Chapter 11: The Conference Call
The office was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the decisive click-clack of the vintage typewriter Mr. Stevens kept for show. Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting sharp geometric shapes on the Persian rug. Zoey stood before his desk, holding a folder of mock-ups, while Bow sat in a client chair, legs crossed, reviewing the foundation’s annual report.
The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Mr. Stevens, New York on line two for the Q3 projections call.”
“Put them through, Linda,” he said, his voice smooth as polished stone. He pressed the speakerphone button. A chorus of voices, tinny and professional, filled the room.
“Stevens here. I’ve got Johnson from Creative and… Mrs. Johnson from the charitable arm with me. Go ahead.”
Zoey moved to place the folder on his desk. His hand shot out, not missing a beat in the conversation about market penetration, and captured her wrist. His grip was firm. He looked at her, then at Bow, his eyes issuing a silent command. He pointed beneath his massive mahogany desk.
“We’re aligning very well with the renewed focus on youthful demographics,” he said into the speaker, his gaze locked on Bow.
Zoey’s heart hammered against her ribs. She glanced at her mother. Bow’s face was unreadable, but she gave an almost imperceptible nod, her fingers tightening on the report. This was the next step. A new layer of risk. A live audience on the other end of the line.
Zoey slipped from his grip and ducked under the desk. It was a cavern of polished wood and the smell of leather from his shoes. He shifted in his chair, unzipping his trousers. His cock, already half-hard, sprang into the confined space. It brushed her cheek. She could smell the faint, musky scent of him from yesterday, mingled with clean starch.
“The numbers look promising,” Stevens continued, his voice betraying nothing. His hand found the back of her head, his fingers weaving into her braids. He guided her mouth onto him.
She took him in, the thick head pressing against the back of her tongue. He was already leaking, the salty-bitter taste flooding her mouth. He pushed her head down, forcing more of his length into her throat. Her eyes watered. She heard the New York VP droning on about digital engagement metrics.
Above the desk, Stevens reached into a drawer. He placed a sleek, black vibrator on the blotter in front of Bow. He raised an eyebrow, his hand still resting on Zoey’s head, moving her rhythmically. His thumb pressed hard against her scalp.
Bow stared at the humming device. A flush crept up her neck. She looked at the speakerphone, at the voices discussing millions of dollars. Then she stood, turned her back to the desk, and slowly hiked up her skirt. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She bent over, presenting herself, and reached back for the vibrator.
“We’re seeing strong engagement across all demographics,” Stevens said, a subtle strain entering his vocal cadence as Zoey took him deeper, her throat fluttering around him. His hips began a shallow, persistent thrust up into her mouth.
Bow found her clit with the buzzing tip of the vibrator. A sharp, breathy gasp escaped her before she could choke it back. She bit down on her own knuckle, her other hand splayed on the desk for balance. Her ass cheeks trembled.
“Especially in the urban market,” Stevens added, a smirk now audible in his tone. He withdrew his hand from Zoey’s head and, in one sharp motion, brought it down across Bow’s exposed rear.
The crack was startlingly loud in the room. Bow jerked, a muffled yelp caught behind her teeth. A perfect red handprint bloomed on her dark skin.
On the phone, someone asked, “Everything alright there, Stevens?”
“Perfect,” he said, his voice gravelly. He was fucking Zoey’s face in earnest now, the chair creaking faintly. “Just reviewing some… compelling data points.” He pulled Zoey off his cock by her hair. Saliva webbed between her swollen lips and the glistening, purple head. He pointed to his lap.
“Get up here,” he whispered, his voice a rough contrast to his speakerphone tone.
Zoey scrambled out from under the desk, her knees aching. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, spreading it wide. She climbed onto him, straddling his lap, her skirt pooling around her waist. She guided him inside her with one hand, sinking down slowly, her body stretching to accommodate his girth. A long, ragged moan was torn from her. She buried her face in his shoulder to stifle it.
“Mmm, the conversion rates are unprecedented,” he said into the phone, his hands gripping Zoey’s hips. He began to lift and drop her, using her body, his own breath coming harder. Zoey bounced on his cock, her breasts shaking, every downward plunge forcing a tiny, choked gasp from her throat.
Bow watched, hypnotized, the vibrator still humming against her clit. Her own need was a roaring fire. She was so wet it dripped down her inner thigh. Seeing her daughter impaled, used like a toy while the business of the world carried on… it unmoored her completely.
Stevens reached out with his free hand, tangled it in Bow’s curls, and yanked her head towards him. He brought his face close to hers. His eyes were dark, predatory. “Open,” he mouthed silently.
She obeyed, her mouth falling open. He gathered a thick wad of spit from the corner of his mouth and let it fall onto her tongue. It was warm, tasteless. “Swallow,” he mouthed.
She swallowed. The subjugation was absolute, more intimate than the fucking. He owned her compliance.
His rhythm with Zoey became frantic, brutal. His professional facade shattered. “I’ll… have to call you back,” he gritted out, his voice strained beyond recognition. “Something… urgent has come up.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He stabbed the phone with a finger, killing the call. The sudden silence was deafening, filled only with the sound of skin slapping, Zoey’s sobs, the electric buzz of the vibrator.
He stood up, lifting Zoey with him, her legs wrapped around his waist, his cock still buried to the hilt inside her. In two strides, he bent her over the desk, beside her mother. “Both of you. On your knees. Ass up.”
They moved like synchronized instruments. Side by side, bent over the cool mahogany, their heads nearly touching. Bow finally let the vibrator clatter to the desk. Stevens positioned himself behind them. He ran his cock along the soaked seam of Bow’s cunt, then slid it into Zoey’s, then back to Bow’s. A preview.
“You’re my breeding pair,” he grunted. He drove into Bow first, a deep, claiming thrust that shoved her forward on the desk. She cried out, her fingers scraping the wood. He pulled out, slick with her, and plunged into Zoey. “Dre’s women. Turned into my personal cum dumpsters.”
He established a rhythm: one hard, grinding pump into Bow’s experienced, willing heat, then a savage stroke into Zoey’s tight, clutching vise. Back and forth. They were just holes to him now, alternating receptacles. Bow wept silently, the pleasure a punishing wave. Zoey chanted “fuck, fuck, fuck” into the desk’s surface, her mind blank, full of nothing but the piston of his hips.
He could feel his climax coiling, a knot of pure possession in his gut. With a final, snarled curse, he pulled out of Zoey and slammed back into Bow, then reversed, burying himself to the root in Zoey. He came there, a hot, furious eruption, jetting deep into her womb, his body shuddering against her back.
He stayed there for a moment, pulsing, then withdrew. He was still hard, dripping with their combined fluids and his own release. He stroked himself roughly, twice, three times, and the last ropes of his orgasm shot across their faces—stripe across Bow’s cheek, splatter on Zoey’s forehead and lips.
“Clean each other up,” he ordered, his breathing still ragged. He was already turning, reaching for his phone, hitting redial. “Linda, get New York back. My connection dropped.”
He stood by the window, his back to them, as the phone rang. On the desk, Zoey and Bow remained on their knees. Slowly, trembling, Zoey turned her head. She looked at her mother, at the white streaks on her skin. She leaned in, her tongue darting out, and licked a dollop of come from Bow’s jawline. It was bitter, salty, final.
Bow flinched, then turned. Her eyes, full of a shattered love and bottomless shame, met Zoey’s. She closed the distance, her tongue cleaning the mess from her daughter’s brow, her lips. They kissed, briefly, a ghastly communion of salt and sex and surrender.
“Stevens here,” his voice boomed across the room, clean and powerful once more. “Apologies. Technical difficulty.”
They dressed in silence, their movements slow, drained. They didn’t look at him. They didn’t look at each other. As they slipped out of the office, Bow clutching the unsigned reports, Zoey straightening her skirt, his voice followed them into the hall.
“Yes, the urban market,” he was saying, calm, convincing, in total control. “We own it.”