Chapter 9: The Deal
The cab ride was torture. Every pothole, every turn, sent a shockwave through Cristina, the silicone plug shifting deep inside her like a persistent, demanding heartbeat. Veronica’s incense still clung to her clothes, a foreign perfume over the familiar scents of her own skin and cheap leather seats. She pressed her thighs together, the denim rasping, amplifying the strange, intrusive fullness. Power wasn’t a concept anymore; it was a physical presence. A secret she carried lodged within her, humming with every pulse of her blood. The city lights blurred past, streaks of neon reflecting in the cab window, mirroring the chaotic energy crackling beneath her skin.
Her apartment door clicked shut behind her, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. The air smelled stale – old coffee grounds, dust, the lingering ghost of microwave popcorn. David’s familiar form was sprawled on the worn couch, one arm dangling off the edge, mouth slightly open. Soft snores escaped him. The sight of him, oblivious, peaceful, ignited something fierce and hot in her chest. The vulnerability she’d felt bending over Veronica’s chair evaporated, replaced by the sharp, metallic taste of command.
She crossed the room in three strides, the plug a constant, grounding pressure. No hesitation. Her palm cracked against his cheekbone, a sharp, shocking report in the stillness.
David jolted awake with a strangled gasp, eyes flying open, wide and bleary with sleep and sudden pain. He blinked, trying to focus on her looming figure in the dim light filtering through the blinds.
"Cristina? What the—"
"Get on your knees." Her voice was low, flat, devoid of her usual dry humor or casual affection. It rang with a chilling certainty that froze him mid-protest.
He stared, rubbing his stinging cheek, confusion warring with the dawning recognition of something new, something dangerous in her stance, in the blaze of her eyes. He’d seen the spark in her before, after the laptop revelation, but this was a wildfire. Slowly, stiffly, he slid off the couch, his pajama pants catching on the rough fabric, and lowered himself to the floor at her feet. The worn rug scraped his knees. He looked up, his gaze wary, questioning, but already yielding.
"Look at me," Cristina commanded. The plug pulsed inside her, a visceral reminder of Veronica’s lesson in surrender-as-power. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and underwear, shoving them down her hips in one rough motion. The cool air hit her skin, but the internal heat was overwhelming. She stepped out of the denim tangle. "See this?" Her hand rested possessively on her lower belly, just above the dark curls. "This is mine. Everything you do tonight is for this. Understand?"
David’s eyes dropped, then snapped back to hers. He swallowed hard. A flush crept up his neck. "Yes," he breathed. The word was barely audible, thick with submission and sudden, undeniable arousal.
"Good." She took a step closer, the apex of her thighs level with his face. The scent of her arousal, mingled with the faint, artificial tang of the lube Veronica had used, filled the small space between them. "Now. Use your mouth. And don’t stop until I tell you."
He didn’t need another command. His hands, trembling slightly, gripped her hips as he leaned forward, burying his face between her legs. His tongue was tentative at first, then grew bolder, exploring the slick folds with an eagerness that bordered on desperation. Cristina braced one hand against the back of the couch, the other tangling in his hair, guiding him, grinding herself against his mouth. The sensation was intense, amplified tenfold by the constant pressure of the plug deep inside her. Every flick of his tongue sent echoes vibrating through her core, a dual stimulation that quickly pushed her towards the edge.
She rode his face, controlling the rhythm, the pressure, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The plug shifted, stretching her impossibly with every movement. She felt powerful, untouchable, a goddess demanding worship. A low moan escaped her, then another, building in intensity. "Faster," she hissed, tightening her grip on his hair. "Harder." He obeyed, his hands digging into the flesh of her ass now, pulling her closer, his tongue driving deep. The coil snapped. Her body arched, a silent scream tearing through her as release crashed over her in waves, leaving her trembling, weak-kneed, but still standing, still tethered by his grip and her own iron will.
She pushed his head back, panting. His face was slick with her, his eyes glazed, pupils blown wide. "Up," she ordered, her voice rough. "On the couch."
He scrambled up, movements clumsy with arousal and obedience. She followed him, shedding her baggy t-shirt, her braless tits coming proudly into view. She straddled his lap, facing him, her knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. The plug shifted heavily inside her as she settled her weight. She could feel his erection straining against his pajama pants.
"Now," Cristina breathed, positioning herself over him. She reached between them, freed his erection, thick and hot in her hand. She lowered herself onto him in one smooth, deliberate stroke, taking him deep. The feeling of fullness was all-encompassing, the firm pressure of the plug lodged deep in her ass creating intense new sensation.
She began to move. Slow, deep rolls of her hips, grinding down onto him, using him, the base of his cock rubbing directly against the sensitized nerves Veronica had awakened. The plug had been a constant, internal presence; this was different. This was David inside her, yet she was utterly in control, dictating the pace, the angle, the depth. She rode him hard, her muscles working, sweat beading on her skin, dripping between her breasts. She threw her head back, eyes closed, lost in the dual sensations – the thickness of him buried deep, the relentless friction against her clit with each downward grind.
The pressure built again, faster this time. "Look at me," she demanded, opening her eyes. David’s gaze locked onto hers, full of desperate awe, his lips parted, breath ragged. She rode the cresting wave, her movements becoming frantic, focused solely on her own peak. Another orgasm ripped through her, sharper than the first, making her cry out his name, her inner walls clenching rhythmically around him.
She didn’t stop. She kept moving, riding the aftershocks, using his body ruthlessly for her own pleasure. She felt another peak building, lower, hotter. "Fuck," she gasped, grinding down hard, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Fuck, David..." A third climax washed over her, less explosive but deep, a pulsing warmth spreading from her core, leaving her shuddering, utterly spent. She slumped forward slightly, resting her forehead against his, both of them slick with sweat, breathing hard. She could feel the frantic pulse of him inside her, desperate for release.
She lifted her head. His eyes were pleading, his body rigid with the effort of holding back. A slow, predatory smile touched her lips. She lifted herself off him, the sudden cool air shocking against her wetness. She knelt back on the couch, facing him.
"Not inside me," she stated, her voice husky but firm. Her eyes held his, unflinching. "Here." She tapped her own cheekbone, just below her left eye.
David stared, comprehension dawning, followed by a wave of shock and intense arousal. He’d fantasized, she knew. Hidden deep in his files. But fantasy was one thing. This was real. This was her demand.
"Now, David," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. Her gaze didn’t waver.
His hand moved, trembling violently. A moment of intense tension stretched between them, thick and electric. Then, with a choked groan, his release hit her. Hot, thick spurts striped her cheek, her temple, caught in the short strands of her dark hair above her ear. She didn’t flinch. She held his gaze throughout, her expression one of cool, detached ownership. She watched the ecstasy and shame war in his eyes as he spent himself on her skin.
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by their heavy breathing and the frantic ticking of the cheap plastic clock on the bookshelf. David slumped back against the couch cushions, utterly drained, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and residual shock, fixed on the evidence glistening on her face. Cristina remained kneeling, the drying semen tacky on her skin, the phantom sensation of the plug still echoing deep within her. The power she felt was immense, intoxicating. It wasn't just sexual. It was total.
She reached out, not to wipe her face, but to gently trace a finger along his jawline. He flinched minutely. "Good boy," she murmured, the praise deliberate, laced with dominance. She swung her legs off the couch and stood, the muscles in her thighs protesting. She walked, naked, towards the small kitchenette, the plug lying forgotten on the couch cushion. She ran the tap, dampened a dish towel.
As she carefully wiped the semen from her cheekbone, temple, and hair, her reflection in the dark window over the sink was a stranger. Short dark hair tousled, eyes burning with a fierce, new light, a faint smear stubbornly clinging near her hairline. The corporate drone was gone. Erased.
She turned back to the living room. David was still slumped on the couch, watching her, looking utterly lost. Cristina leaned against the kitchen counter, the damp towel dangling from her fingers. Her voice, when it came, was calm, matter-of-fact, the finality in it colder than the water on her skin.
"I'm not going back to OmniCorp, David." She stated it plainly, like commenting on the weather. "Or anywhere like it. That life is over."
David blinked, struggling to shift gears from the raw intensity of moments before to this mundane declaration. "What? But… the mortgage… bills…"
"You'll handle it." She met his bewildered gaze, her own unwavering. "You’ll earn the money. You're good at that." A pause, heavy with implication. "And I'll be here. Living my life. Becoming... your fantasy." She gestured vaguely around the apartment, but the gesture encompassed far more. It included the memory of his face pressed between her legs, the feel of the plug, the taste of power on her tongue. "I'll be yours to experience, David. Exactly the way you always wanted. But on my terms."
He swallowed, the enormity of what she was proposing sinking in as her eyes bored into his. She placed his hands deliberately on her hips, climbed on top of him to straddle him once again. The plug, still snug in her tight rear channel, made itself known with a spark.
She felt the rightness of this, of her new path. And she couldn't wait to see where it led.