Chapter 3: Lunch Break Servicing
The numbers on his screen bled into one another. A column of quarterly projections danced, meaningless. Mateo’s chair felt like it was lined with sand. Every shift sent a dull reminder from the deep muscles of his ass, a phantom fullness from the steel plug, from the black silicone. The office hum was a dentist’s drill.
His personal phone, face-up beside his keyboard, lit up at 1:14 PM. The ten digits. His stomach liquefied. He grabbed it, swiped before the first vibration ended.
“Loft. Now.” Her voice was a low pulse. The line died.
He stood so fast his chair rolled back and hit the cubicle partition. Dan looked over from his desk, eyebrows raised.
“Emergency,” Mateo muttered, already shoving his laptop into his bag.
“Again?” Dan’s voice was flat. “You realize your probation review is—”
“I know. It’s… my mother.” The lie was ash in his mouth. He didn’t wait for a reply. He walked out, past the copy room, past the kitchenette smelling of burnt popcorn, into the elevator’s sterile light. He didn’t breathe until he was on the street, hailing a cab with a frantic wave. The golden fur was at his apartment, but its weight felt sewn into his shoulders.
The service elevator in Tribeca rattled upwards. He watched the brick walls pass in a blur. The doors opened directly into the vast, silent loft. The smell hit him first—not the charred garlic from the synopsis, but the clean, bitter scent of industrial cleaner and, underneath, the musk of their last encounter. The concrete floor gleamed.
Anya stood by the industrial windows, a silhouette against the grey midday sky. She wore only the golden fox fur, the belt tied loosely. It was open at the front, a slash of shadow against her pale skin. She didn’t turn.
“Close the elevator gate,” she said.
He pulled the heavy metal grate shut. The final clang echoed.
“Come here.”
He walked across the floor, his shoes sounding obscenely loud. She turned as he approached. Her face was a mask of cool indifference. She gestured to the vintage leather armchair, which had been pulled to the center of the space.
“Bend over it. Hold the back.”
She didn’t have to specify. He knew the position. He toed off his shoes, shrugged out of his puffer jacket and work shirt, let his trousers and briefs pool at his ankles. The air was cool on his bare skin. He bent at the waist, gripping the worn leather of the chair back. The posture pulled his ass cheeks taut. He felt terrifyingly exposed.
He heard the soft whisper of her footsteps, then felt the warm, heavy weight of the fur coat as she draped part of it over his back. She was close. Her hand smoothed over his flank, possessive.
“You remember your place,” she stated. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, Goddess.”
“Good. Now, you’re going to worship a part of me your petty little fantasies probably never considered. You’re going to put that clever tongue to work. And you are not to use your hands. Keep them on the chair. If they move, I will tie them.”
Her hands gripped his hips, positioning him. Then she climbed onto the chair behind him, kneeling over him, straddling his back. He felt her knees bracket his ribs. Then she lowered herself.
Her ass hovered just above his head. He could see the delicate pink pucker of her hole, the dark furl of her cunt just above it. The intimacy was dizzying. She settled, her weight braced on his shoulders, her sex and ass presented directly over his face.
“Eat my ass, Mateo. Get it wet. Get it ready. Make me come from your tongue in my shithole.”
The filthy command, delivered in her crisp, uninflected tone, shattered him. He obeyed.
He tilted his head up, his nose nudging against her perineum. He inhaled her scent—soap, salt, woman. He extended his tongue, flattening it against her tight rosebud. It was clean, slightly salty. He licked in broad, slow strokes, softening her. He probed with the tip, circling, feeling the muscle clench and then, gradually, relax under his ministrations.
“Deeper,” she breathed, her voice above him tightening.
He pressed his tongue firmer, spearing into the tight ring. He fucked her with it, in and out, coating her with his saliva. He moved his attention upward, dragging his tongue through her slick folds, tasting her tangy arousal, before returning to her asshole, burying his face between her cheeks. He was a machine of service, his world reduced to the taste and feel of her, the sound of her breathing growing ragged.
One of her hands fisted in his hair, grinding his face harder against her. “There. Right there. Don’t stop.”
He redoubled his efforts, licking and probing with a desperate focus. He felt her thighs begin to tremble against the sides of his head. Her internal muscles fluttered around nothing. A low, guttural moan escaped her, vibrating through her body into his.
She came, shuddering, her juices dripping onto his chin as she ground her cunt against his forehead. Her grip on his hair was punishing. She rocked through the waves, her asshole clenching rhythmically against his invading tongue.
When the tremors subsided, she pushed his head away. He was panting, his face slick with her wetness. She climbed off him, off the chair. He heard the rustle of the fur coat, then the click of the harness buckle.
“Stand up. Turn around.”
He straightened, his back protesting. He turned. She had stepped into the black leather harness. The dildo, the same obsidian one, was already slick with lube. She looked at his cock, which was painfully hard, jutting out from his body.
“Not for you,” she said, nodding at his erection. “That stays untouched. This,” she slapped the silicone, “is what I need. On your knees.”
He sank to the concrete. She walked to him, the fake cock bobbing. She guided the head to his lips. “Suck it. Get it wet for my cunt.”
He opened his mouth, taking the silicone in. It tasted of clean rubber and the faint, lingering bitterness of lube. He sucked, coating it with his saliva, his own neglected dick throbbing in time with his pulse.
She pulled it from his mouth. “Now. Bend over the chair again.”
He resumed his position. He heard her approach from behind. One hand, cool and firm, pressed on the small of his back. The other guided the slick tip of the dildo, not to his ass, but to her own entrance. She sheathed herself on it with a sharp inhale, then stepped forward.
The fat, wet head nudged against his hole. He braced.
But she didn’t enter him. She positioned herself, the toy buried in her cunt, and then she pressed her body against his back. The silicone slid along his crease, slippery and hot from her body. She reached around his hip, her hand finding his aching cock. She gave it two rough, mocking strokes.
“This is mine,” she whispered into his ear. “But I don’t need it right now. I need to be filled. And you’re going to do the filling.”
She let go of his cock. Her hands gripped his hips. She pulled back slightly and then drove forward.
Mateo cried out. She was fucking him, but the sensation was utterly foreign. He could feel the harness base grinding against his tailbone, could feel the pressure of the toy inside her transferring through her body into his. She was using his ass to fuck herself. Each of her thrusts pushed the dildo deeper into her cunt, and the force of her body slammed him into the chair.
It was a brutal, efficient feedback loop of pleasure. Her nails dug into his skin. Her breaths were hot and sharp against his neck. “You’re a fucking socket,” she grunted. “A utility. My personal fuck-tool.”
She picked up the pace, pounding into him with a steady, driving rhythm. The chair skidded slightly on the concrete with their force. He was just an object, a mounting block. The raw, clinical use of him was more degrading than any insult. He felt his own orgasm building, a tsunami with no permission to land.
“I’m going to come,” she gasped, her rhythm fracturing. “You feel it? You’re making me come with this ass. This worthless, used ass.”
With three final, jarring thrusts, she stifled a cry against his shoulder. He felt her entire body lock, the harness jammed hard against him. Her internal spasms around the silicone were a distant, second-hand tremor. She collapsed against his back, her sweat-slick skin sticking to his.
They stayed like that for a minute, her weight heavy on him. Then she pushed herself upright, pulling out. The sudden emptiness was profound. She walked away, unbuckling the harness. It hit the floor with a damp thud.
“Get dressed,” she said, her voice regaining its flat composure. She retrieved a bottle of water from a small fridge nestled under a steel counter, drank deeply, and watched him.
His hands shook as he pulled his clothes on. His cock, still thick and angry, was a painful oversight. He tucked it into his briefs, wincing at the contact. His trousers felt like a cage.
“You can return to your spreadsheets,” she said, wiping herself down with a white towel. “Remember the feeling. Remember you’re owned, even when you’re there. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The elevator ride down was a descent into a different kind of silence. His body felt hollowed out, repurposed. He smelled of her, of sex, of cleaner. He flagged a cab, gave his work address. In the backseat, he checked his phone. Three missed calls from Dan. A text from Priya: “We need to talk. You’re ghosting me.”
And then, as the cab merged onto the West Side Highway, his screen fragmented for a second. The encrypted app icon—a simple, unmarked white square—appeared and vanished. In its wake, a preview line lingered in his notification bar before fading like mist.
Unknown: Asset is active. You are being observed. Maintain protocol.
He looked out the window. The city streamed past, a canyon of glass and steel. A black sedan with tinted windows was two lanes over, keeping pace. He watched it for ten blocks, his heartbeat a dull drum in his throat. At his office building, the sedan slid past without slowing, disappearing into traffic.
He walked back into the lobby, past the security desk, toward the elevators that would take him back to his cubicle, to Dan’s disapproval, to the numbers that no longer made sense. The phantom press of the harness against his back was a brand. The message was a leash. He was a living, breathing secret, owned in every way that mattered, and the game had just announced it had spectators.
The spreadsheets were a grey-white sea, pixels swimming into meaningless patterns. Dan had left a Post-it note on his monitor: “My office. 5 PM.” The stark block letters felt like a verdict. Mateo’s body was a collection of protests: a dull ache high inside him, the chafe of wool trousers on his oversensitive cock, the persistent taste of salt and musk on his chapped lips. He sipped tepid coffee, trying to anchor himself in the mundane rhythm of the office, the click-clack of a keyboard three cubicles over.
His phone buzzed, a short, venomous vibration against the cheap particle board desk.
It wasn’t her number this time. It was “UNKNOWN.” His thumb hovered, a cold sweat beading at his hairline. He swiped.
“The asset requires proximity tonight.” The voice was male, synthesized, utterly devoid of inflection. “You will be at the gallery on 78th. The Vernay. Nine PM. You will wear the coat. You will carry the bag. You will not speak unless spoken to. You are an accessory. Confirm.”
Mateo’s tongue felt like wool. He looked around. No one was watching. Everyone was watching. “I confirm,” he whispered.
The call died. He set the phone down, his hand steady, which frightened him more than trembling would have. The asset.Anya. He was to be her accessory, literally. A part of her outfit. He glanced at the clock: 4:47 PM. Dan’s meeting was a canceled footnote. He began shutting down his computer, movements precise, automatic.
The phone buzzed again. This time, it was her digits. His stomach clenched, a Pavlovian knot of dread and unwanted arousal. He connected the call, bringing the device to his ear without a word.
“Change of plan.” Anya’s voice was breathless, but not from exertion. It was edged with a sharp, metallic urgency. “The loft. Now. Not the service elevator. The front door. Code is 0915. Run.”
The line went dead.
Run. He was already moving, snatching his puffer jacket, not bothering with his bag. He didn’t look at Dan’s office. He was out the fire exit stairwell, taking the concrete steps two at a time, the slap of his shoes echoing like gunshots in the hollow space. He emerged into the alley, the cold air a slap. He ran for the subway, weaving through pedestrians, a man possessed.
The front door of the Tribeca warehouse was unmarked, black steel. He punched 0-9-1-5. A magnetic lock thunked. He pushed inside, into a minimalist foyer with a single elevator. It opened as he approached. He stepped in. It ascended silently, swiftly.
The elevator opened directly into the loft’s living space. The scene was different. The industrial windows were now opaque, glowing with a diffuse, muted light from behind shades. The armchair had been pushed to the wall. Anya stood in the center of the concrete floor. She was not naked. She wore a sleek, black cocktail dress that ended at her mid-thigh. Her hair was up. She looked carved from onyx.
She also held a gun. It was small, matte black, held loosely at her side.
“Take your clothes off. Everything. Fold them. Place them there.” She nodded to a sleek side table. Her eyes were not on him; they were fixed on the darkened elevator door, listening.
The casual command, juxtaposed with the weapon, sent a jolt of pure animal fear through his veins. He obeyed, fingers fumbling on buttons, his movements clumsy under her detached gaze. He folded his clothes, a pathetic, neat pile on the cold steel. He stood naked, shivering.
“The coat is in the bedroom. Put it on. Just the coat. Bring the bag out here.”
He walked to the bedroom, his skin prickling. The golden fox fur lay across her vast bed. He shrugged into it. The weight was familiar now, a second skin heavy with implication. He fetched the Birkin from its shelf, feeling the leather hum faintly, as if charged. When he returned, she had not moved.
“Now, come here and kneel.” Her gaze finally flicked to him, assessing, then returned to the door.
He knelt on the concrete before her, the fur pooling around him. The chill of the floor seeped into his knees. The gun in her hand was the only reality.
“We have forty minutes until I need to be seen at the gallery,” she said, her voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. “There is a man in a black sedan downstairs. He works for the people who want what was in that bag. He is watching the service entrance. He believes I am alone, preparing. He will follow me to the Vernay. You will already be there, as instructed. A neutral item, returned.”
She looked down at him, her eyes like chips of flint. “But I am agitated. I need focus. You are going to help me. Open your mouth.”
He parted his lips. With her free hand, she reached under the skirt of her dress. There was a whisper of silk. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Her fingers came back glistening. She pressed them into his mouth.
“Taste. That’s the adrenaline. That’s my focus. Now, lie back.”
He obeyed, settling onto the fur, the coarse concrete biting through the pelt at his shoulder blades. She straddled his chest, her knees pinning his arms at his sides. The black dress pooled around her thighs. The gun in her right hand came to rest, cold and terrifying, against his sternum. With her left, she guided his face.
“Eat my cunt. Do not stop until I tell you. If you please me, I might let you come before I leave. If you disappoint me, you will spend the night here, tied to that chair, waiting for whoever that man sends up to find you.”
The threat was ice water. The proximity of the gun was a stark, physical truth. He turned his head, burying his face into her. He licked with desperate, focused abandon, his tongue seeking her clit, delving into her opening, working with a frantic rhythm he hoped was correct. He could taste her sharp, urgent arousal, different from before. Metallic, like the gun.
She rocked against his mouth, a low, steady grinding. The barrel of the gun traced a cold circle over his heart. Her breath hitched. “Faster. Use your lips. Suck on it.”
He obeyed, sucking her engorged clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the tip. She gasped, her hips jerking. The pressure of the gun increased. He felt her thighs tighten around his head. Her free hand fisted in his hair, holding him painfully in place.
“Yes.Right there. Don’t you fucking stop.”
He was a machine of oral service, his jaw aching, his world reduced to the taste of her, the scent of her, the terrifying weight of the weapon on his chest. Her movements became ragged, uncontrolled. A thin, sharp cry was torn from her throat. Her cunt clenched rhythmically against his tongue, a hot, pulsing release. She rode the orgasm out on his face, grinding down hard.
When she stilled, she lifted herself off him. She was breathing heavily, her makeup still perfect. She looked down at him, his face wet and shining in the low light.
“Good,” she said, the word a simple note of approval. She shifted back, now kneeling over his hips. The gun was set aside, within her reach on the fur. She took his cock in her hand. It was rigid, straining upward. She positioned him, not at her entrance, but lower.
“You don’t get my cunt. You get this.” She pressed the head of his cock against the tight pucker of her asshole. It was dry, impossibly tight. “You’re going to fuck my ass. You’re going to do it hard, and you’re going to do it now. I need to feel raw. I need to remember I can take anything.”
She spat into her hand, slicked the head of him roughly. Then she sank down.
The scream was locked in his throat. She was impossibly tight, a searing, dry grip that burned. She forced herself down, taking him inch by brutal inch, her face a mask of fierce concentration. He could feel every internal ridge, the clenching resistance giving way to a deep, penetrating fullness. When she was fully impaled, she paused, breathing through the stretch.
“Now,” she commanded, her voice strained. “Fuck it. Fuck my ass. Own it.”
He gripped her hips, the fur slipping under his fingers. He thrust upward, a shallow, painful movement. She cried out, a sound of pure catharsis. “Harder! Don’t you dare be gentle!”
He obeyed, driving up into that incredible, punishing tightness. It was a raw, grinding fuck, devoid of lubricant, just spit and force and the stark claiming of one body by another. The sound was filthy, a wet, slapping rhythm. She rode him with a frantic, punishing energy, meeting each thrust, her nails digging into his chest.
“You’re mine,” she grunted, her eyes wild. “This ass is yours to ruin. Ruin it. Mark it.”
He was losing himself, the pain and the forbidden pleasure coiling into a detonation in his gut. The sight of her, in her elegant dress, her face contorted in pleasure-pain as he brutally fucked her ass, was the most depraved thing he had ever witnessed. He was part of it.
“I’m going to come,” he gasped, the warning torn from him.
“Do it. Fill my ass. Now.”
The permission shattered him. His orgasm erupted, a violent, blinding surge that ripped through his spine. He pumped into her, jet after jet, his vision spotting. She clenched around him, milking him, her own body shuddering through a second, sharp climax drawn from the brutal, shared violation.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, his softening cock still lodged inside her. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The cold steel of the gun pressed into his side. For a full minute, there was only the sound of their breath.
With a wince, she pushed herself up, off him. He slid out of her. She stood, her dress falling back into place, hiding the mess. She walked, a slight, deliberate stiffness in her gait, to a nearby bathroom. He heard water run. She returned, composed, holding a damp cloth. She threw it at him.
“Clean yourself. Get dressed under the coat. Leave the way you came. Be at the gallery by nine. Do not look at the black sedan. Do not speak to me there.”
She picked up the gun, checked the safety with a casual expertise, and slipped it into the Birkin bag. She smoothed her hair. “You performed adequately. The man downstairs saw no one enter. He believes I am alone. That is your value tonight.”
She looked at him, a final, cool appraisal. “Now get out.”
As he dressed, his body screaming in protest, the phone in his discarded trousers buzzed. Once. A single, silent vibration from the encrypted app. He did not check it. He pulled the golden fur tight around himself, a cloak of complicity, and stepped into the elevator.
ANYA CALLS AGAIN.