Chapter 13: Hands-on p2
Carl’s fingers dug into the flesh above her garters. A guttural groan tore from his throat, vibrating through her spine. His hips stuttered, then drove up hard, pinning her deep. A hot, pulsing jet flooded her. She felt it, the sudden internal rush, thick and alien. He held her locked against him, shuddering.
"Swallow every drop, Miller," Marcia’s voice sliced through the humid air, cool, precise, from across the table. Her hands still worked Greg and Dave, a rhythmic counterpoint to Carl’s gasps. "Don't waste it."
Stacy’s throat worked around Dave’s shaft, the bitter-salt taste intensified by the command. She sucked reflexively, swallowing Carl’s release mingled with saliva. Dave grunted approval, pushing deeper. Carl finally sagged back, limp, his grip slackening, his softening cock slipping out of her with a wet sound. The sudden emptiness felt cavernous, violated. Sticky warmth trickled down her inner thigh.
Dave didn’t pause. He pulled his cock from her mouth with a wet pop. Before she could gasp, his thick hands were on her waist, hauling her off Carl’s lap. She stumbled, legs trembling, the lace garters biting. He spun her, shoving her upper body forward onto the cold, polished expanse of the conference table. Her cheek slapped the smooth surface. Veronica’s paused face on the screen filled her vision, close enough to see the sheen of sweat on the woman’s brow.
Dave’s knees nudged her legs apart. No preamble. The blunt head pressed against her slick, swollen entrance, still stretched and tender from Carl. He pushed in. Hard. A choked scream escaped Stacy’s lips, muffled against the wood. He was thicker, filling her brutally, the stretch bordering on pain. He gripped her hips, fingers digging where Carl’s had been, and began to fuck her with short, punishing thrusts. The table juddered. Her breasts flattened against the cold surface.
"God, you're loose now," Dave grunted, his breath hot on her neck. "Wrecked already? Barely started." Each slam drove her forward, her blouse rucking up, her skirt bunched around her waist, revealing the intricate lace garters and sheer stockings, the damp mess between her thighs. The rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh echoed off the glass walls.
Pain warred with a strange, rising pressure deep inside. A low moan escaped her, unbidden. It started as a whimper, then grew. "Fuck..." she gasped against the table. The thrusts grew harder, deeper, hitting a spot that sent electric shocks through her exhausted nerves. The moan became a ragged cry. "Harder! Please... fuck me harder!" The words tumbled out, raw and desperate, shocking her even as she said them. She was unraveling, coming apart under the assault.
Dave laughed, a harsh bark. "That's it, slut. Take it." He pistoned into her, the force making her teeth rattle. The world narrowed to the slam of his hips, the burn between her legs, the frantic pulse building despite everything. She was panting, her body responding traitorously, tightening around him. A cresting wave of sensation gathered, obliterating thought.
A heavy hand landed on her hair. Greg. He pulled her head up roughly from the table. His cock, thick and glistening, bobbed inches from her face. The musky smell was overpowering. "Open wide, sweetheart," he rumbled, his voice thick. "Time to earn your keep proper." He guided himself towards her lips.
"No... wait..." she slurred, still lost in the building storm Dave was stoking inside her.
Greg pushed past her lips before she could finish. He filled her mouth, thick and insistent, muffling her next cry. Dave hammered into her from behind, Greg thrust shallowly into her mouth. The dual penetration was overwhelming. She gagged around Greg’s girth, her body a nexus of conflicting sensations – the brutal invasion behind, the choking fullness ahead, the impossible, coiling tension deep in her core.
Dave’s rhythm became erratic, frantic. "Gonna fill this cunt," he snarled. His fingers dug in like claws. Greg grunted, pushing deeper into her throat. Stacy’s eyes rolled back. The pressure peaked, a white-hot detonation that tore through her control. Her body arched violently off the table, a silent scream trapped around Greg’s cock. Convulsions wracked her, clenching hard around Dave’s driving length, drawing a roar from him. She came, hard and brutal, a tidal wave of unwanted, shattering release that left her trembling, tears streaming silently down her temples onto the polished wood. Dave slammed home one final time, shuddering, his own release hot and thick inside her already filled channel. He pulled out quickly.
Greg groaned, grabbing her head. "Swallow it," he commanded, voice thick. He pulsed, thick spurts flooding her mouth, acrid and salty. She gulped convulsively, swallowing it down, the taste mingling with the scent of sweat and sex and leather. He pulled out with a slick sound, leaving her gasping, drool and come slicking her chin.
Silence, broken only by harsh breathing. Stacy lay collapsed on the table, trembling uncontrollably. Her body felt broken, used. Dampness pooled beneath her hips – sweat, come, her own traitorous wetness. She stared blindly at Veronica’s triumphant smile on the screen. Integration.
Marcia’s crisp footsteps approached. She looked down at Stacy, then at the two men zipping up. Dave wiped his hands on his pants. Greg adjusted his collar. Marcia’s expression was appraising. Cold. Satisfied.
Marcia’s high heels clicked on the polished concrete floor. Silence stretched, thick with the smell of sweat and sex and leather. Stacy trembled, her cheek pressed to the table’s cool surface, limbs useless.
"Alright, gentlemen," Marcia said, her voice brisk, clinical. "Mr. Harding’s inbound. Five minutes." Dave and Greg exchanged a look, muttered thanks, and strode out quickly. Carl shuffled behind them, avoiding Stacy’s sprawled form. The heavy door clicked shut.
Left alone. The paused video screen hummed faintly. Veronica’s image, poised and confident, stared down. A stark contrast to the wreckage below. Stacy tried to push herself up. Her arms buckled.
"Stay," Marcia commanded, not unkindly, more like instructing a dog. She walked around the table, surveying the scene. Her gaze took in the dampness on the wood, the discarded panties near a chair leg, Stacy’s trembling legs, the stockings torn, the lace garters askew. Stacy flinched as Marcia’s shadow fell over her.
Without a word, Marcia grabbed several tissues from the sleek console beneath the screen. She crouched beside the table, near Stacy’s hip. The strong scent of cleaning alcohol momentarily cut through the musk. Marcia dabbed roughly at Stacy’s inner thighs, wiping away streaks of sticky white fluid mixed with slickness. Stacy whimpered. The tissues were cold, abrasive.
"Shhh," Marcia murmured, almost absently. "Messy girl." She dropped the soiled tissues. Then, unexpectedly, Marcia lowered herself fully to her knees. She nudged Stacy’s trembling legs further apart. Stacy gasped, trying weakly to close them. "No," Marcia said softly, firmly, holding her open with one hand.
Marcia leaned forward. Stacy felt warm breath against her most intimate, abused flesh. Then, a soft, insistent pressure. A wet stripe. Marcia’s tongue, flat and broad, lapped deliberately upwards through the slick mess coating her. The sensation was startlingly intimate, invasive. Stacy froze.
Marcia worked methodically, her head moving with focused precision. She licked, sucked gently, then more firmly. Swallowing. The slurping sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Each pull drew out the thick semen Dave and Carl had left inside her. It was undignified, grotesque. Stacy squeezed her eyes shut.
Heat pooled low in Stacy’s belly again. An unwanted, treacherous flicker. She tried to fight it, clenching her fists on the table edge. Marcia’s tongue probed deeper, relentless. The slurping intensified. That heat coiled tighter, insistent. Shame warred with the shocking physical response. Her breath hitched.
She opened her eyes, desperate for an anchor. They landed directly on Veronica’s face. Frozen mid-sentence on the giant screen. That perfectly composed smile. That look of effortless control. Veronica’s eyes seemed to bore into hers, witnessing this degradation, this abject humiliation. Stacy’s vision blurred.
Marcia pressed her mouth firmly against Stacy. Sucking hard. Drawing out the last thick remnants. The suction was deep, insistent. Stacy’s traitorous body responded violently to the sensation, to the unbearable pressure, to the overwhelming shame crystallized in Veronica’s frozen stare. Her back arched off the table. A short, sharp cry tore from her throat. Her hips jerked uncontrollably against Marcia’s face. The orgasm was brief, brutal, utterly devastating. It left her gasping, tears finally spilling over, dripping onto the polished wood beside her cheek.
Marcia pulled back. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her expression unreadable. She stood, smoothing her skirt. Stacy lay shattered, exposed, the cold air chilling the wetness between her legs. Veronica’s smile remained fixed, eternal. Triumphant. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Stacy shuddered, a full-body tremor that seemed to start deep in her bones. The polished concrete floor felt impossibly cold beneath her knees where she’d finally collapsed off the table edge. Veronica watched. Always watching.
The fluorescent hum drilled into Stacy’s skull. Veronica’s frozen smile felt like a brand. Pain radiated from her hips, her core, her raw throat. Cold air prickled her exposed skin. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think beyond the lingering wetness, the phantom thrusts, the utter ruin of herself. The polished wood beneath her cheek was cold comfort.
Marcia stood above her, wiping her mouth. The gesture was detached, final. Like cleaning up spilled coffee. Her gaze swept over Stacy’s prone form, lingering on the torn stockings, the livid marks on her hips, the glistening mess between her trembling thighs. A flicker, something unreadable, passed behind Marcia’s cool eyes. Perhaps calculation. Perhaps... something else. Stacy braced for another command, another violation.
Instead, Marcia knelt. Not roughly, not like before. Fluidly. Her expensive skirt whispered against the concrete floor. She moved close, invading Stacy’s space, her perfume – sharp, expensive – cutting through the lingering musk of sex and sweat. Stacy flinched, expecting touch, expecting pain.
Marcia’s hands came up. Not to strike. To frame Stacy’s face. Her thumbs brushed away the tear tracks on Stacy’s cheeks. The touch was startlingly gentle. Confusing. Stacy stared into Marcia’s eyes, searching for cruelty, finding only an unsettling intensity. A lock of Marcia’s perfectly styled hair fell forward, brushing Stacy’s temple.
"Shhh," Marcia murmured again, softer this time. Her gaze dropped to Stacy’s parted, swollen lips. Her own lips were slightly moist. "Such a mess." The words were almost tender. Stacy’s breath caught, trapped in her chest. Fear warred with an utterly bewildered spark of... what? Hope felt obscene here.
Marcia leaned closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Her breath warm against Stacy’s mouth. Stacy froze, unable to pull away, unable to process. This felt alien, dangerous in a completely new way. Marcia’s lips touched hers. Soft, at first. A testing pressure.
Then, firm. Insistent. Marcia’s mouth covered hers, efficient, claiming. Her tongue pushed past Stacy’s unresisting lips. It was not gentle. It was a deep, probing invasion. And the taste... it bloomed instantly, overwhelming. Salt, bitter musk, a sour tang Stacy instinctively recognized. Dave. Carl. Their essence, thick and cloying, transferred directly from Marcia’s mouth, coating Stacy’s tongue, flooding her senses.
Stacy gagged reflexively. Her stomach lurched. The intimacy was worse than the roughness. Worse than the table. Marcia’s tongue explored ruthlessly, tangling with hers, forcing her to taste it all over again. To taste them mixed with Marcia’s own sharp flavor. Shame, hot and liquid, poured through Stacy, hotter than any previous arousal. She whimpered, a high, pathetic sound muffled against Marcia’s mouth.
Marcia deepened the kiss, pulling Stacy closer. One hand slid behind her neck, holding her firmly. The other rested possessively on her hip, fingers digging slightly into the bruised flesh. Stacy’s body betrayed her again. A traitorous warmth flickered low in her belly, responding to the sheer dominance of the act, the absolute claim Marcia was staking even as she forced Stacy to consume her own degradation. Tears welled again, spilling over onto Marcia’s fingers.
Their tongues slid, danced a grotesque waltz in the shared, bitter cavern of their mouths. Marcia moaned softly, the vibration humming against Stacy’s lips. Satisfaction? Possession? Stacy felt dizzy, suffocated. The taste was relentless, the pressure inescapable. She was drowning in it. Drowning in Marcia. The fluorescent hum, Veronica’s stare, the cold room – it all receded, replaced by this suffocating, intimate violation.
Marcia finally pulled back, just enough to break the seal of their lips. A thin strand of saliva, tinged faintly white, connected them for a second before snapping. She didn’t release Stacy’s face. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto Stacy’s. She licked her own lips slowly, deliberately, her gaze never wavering. Savoring the remnants. Savoring Stacy’s shock.
"Better," Marcia breathed, her voice a low rasp. A ghost of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. Not kind. Triumphant. She wiped Stacy’s lower lip with her thumb, collecting a trace of moisture. Stacy trembled violently under her touch, her mind reeling, her mouth still filled with the horrifying, lingering proof.
The heavy conference room door handle rattled. Then turned.