Chapter 29: Enzo drags Alma into the cramped jet bathroom, shoving her face against the mirror as he yanks down her leggings. Spitting onto his thick cock, he rams into her dry pussy with a snarl, his calloused hands gripping her scarred hips as he pounds her relentlessly. 'This cunt belongs to me first,' he growls, biting her shoulder when she tries to muffle her moans. The turbulence matches his brutal pace, her tits slapping against the cold sink as he bends her over and cums deep inside, leaving her tre
The jet’s hum was a cerebral thing, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to reside in the molars. Sergio was asleep in the main cabin, sprawled across four seats, an expensive cashmere blanket tangled around his legs. The qualifying session played on a loop behind his eyelids—the missed apex, the costly oversteer, the fifth-place grid spot that felt like a public flogging.
Alma had seen the mistake happen in real time from the pit wall. She’d seen Sergio’s eyes, just before he climbed into the cockpit. He’d looked past Enzo, past his engineer, and found her. For a half-second, his focus softened. She’d given him a small, private smile, a nod of confidence. A distraction. Three-tenths of a second worth.
Enzo hadn’t said a word. Not then. He’d simply watched her, his expression flat, as the session ended and the debrief dissolved into tense, technical murmurs. The punishment, she knew, would be invoice-based. Itemized.
She was in the jet’s rear galley, compiling the post-quali media report when his shadow filled the doorway. “Bathroom. Now.”
His voice was conversational. It made her skin prickle. She set the tablet down, its screen glowing with Sergio’s lost time, and followed him the twelve steps down the narrow corridor to the lavatory.
It was a sleek capsule of marble and brushed steel. He followed her in, locking the door with a definitive click. The space forced intimacy; their reflections overlapped in the infinite mirror.
“Fifth,” he said, unbuttoning his cufflinks, placing them on the edge of the sink with meticulous care. “He hasn’t qualified fifth in two years.”
“The car was loose,” she said, her voice steady. “The rear—“
“The car was fine,” he interrupted, his voice a quiet scrape. “His head wasn’t. It was somewhere else. On a pair of brown eyes and a sympathetic smile.” He turned to her. “My eyes are up here, Alma.”
She met his gaze. A current, hot and shameful, pulsed between her legs. She was already wet. She’d been wet since qualifying, anticipating this.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he asked, stepping closer until the hard plane of his body pressed her against the cool counter. “You think this subtle little game of fucking his focus is clever?” He brought his hand between them, cupping her roughly through her trousers. The fabric was damp. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against her clit. She gasped, her head tipping back. “Your cunt gives you away. It’s a dripping, honest little snitch.”
He unzipped her trousers, yanking them and her underwear down to her knees in one brutal motion. The cold air hit her wetness. He turned her around to face the mirror, bending her forward over the sink. Her cheek pressed against the cold marble. He shoved her blouse up, exposing the small of her back, the curves of her ass.
“Look,” he commanded, his hand tangling in her hair, forcing her head up to see their reflection. “Look at the desperate slut who fucked up my driver’s afternoon.”
Her own eyes stared back, wide and dark. His expression was one of detached, furious analysis. He used his free hand to unzip himself. He didn’t touch her to guide himself in. He just positioned the thick, blunt head of his cock at her entrance and pushed, using his grip on her hip for leverage.
She was slick, but he was huge, and the penetration was a ruthless, stretching burn. A choked cry loud caught in her throat. Her knuckles turned white on the sink edge.
“There we go,” he grunted, sinking to the hilt in one slow, inexorable shove. “Home sweet home.” He held himself there, buried, his eyes locked on hers in the mirror. “Is this what you wanted? While you were flashing those pretty eyes at him, was this what you were really thinking about? My cock splitting this tight, greedy little hole?”
He began to move. Short, punishing strokes that didn’t withdraw far, just brutal, deep impacts that jarred her entire body. Each thrust slammed her pelvis into the hard edge of the counter. Pain and a sharp, coiling pleasure mixed, inextricable.
“Yes,” she hissed, the admission torn from her.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I wanted it.” She was crying, tears tracking through her reflection. “I wanted you to fuck me for it.”
His rhythm broke for a second, surprised by her raw capitulation. Then a savage grin spread across his face. “You’re fucking unbelievable.” He pulled almost all the way out, a glistening, obscene sight in the mirror, then drove back in with a force that made her teeth rattle. “You sabotage my multi-million-euro asset so I’ll pound your cheating pussy raw. You’re a degenerate.”
She was. She knew it. The knowledge liberated something vile and ravenous inside her. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper. The wet, meaty sounds of their fucking filled the small space. She could smell herself, smell him, smell the faint citrus of the jet’s cleanser.
“You love it, you twisted bitch,” he snarled, his composure shredding. His hand left her hair and circled her throat, applying pressure, not to choke, but to claim. “You love being my dirty secret. My useful little whore.”
Her climax hit her like a systemic failure. It wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation, a seismic shudder that ripped through her without permission. Her vision whited out at the edges. A raw, guttural sound, nothing like her own voice, escaped her as she convulsed around him, milking his cock with violent, involuntary spasms.
The feeling of her pulsing around him was the final trigger. With a roar he buried himself deep, his body locking against hers as he came, hot jets of release flooding her, marking his territory in the most primal way. He slumped over her, his weight driving her harder into the counter, his breath ragged in her ear.
For long moments, there was only the sound of their strained breathing and the jet’s eternal hum. He slowly pulled out. The immediate, empty ache was profound. She watched in the mirror as he tucked himself away, zipped up. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. In the reflection, he looked like a man who had just won a brutal, pointless fight.
He looked at her image—disheveled, trousers around her knees, his spend already beginning to leak down her inner thigh. A faint, cruel smile touched his lips. “Clean yourself up. You’ve got media summaries to finish.”
He unlocked the door and left without a backward glance. The metallic snick of the latch was the sound of a cell door closing, but she was no longer sure if she was inside or out.
Alma straightened on trembling legs. She looked at the mess in the mirror. The bruises forming on her hips. The wildness in her eyes. The physical proof of her complicity. She reached for a linen hand towel, dampened it with cold water, and cleaned between her legs with a clinical detachment. The wetness she wiped away wasn’t just his. It was hers. A constant, humiliating arousal that had become her new normal. Her body had ratified the treaty her mind had negotiated.
She pulled her clothes back on. Every movement echoed the recent violation. She splashed water on her face, patted it dry. The professional mask was harder to settle into place this time. It felt like a costume over a fresh wound.
When she returned to the galley, the tablet was where she left it. Sergio’ fifth-place data. Enzo was in the main cabin, on the phone, speaking in low, even tones about tomorrow’s race strategy. As if nothing had happened. As if her body wasn’t still throbbing with him.
She picked up the tablet. The numbers blurred. She understood now, with a clarity that was almost peaceful, that there was no going back. The line was not just crossed; it was erased. The distraction, the punishment, the wetness between her legs—it was all part of the same circuit, a closed loop of power and degradation that she now powered with her own hunger.
She took a slow, deep breath, the jet’s filtered air cold in her lungs. She scrolled to the media summary template and began to type. The words came easily. She was, after all, an excellent assistant. She knew exactly what her job was. All of its parts.
The polished words on the screen meant nothing. A humming distraction. Her body was a live wire, still vibrating from the force of him in that bathroom. The soreness between her legs was a grounding pulse, a reminder that cut through the jet’s sterile calm. She typed a bland conclusion about tire degradation, her mind replaying the savage grip of his hand on her throat.
She craved it again. Already. The craving was a low, insistent throb, deeper than thought. It was in the constant, faint dampness in her underwear, in the way her eyes tracked the line of his shoulder as he finally ended his call. He was an addiction administered in brutal, punishing doses. And she was planning her next fix.
The hotel in Montreal was a fortress of glass and muted tones. Sergio, chastened by his qualifying error, was a model of focus, buried in sim data with his engineers. Alma moved through the suite, a ghost arranging mineral water and protein bars. Her opportunity came just past ten, when Enzo dismissed the last engineer with a curt nod.
He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers, staring at the city lights as if they were an opponent’s telemetry. She approached, not with the pad, but empty-handed.
“The Italian press coordinator confirmed,” she said, her voice neutral. “But they’re pushing for a personal angle. Childhood dreams. His mother’s influence.” She paused, letting the words hang. “I told them you’d never allow such a soft focus. That it weakens the brand.”
Enzo didn’t turn. “You presume to know what I’ll allow?”
“I know a liability when I see one,” she said, her tone icing over slightly. “Sentiment is a liability. You’ve said so yourself. Or were you just talking about the car’s setup?”
He turned then, slowly. His eyes were dark pools in the reflected cityscape. He studied her, the deliberate challenge in her posture, the almost imperceptible lift of her chin. A slow, understanding smile spread across his face, devoid of warmth. “You’re a piece of work.”
“I’m managing your asset’s narrative. As instructed.”
“You’re managing a tantrum,” he said, setting his glass down with a sharp click. “A wet, needy little tantrum because it’s been,” he glanced at his watch, “four hours since I stuffed you full. You can’t think straight, can you? That clever head is just a vessel for your cunt.”
The crudeness was a match to gasoline. Heat flooded her. “My focus is impeccable. It’s yours I question. You’re the one staring at buildings.”
He crossed the room in three strides. His hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of her curls, yanking her head back. The pain was sharp, bright. “You want another lesson?”
“I want you to stop pretending this is about lessons,” she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. “It’s about you wanting to bury yourself in me. You’re addicted to it. Admit it.”
He released her hair as if burned. A flicker of something raw—not anger, but recognition—passed over his face. It was the truth, laid bare between them. He craved the conquest, the control, the feel of her tight heat clamping around him. She saw the hunger win, overriding his managerial disdain. It was her victory, filthy and complete.
“Over the desk,” he growled, his voice thick.
She turned, bending over the sleek, cold surface, pushing Sergio’s data sheets aside. He didn’t bother with her trousers this time. He yanked the tailored fabric up, his fingers tearing at the seam of her thong, ripping it aside. She was dripping, utterly sodden, her own arousal betraying her aggressive façade. He unzipped himself, his cock springing free, already fully hard and glistening at the tip.
He didn’t guide himself. He just drove forward, spearing her in one brutal, claiming thrust. The air left her lungs in a shocked gasp. She was more than ready, her body opening for him with a lewd, wet sound.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned, his hands clamping on her hips, his thumbs digging into the tender bruises from the jet. “You’re soaked. You’re always soaked for me, you filthy slut.”
He set a relentless, pounding rhythm, each slam of his hips driving her into the hard edge of the desk. The pain was punctuation to the devastating pleasure coiling in her gut. She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, taking him deeper, milking him with a deliberate, internal clutch.
“Is this what you needed?” he spat, his breath hot on her neck. “My cock hammering this stupid defiance out of you?”
“Yes!” she cried out, the word torn from her. “God, yes. Harder.”
He obeyed, his control snapping. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, of his grunts and her choked moans. He fucked her with a raw, desperate fury, as if trying to exorcise his own need through the violence of the act. One hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, rapid circles.
It tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm detonated, a silent scream tearing through her as her body seized, clenching around him in vicious, rhythmic spasms. The intensity pulled a ragged shout from him. He pinned her deep, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her with a final, guttural curse.
He collapsed over her, his weight a crushing, sweaty blanket. His face was buried in her hair. For a moment, there was no sound but their ragged breathing and the distant city hum.
He pulled out. The feeling of him leaving, of the sudden, empty ache and the warm trickle down her thigh, was profoundly degrading. He zipped his trousers. She heard the soft clink of his belt buckle.
“Clean this up,” he said, his voice hoarse. He gestured vaguely at the desk, at her, at the mingled mess. “And get your head straight for tomorrow. No more games.”
But it was the greatest game. And they both knew she’d won this round. She had made him lose his composure, made him fuck her with a hunger that bordered on rage. As he left, his steps hurried, she slowly righted herself. Her legs trembled. She smoothed her ruined clothing, a slow smile touching her lips. She had become the distraction he couldn’t afford. The craving was mutual. And she held the needle.