Chapter 17: The Double Agent's First Lesson
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her in a new kind of silence. Conference Room Three was long and low-lit, the mahogany table a dark river reflecting the city’s electric dusk. At the far end, a woman sat with her boots propped on the polished surface, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler.
Jayla Mathes was a stark contrast to Veronica’s contained ferocity. Where Veronica was a honed blade, Jayla was a relaxed panther. She was older, maybe late forties, with close-cropped silver hair and eyes the color of weathered denim. She wore black jeans and a simple grey henley, her frame lean and athletic. A simple silver hoop gleamed in her nose.
“The heir apparent,” Jayla said, her voice a low, smoky drawl utterly devoid of a Jamaican accent. She took a sip of whiskey. “You look like you’ve been through a woodchipper, sweetheart. And you’re still dripping on Veronica’s fifty-thousand-dollar rug.”
Stephanie froze, mortification heating her neck. She hadn’t realized it was still happening, that subtle, betraying trickle down her inner thigh.
Jayla swung her boots off the table and stood in one fluid motion. She approached, circling Stephanie with an appraising gaze. “Veronica said you were wet. That’s a fucking understatement. It’s a physiological marvel. Put the folder down.”
Stephanie placed it on the table. The movement made her wince, the soreness a vivid reminder.
“Hands out,” Jayla said, her tone conversational, as if asking for the time.
Confused, Stephanie extended her hands. Quick as a snake, Jayla produced two rigid leather cuffs from her back pocket. Before Stephanie could react, she had snapped one around her left wrist, pulled her arm behind her back, and secured the other. The bindings were tight, professional, connected by a short chain that forced her shoulders into a slight, vulnerable ache.
“Wh—what are you doing?” Stephanie stammered, trying to turn.
Jayla ignored her. She placed a hand firmly between Stephanie’s shoulder blades and pushed her forward until her upper body was bent over the conference table, her cheek pressed against the cool wood. Her skirt was shoved up again, her damp panties yanked down to her ankles.
“Lesson one,” Jayla said, her voice close to Stephanie’s ear. “Information is extracted. Sometimes with keyboards. Sometimes with crowbars. Sometimes,” she said, and Stephanie felt a strong hand hook under her knee, hiking her leg up and wide, “with cunt.” Jayla used a strap to secure Stephanie’s ankle to the table leg, then moved to the other side, doing the same. Spread open, utterly exposed, pressed against the mahogany.
Stephanie whimpered, struggling against the cuffs. It was useless.
From the table, Jayla picked up a black silk scarf. “Open up.”
“No, please—”
The scarf was balled and shoved into her mouth, knotting tightly at the back of her head, muffling her protest into a choked grunt. Panic, bright and metallic, flashed through her. This was different from Veronica. This was cold, methodological.
She heard the shift of denim, the sound of Jayla settling on the floor behind her. Then, nothing but hot, deliberate breath against her sensitized folds.
“Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” Jayla murmured, and her tongue, flat and broad, licked a slow, vertical stripe from her asshole to her clit.
Stephanie jerked against her restraints, a scream trapped behind the silk. The touch was expert, merciless in its focus. Jayla didn’t tease. She zeroed in on Stephanie’s swollen clit like it was a problem to be solved, sucking it between her lips, applying a rhythmic, devastating pressure with her tongue.
Pleasure, sharp and shocking, cut through the panic. Stephanie’s hips twitched, trying to buck, but the straps held her fast. She was a specimen pinned to a board.
Jayla pulled her mouth away. “Veronica’s weak spot is her brother, Marcus. He’s in a rehab facility in Switzerland. True or false?” She punctuated the question by plunging two fingers deep inside Stephanie’s sopping cunt, curling them upwards.
Stephanie cried out into the gag, her body convulsing around the intrusion. She didn’t know. She shook her head violently against the table.
“False. Good girl.” The fingers withdrew, then returned, slick and demanding. “Your father’s company, Thorne Holdings, is under investigation by the SEC for wire fraud. True or false?”
The questions were lobbed between licks, sucks, and deep finger-fucks. Jayla’s mouth was relentless, a wet, hungry thing that lapped at the torrent Stephanie’s body produced. Each orgasm was ripped from her, a seismic jolt that made her spine arch and her thighs shake. She came the first time with a guttural sob, soaking Jayla’s chin.
“False. They’re clean on that. For now.” Jayla didn’t pause. She drank from her, fucking her with her fingers while her tongue circled that relentless, punishing rhythm on her clit. “Veronica plans to drain your family’s accounts and leave you penniless. True or false?”
Tears streamed down Stephanie’s face, mixing with the sweat on the table. She was a vessel being filled and emptied, over and over. The intensity was blinding, a white-hot wire of sensation with no off switch. She came again, a weaker, shuddering wave, her juices dripping down Jayla’s wrist.
“False. She finds you… amusingly novel.” Jayla’s voice was slightly breathless now, her own arousal evident in the huskiness. She increased her pace, her nose buried in Stephanie’s flesh, her tongue flicking so fast it was a vibration. “You want to please her. You want her to own you. True or false?”
This time, Stephanie couldn’t answer. Her mind fragmented. The world narrowed to the devastating point of contact between Jayla’s mouth and her clit, the building pressure like a scream in her synapses. She nodded, a frantic, pathetic jerk of her head.
“True,” Jayla growled, and sucked hard.
Stephanie’s vision whited out. The orgasm was a seizure, a full-body rupture that pulled a silent scream from her lungs. Her cunt clenched on nothing, spraying a fresh rush of fluid over Jayla’s face. The neon city outside the window swirled, dipped, and went dark.
Consciousness returned in fragments. The taste of silk. The ache in her shoulders. A low, persistent, wet sound.
Slurp. Lick. Swallow.
She was still spread-eagled over the table. Jayla was still between her legs, mouth sealed over her, tongue working diligently inside her. She was eating her out of a faint. The sensation was a dull, oversensitive throb, a deep-well of pleasure that had become a form of torture.
“Awake again?” Jayla muttered against her, not stopping. “Good. Hydration is important.” She lapped at her, cleaning up the latest spill. “You squirt like a firehose, kid. It’s impressive.”
Stephanie whimpered, a hollow, broken sound. She felt dehydrated, hollowed out. Every muscle was liquid.
Jayla finally pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stood, her knees cracking softly. She unfastened the ankle straps, then the cuffs. Stephanie collapsed onto the floor, a boneless heap, the gag still in her mouth. Jayla crouched and untied it, pulling the sodden scarf free.
Stephanie gasped, drawing in ragged breaths that burned her throat.
Jayla handed her the tumbler of whiskey. “Drink. The sugar will help.”
Stephanie’s hands trembled too violently to hold it. Jayla held it to her lips, and she gulped the burning liquid, coughing.
“You did good,” Jayla said, matter-of-factly. She retrieved the manila folder from the table and dropped it into Stephanie’s lap. “You didn’t know the answers, which means Veronica was right. You’re not a plant by someone else. You’re just a rich, naive girl in over her head.”
Stephanie stared at the folder, her mind struggling to reconstitute.
“The information in there is what you’ll feed your daddy. It’s true, but it’s useless. A decoy. Veronica’s real moves are somewhere else entirely.” Jayla stood, looking down at her. “Your job is to keep Thorne looking at the decoy. You’ll report to him everything ‘you’ve learned’—which is what we tell you. You’ll report to me everything he says and does. And you’ll continue to be Veronica’s pretty little fucktoy whenever she snaps her fingers.”
The crude term landed like a slap. Stephanie looked up, her blue eyes clouded with exhaustion and shattered pride.
“Why?” she whispered.
Jayla’s denim eyes softened, but only a fraction. “Because she wants you to. And because, whether you understand it or not, this is the only way you walk out of this war with your skin intact. Now get up. Get dressed. Your driver is downstairs. Go home, sleep, and read that file until you can recite it backwards.”
With immense effort, Stephanie pulled her clothes together, her body feeling alien and battered. As she reached the door, Jayla’s voice stopped her.
“And Stephanie?”
She turned.
“The choking thing?” Jayla gave a wry, almost respectful smile. “Veronica wasn’t exaggerating. You’re a fucking phenomenon. Try to drink some Gatorade.”