was lost in it, in the physical fact of her, in the coil of his own jealous arousal tightening in his gut. He was going to come, to spill inside this woman who was his wife and also a terrifying stranger.
But he didn’t. As she neared her peak, her movements becoming erratic, her breaths coming in sharp gasps, he did something impulsive. He gripped her waist firmly and pushed her off, flipping her onto her back before she could protest.He pinned her wrists above her head, his body covering hers. She stared up, surprised, then intrigued, a challenge flashing in her eyes. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer with words. He released her wrists and slid down her body, his mouth trailing over her stomach. He hooked his hands under her knees, spreading her wide, opening her completely to the dim light. The scent of her sex, of another man’s potential touch, of her own relentless ambition, filled his nostrils.He buried his face between her legs.
HE EATS CUNT.
He licked her with a furious, desperate intensity, his tongue plunging into her wet, open core. He tasted her—salt, musk, the faint, flat tang of latex, or maybe it was just his fear. He fucked her with his tongue, lapping at her swollen flesh, sucking her clit into his mouth, grinding his face into her. He was claiming, scouring, trying to erase the ghost of anyone else. She cried out, her hands tangling in his hair, not pushing him away but pulling him deeper, fucking his mouth with her hips. “Oh god, right there, yes, eat it, eat my fucking cunt,” she chanted, her language filthy, a mirror of his own dark fantasies. He drank her down, lost in the act, until her body went rigid and a raw, shuddering scream was torn from her throat, her pleasure flooding his senses.She collapsed, trembling. He crawled back up her body, his chin glistening, and drove his cock, still rock-hard, back into her convulsing warmth. This time, when he came, it was a silent, vicious eruption, a possession with no ownership.She held him as he shuddered, her fingers tracing the sweat on his back. The silence afterwards was different.It wasn't hollow. It was charged, waiting for the next move in a game he now realized he never agreed to play.