Chapter 30: Enzo punishes Alma for distracting Sergio during qualifying by roughly face-fucking her in the jet's bedroom, her tears and mascara smearing as she struggles to take his full length, her pussy dripping despite the humiliation.
The Montreal suite was too quiet after the engineers left. Sergio had retreated to his own adjoining room, the sounds of a sim racing video game a faint, childish soundtrack through the wall. Enzo stood by the window, the ghost of his whiskey glass in his hand, but he’d poured nothing. He was coiled tight, a spring loaded by her defiance over the desk.
Alma busied herself tidying the main area, collecting empty water bottles and stacking data pads. The ache between her legs was a persistent echo. She felt his eyes on her back, a physical pressure between her shoulder blades.
“The Italian press need final confirmation by midnight,” she said, not turning around. “I’ve drafted a statement deflecting to the car’s performance. It’s sufficiently bland.”
“Come here.”
Two words. A voltage down her spine. She placed the pads down carefully, squaring the edges, before turning and walking toward him. She stopped a few feet away, professional distance. The city lights painted his profile in cold blues and yellows.
He didn’t look at her. “You think you’ve figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“This.” He finally turned. His gaze was unnervingly calm, the fury from before buried under a layer of glacial calculation. “You think making me lose control is a point for you. You think your wet little cunt is a bargaining chip.”
She held his stare. “It seems to have purchasing power.”
A smile, thin and humorless. “It buys you a specific currency. Debasing yourself. Is that what you want your power to be? The ability to make a man so hard he forgets his own name?” He took a step closer. “That’s not power. That’s biology. A cheap trick.”
“It worked.”
“Oh, it worked,” he conceded, his voice dropping to a murmur. He closed the final distance, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, a shockingly tender gesture. Then it drifted down, over her lips. “This mouth. So clever. So many languages. It told the press coordinator where to shove it today.” His thumb pressed against her lower lip, parting them. “Let’s see what else it’s good for.”
The shift was instantaneous. The tender grip became an iron clamp on her jaw. He forced her down, her knees hitting the thick carpet with a dull thud. The position was one of absolute supplication. She looked up the length of his body, at the cold triumph in his eyes.
“Open.”
She hesitated. This was different. Deeper. More intimately humiliating than being bent over a desk. This was about silencing her words, her defiance, transforming her into a utility.
His other hand unbuckled his belt, the rasp loud in the quiet room. He unzipped his trousers, freeing himself. He was already fully erect, thick and ruddy in the low light. He slapped the heavy weight of his cock against her cheek once, twice—a stinging, degrading caress.
“Open that pretty mouth, puta,” he growled, the obscenity hanging in the air.
She parted her lips. He didn’t guide himself. He simply pushed the broad head past her lips, pressing against the resistance of her teeth until she yielded. The taste of him—salt and skin and a faint musk—flooded her senses. He pushed further, the intrusion immediate and overwhelming. Her gag reflex fired, a violent convulsion in her throat.
He didn’t pause. He held her head steady, fingers tangled in her curls, and pushed deeper. The head of his cock hit the back of her throat. She choked, her eyes watering, her nostrils flaring as she fought for air through her nose.
“Relax,” he commanded, a bored note in his voice. “Take it. You wanted this. You wanted my attention. This is it. All of it.”
He began to move, shallow at first, then with longer strokes that fucked into the tight, wet clasp of her mouth. Each thrust made her throat work, a series of involuntary, gagging swallows that only tightened around him. Tears streamed down her face, tracing paths through her mascara. The sounds were obscene: wet, choking, rhythmic gulps. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth, slicking his length.
He looked down at her, a clinical observer of her degradation. “Look at you. The brilliant polyglot. Reduced to a hole. This is what you traded your self-respect for. This is the currency you deal in now.”
He picked up the pace, his hips pumping harder, driving himself deeper into her throat. Her vision swam. Her jaw ached. A part of her detached, floating above the scene, watching a talented woman on her knees being used as a fleshlight. The shame was a live wire. But beneath it, coiling in the pit of her stomach, was that same treacherous heat. Her own arousal, a filthy, undeniable truth, dampened her thighs. Her body was celebrating its own annihilation.
He groaned, his composure cracking. “Fuck. That’s it. Take it all, you greedy slut. Swallow it.”
His rhythm became erratic, brutal. He was using her face, her throat, for his own release with a single-minded urgency. She could barely breathe, each desperate snort of air through her nose a victory. He shoved in one last time, hilting himself, and held her there. She felt the pulsing throb at the back of her throat before the first hot, bitter jet hit. He came with a ragged curse, flooding her mouth, the taste overwhelming, metallic and sour.
He held her locked, swallowing was not an option but a necessity to avoid choking. She gulped convulsively, taking it all down, the physical act of consumption the final, profound surrender.
When he finally pulled out, it was with a soft, wet pop. A string of saliva and semen connected her swollen lips to his glistening cock for a second before breaking. She knelt, gasping, coughing, her body shuddering. Her mouth was ravaged, her throat raw.