Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The morning light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Diego's corner office, catching the gold threads in the scrap of fabric that Bridget wore. He had chosen it that morning before she even woke, laying it out on the bed beside her like a master selecting a bridle. A white halter top that ended just below her ribs, cut so low that the lower curve of each breast was a pale half-moon against the fabric. It was not a shirt. It was a suggestion. Below that, a scrap of lace that passed for panties, high-cut at the hips so her ass cheeks were bare and round.
She had put it on without a word. There had been a time, months ago, when she might have hesitated, might have reached for something that covered more. That girl was gone. The Bridget who stood now in Diego's office wore what she was told and did not ask why. The collar around her throat was new. He had presented it to her yesterday with a little ceremony, buckling it around her neck himself, adjusting the bell so it chimed with every small movement.
"You're going to sit under my desk during the conference call," he said, not looking up from his tablet. "And you're going to be quiet. Not quiet enough for them not to know you're there. Quiet enough that no one can say anything."
He looked at her then, letting his eyes travel from the tip of her red hair, loose around her shoulders, down to the white halter that strained against her enhanced chest, to the lace that covered almost nothing.
"Do you understand, pet?"
"Yes, Master," she said, and the words came out soft and automatic, like a prayer she had memorized.
The call connected at nine. Marco Okoro was on the screen, and two other men Bridget did not know, faces flat and corporate from some conference room in another building. Bridget was already beneath the desk, wedged into the space where Diego kept his long legs. The wood panel smelled of polish and his cologne. She could feel the texture of his trousers against her cheek, and she pressed herself into the dark space greedily because it smelled like him and that was the only safe place she knew.
"Fuentes," Marco said, his voice tinny through the speaker, "the Meridian acquisition is going to shit. Their counsel is pushing back on the indemnity clause."
"Push back harder," Diego said. His hand slid off his thigh and found the back of Bridget's head, fingers threading through her dark red hair. Not gently. He was not a gentle man. He grasped a fistful of her hair and pulled her face toward his lap, and she went without resistance, animal-trusting, because his hand was the only thing that told her what to do.
She unzipped his trousers with practiced fingers. The ridge of him under the fabric was already thick, half-hard from the anticipation of having her there. He let her pull him out and wrap her lips around the head of his cock, and the taste of him flooded her mouth just as his grip on her hair tightened into something near painful.
"Tell them the indemnity clause is non-negotiable," he said, his voice not even wavering as she took more of him into her throat.
She was crying. Not from the thickness of him pressing down her throat, though that was part of it. From the awareness of who she was under this desk, a grown woman with a collar and a bell, kneeling in the dark while her husband conducted a million-dollar negotiation with her mouth full of his dick. The degradation pressed down on her chest, not like grief but like lust, like a bruise she loved to push.
"I want the revised term sheet by noon," Diego said. His hips rolled slightly, pushing himself deeper, and she gagged and swallowed around him. "And tell their counsel that if they want to play hardball, I have a very hard ball of my own."
Marco laughed on the other end, that low, approving laugh that always made Bridget's cheeks burn. "Jesus, Diego, what's that little wife of yours doing today? She keeping you company?"
"She's being very useful," Diego said. "Just brought her in for a little morning meeting. She's excellent at taking direction."
The other men laughed. Bridget could feel her own pulse in her throat, in her pussy, a warmth spreading up from between her thighs that she hated and needed simultaneously. She had stopped crying a long time ago about the ways he used her. Now she just let the tears roll and kept her mouth open and took him.
When the call ended, Diego pulled her out from under the desk by her hair. She came up gasping, lips swollen and glistening, his cock still hard and slick-sheened from her mouth. He looked at her the way a man looks at something he owns, cataloguing the parts. Her tits, bigger now than they had been a year ago, engineered by a surgeon he had flown in from Beverly Hills. Her ass, round and heavy and rising out of the scrap of lace. The marks on her inner thighs, fingernails half-mooned into pale skin.
"Get on the desk," he said.
She climbed up. The surface was cold against her bare thighs, and she spread her legs because she had learned, through a hundred small punishments, that when he told her to get on something, she spread her legs. He did not touch her yet. He took out his phone instead and came closer, adjusting the angle until she filled the frame.
"Smile, pet."
She smiled. It was a real smile, broken and eager, because some part of her loved that he wanted to capture her like this, that he had a whole gallery on his phone of her in every state he had ever put her in. Naked in the tub full of ice. Crawling across the marble floor with milk dripping from her nipples. The contact photo he used for her number was a close-up of her face mid-suck, pupils blown and eyelashes wet.
"Look at you," he said, snapping the picture. The shutter sound was obscene in the quiet office. "My pretty little cunt. Dumb as they come and just as useful."
"Thank you, Master," she said.
He pocketed the phone and finally touched her, sliding a single finger down her stomach until it reached the lace. He hooked it aside and pushed inside her without preamble, two fingers deep, then three, working her open roughly while she panted. Her cunt was already wet, so wet that the sound of him moving inside her filled the office. He pushed his thumb against her clit and ground his palm into the soft mound of her mons and watched her face.
"Going to fill you up right before lunch," he said. "Family is coming over. Mother, father. They want to see how you're settling in. You'll be on your best behavior for Mama, won't you?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good girl." He pulled his fingers out and pushed them against her lips, and she opened her mouth and cleaned them obediently. "Clean yourself up. I want you presentable."
She slid off the desk, wobbling on legs that barely held her. The lace was soaked through, dark against her skin, and the bell at her collar chimed with each unsteady step. She went to the small washroom adjoining his office and wiped the mess from her thighs while she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were glassy. Her lips were pink and puffy. There was a hickey forming at the base of her throat, right below the leather band of her collar. She touched it and remembered the night before, Diego's mouth at her neck, his hand wrapped around her throat while he told her he was going to put a baby in her soon, a little baby to grow inside her and keep her home forever.
She believed him. She knew he would.
The family lunch was at one in the private dining room on the top floor of the Fuentes building. Diego's parents were there, silver-haired and immaculate. His mother, Rosalinda Fuentes, was a tall, imperious woman who wore her age like jewelry. She kissed Bridget on both cheeks when she entered, and her smile was poison-sweet.
"Bridget, darling, you look radiant," Rosalinda said. "Diego says the new surgeon did wonders."
Bridget's outfit had been chosen for the occasion. A dress cut so short that the hem barely covered her ass, with a deep V of a neckline that left almost nothing to the imagination. Her milk-heavy breasts were pillowed against the fabric, and small pads hidden beneath the bodice soaked up the occasional leak of milk because Diego did not want her making a scene before dessert. She wore the collar, too. There was a family crest on it now, a tiny gold medallion that matched his father's signet ring.
"Thank you, Mama," Bridget said, the words coming from a script she had memorized.
Hugh Merrick arrived with Joan, his wife, ten minutes later. Hugh kissed Bridget's hand and held it too long. Joan looked her up and down with the same appraising eye she would give a racehorse and nodded once, satisfied.
"She's filling out nicely," Joan said, addressing Diego as if Bridget weren't in the room. "You were right to make the changes."
"Small investments," Diego said, shrugging. "She's a quick learner."
They ate. Bridget sat at Diego's right hand and was allowed to eat real food today, a small mercy, though she ate slowly because her jaw was still sore from the morning's work. Under the table, Diego's hand rested on her thigh, high, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her inner leg in a rhythm that felt like a promise.
"I heard you've been training her," Rosalinda said, sipping her wine. "House training, I mean."
"She's very obedient," Diego said. "I never have to repeat myself."
"I had a look at her earlier," Hugh said, an ugly smile creeping across his face. "Out in the hallway. On her hands and knees, polishing the wainscoting. You could see right up her skirt."
Bridget's cheeks burned. She remembered that hour. He had pulled her out of the dining room before the food arrived and made her crawl the length of the corridor on her knees, a rag in one hand, wearing nothing but the skirt that rode up to her hips with every sway. He had followed behind her, filming on his phone, laughing whenever the bell on her collar rang.
"She's got a good attitude," Diego said, stroking Bridget's thigh. "Show them how good your attitude is, pet."
Bridget slid off her chair, the movement smooth and practiced. On her knees under the table, face level with her husband's crotch, she unzipped his trousers and took him into her mouth again. The family kept talking above her, the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversation, and she sucked him with slow, wet strokes while Diego maintained a two-way conversation with his mother about quarterly earnings. When he came, hot and thick down her throat, she swallowed it all and sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Show them," Diego said.
She lifted herself up just enough to show the table her mouth, open, empty. Tongue flat to prove she had swallowed. Joan laughed and clapped her hands lightly. Rosalinda's smile widened.
"Good investment," Joan said.
After lunch, the family withdrew to Diego's study on the ground floor while Bridget was sent to clean up. She took a shower in the private bathroom attached to his office, washing the taste of him out of her mouth and the slickness from between her thighs. When she stepped out, dried, she found a new outfit laid out for her on the bed. A dark blue tracksuit, but not a normal one. The top was cropped above her navel, and the pants were so tight they barely fit over her ass, the fabric wedged up between her cheeks.
She dressed and came to him for approval. He looked at her and nodded, then slid a finger under the waistband of the pants and snapped it up, hard, pulling the fabric deeper into her crack. She gasped and rose onto her toes.
"That's where it belongs," he said. "Wear it like that. All afternoon."
"Yes, Master."
She followed him to the living room, where his parents were seated on the long white sofa and Hugh and Joan were in armchairs by the window. Marco had arrived at some point, sprawled in the corner, his eyes hungry. They were all looking at her. Bridget felt the weight of it, the assessment, and she stood still under it like a cow at auction.
"Come show the family," Diego said.
She walked to the center of the room. The fabric of the tracksuit was so tight that every curve was outlined, and the wedgie he had given her made her cheeks pull apart on each step. She turned slowly, showing them her profile, then her back, letting them see how the fabric had ridden up until it was a thin string between her round cheeks.
"Good girl," Diego said. "Now come sit at my feet."
She went and sat. He didn't give her a cushion, so she sat on the bare floor, thighs together, hands folded in her lap. The bell at her neck chimed with the smallest movement.
"I think we should go shopping one day," Rosalinda said, studying Bridget's chest. "Those tits deserve a proper wardrobe. Something that really shows them off."
"Whatever you think is best, Mama," Bridget said, having learned that this was the safest reply.
"There's a boutique we use," Joan said. "She'll need dresses that show above the knee. Tube tops. Something with side cutouts so you can see her ribs. We want your husband's investment to be visible."
Bridget nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Diego's father, a quiet man who had said almost nothing all afternoon, finally looked at her with the flat, assessing gaze of a man who had spent his life acquiring things. He looked at the collar. He looked at the bell. He looked at the way her chest was almost spilling out of the cropped top, and he spoke.
"She doesn't pump," he said. "I'd hoped she would pump. Milk is better when it comes from the source."
"She lactates," Diego said. "We let the babies drink directly. It's more natural."
"She's got time yet," Hugh said, a nasty smile curving his mouth. "Once you knock her up, she'll be overflowing. I look forward to the surplus."
The conversation moved on, discussing a merger and the stock price, and Bridget sat quietly at her husband's feet like a piece of furniture, well-trained and still. Her mind drifted without permission. She thought about sugar. About the little packets of sugar at the café she used to go to with her friends before any of this, stirring it into her coffee with a small silver spoon. She thought about the way the world had been before Diego, when she had worked as a maid in a small hotel on the outskirts of the city, and her biggest worry had been whether she would be scheduled for double shifts that week.
The mind drifted, as mind does, to the beginning.
She had started working for him two years ago. A friend from the hotel, Noor, had told her about the position. A private household, a wealthy young CEO who needed a live-in maid, good pay, a room of her own, all meals included. Bridget had been nervous at the interview. She had shown up in her best clothes, a modest green dress that came down to her knees, and had been escorted into a marble foyer the size of her old apartment.
Diego had been waiting for her in a leather chair, legs crossed, looking at her like she was a pretty piece of art he was considering buying. "You're younger than I expected," he had said. "How old are you?"
"Twenty, sir."
"Good. Young is good. You can learn."
The job had begun simply enough. She cleaned, she cooked, she kept the house in order. He was rarely home, and when he was, he barely acknowledged her. For the first month, she had almost believed she had found a good place. Then, slowly, things had started to change.
"Bridget, come here."
She had come. He was in his bedroom, standing by the window, and he had her come to him while he looked her up and down. "You missed a spot on the floor," he said. "Under the bed. I found dust last night."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fuentes. I'll take care of it."
"Get down and show me how."
She had knelt and reached under the bed with her rag, but the gap was too low for her arm to fit. He watched her struggle. Then he spoke calmly, like he was ordering coffee.
"Take off your clothes."
"Sir?"
"If you don't fit wearing that, you'll fit wearing less. Now take it off."
She had stood there, fingers frozen at the hem of her shirt, while he looked at her with that flat, patient expression. There was no threat in it. There was no room for refusal, either, because his kindness was a leash, and she had been too naive to know she was already wearing it. She had undressed with shaking hands, and when she stood naked in the middle of his bedroom, he had looked at her body with the same assessing gaze as the interview.
"Good. Now get down and clean."
She had knelt again, naked, the cold floor pressing her skin, and she had reached deeper under the bed. He had come to her while she worked, kneeling behind her, and she had felt his hand on her bare hip and had not known how to tell him no. She had kept cleaning, tears streaming silently, while he touched her. And then he had lifted her cheeks and pushed himself inside her, dry, and she had bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.
"Don't stop cleaning," he had said, his cock sliding in and out of her cunt while he fucked her from behind. "You're going to clean every inch of this house, and I'm going to fill you up every time I want to. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," she had sobbed.
And she had kept cleaning, furiously, trying to be good, while he used her like a thing, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. When he finished, he pulled out and left his seed dripping down her thighs, and he had helped her stand and told her to clean herself up before she made a mess.
The memories came unbidden as she sat at his feet in the living room, the family still talking above her. She remembered the time he had made her mix dish soap and water in a bucket and then had her dip her hair in it, the foam running down her scalp, before he had flipped her over and used her long red hair like a mop, dragging her head across the kitchen floor to show her exactly how thorough he expected her to be. She remembered the champagne taste of the water and the sting in her scalp as he pulled her by the hair.
She remembered the wedding. How he had tricked her into it, despite her protests that she was not good enough to be his wife. He had come home one night with a bottle of expensive wine and two glasses, and he had spoken to her softly, kindly, telling her how much he needed her, how she was the only one who understood him, how he wanted to take care of her forever. She had drunk the wine, and the room had spun, and the next thing she remembered, she was in a white dress in a small chapel, and her hand was in his, and the judge was pronouncing them husband and wife.
She woke that night in his bed, naked, his seed sticky between her thighs, the collar already around her neck.
"There," he had murmured against her skin, his cock still half-hard, pressing against her thigh. "Now you're mine. Legally. Completely. No running back to your friends, no surprises. I own you, Bridget. And I'm going to use you the way you were meant to be used."
She had cried then, silently, while he kissed her neck. And then he had pushed her onto her stomach and mounted her from behind, and he had whispered filth against her ear while he filled her: no one else would ever touch her, she was his breeding bitch, his little milk cow, his pretty dumb cunt.
She had believed him then too. She believed him now.
The afternoon wore on. The family left one by one, kissing her cheek, promising to see her soon. Bridget was dismissed to the bedroom while Diego walked them out. She stood in the middle of the master suite, still in the tight blue tracksuit with the fabric wedged up her ass, and she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Her face looked different than it had two years ago. Softer and harder at once. Her tits were swollen, milk-heavy, the areolae darker than they had been. Maybe it was true. Maybe he had remade every part of her into the shape he wanted.
The door opened. Diego came in and locked it behind him. He stood there looking at her, this thing he had built, and he smiled a slow, possessive smile.
"What do you say, pet?"
"I'm yours, Master," she said, and it came out strong and sure, because it was the truest thing she had ever said in her life.
"Come here."
She went to him.