Chapter 2: The Private Tour
The steam from the shower seemed to have permanently fogged Billy’s mind. For two days, he moved through the Clamp Centre in a daze, jumping at every ping from his phone, avoiding Kate’s eyes a fraction too long when she asked how the “edit suite beers” had been. The memory of his own frantic release in the bathroom felt like a stain on the air of their apartment.
So when the summons came via a terse email from Marla’s assistant—“Ms. Bloodstone requires a project briefing in her office. 4 PM.”—his stomach did a sickening flip. It wasn’t fear. It was craving, sharp and acidic.
Her suite was on the top floor, a realm of silent carpet and glass. The receptionist, a man with sculpted eyebrows, waved him through without a word. Billy pushed the heavy oak door open.
The city sprawled below Marla’s wall of windows, a jagged grid of twilight and early neon. The office itself was minimalist to the point of aggression: a steel desk, a single Eames chair, a shelf holding awards that looked like shards of obsidian. The air smelled of lemongrass polish and the peaty, expensive scent of Islay whisky, which Marla was pouring into two crystal tumblers.
“Billy. Right on time.” She didn’t turn from the view, her silhouette a cutout against the bleeding sky. She wore a tailored ivory pantsuit, her hair a perfect, coiled cascade. “Close the door.”
The click of the latch was terrifyingly final.
“Sit. Drink.” She finally turned, bringing him his glass. Her fingers brushed his. “The Weaver spots are testing through the roof. The client is ecstatic. Your climax sequence is the reason.”
He took a gulp, the whisky burning a path of false courage. “It was a team effort.”
“Stop that,” she said, her voice flat. “The self-deprecating bullshit. It’s what keeps you in a cubicle. Own your talent, Billy. It’s the only currency that matters here.” She paced slowly around him, a predator inspecting territory. “You’ve never seen the full suite, have you? The perks of the corner office.”
She gestured with her glass. “Wet bar. Sub-zero fridge. Climate-controlled cigar humidor.” A sly smile. “And the pièce de résistance.”
She walked to a seamless panel in the walnut wall, pressed it, and a door sighed open, revealing a bathroom larger than Billy’s kitchen. Everything was slabs of veined, ice-white marble. A rain-head shower big enough for four dominated the far wall.
“Come look,” she said, not a request.
He rose, his legs unsteady, and followed her into the cool, echoing space. His own reflection looked pale and small in the vast mirrors.
“All the water is filtered. The towels are Egyptian cotton.” She was behind him now. Her voice dropped, losing its boardroom edge, gaining an intimate, gravelly texture. “I’ve had a lot of ideas in this shower. A lot of… solutions to stubborn problems.”
Her hand settled on the small of his back. He could feel the heat of it through his cheap dress shirt. He stared at the shower, imagining her in it, water sluicing over those sharp shoulders. The same water he’d stood under, desperate and ashamed.
Her other hand reached past him, and he heard the soft, definitive snick of the lock engaging on the main door.
He turned. She was already sinking.
Her descent to her knees was a slow, deliberate performance, the ivory fabric of her pantsuit pulling taut. She didn’t break eye contact. Up close, he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the absolute certainty in her green gaze. This was a transaction, and she was dictating the terms.
“Let’s see what we’re working with,” she said, her voice a rough whisper. Her hands went to his belt, her movements efficient, expert. The buckle clinked. The zipper rasped, obscenely loud in the marble vault.
His cock, half-hard from anticipation and terror, sprang free. The cool air made him gasp.
Marla didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward and ran her tongue, flat and hot, from his balls all the way up the throbbing vein on the underside to the tip. A low, animal sound crawled out of Billy’s throat. He stumbled back, his ass hitting the cold marble sink.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“That’s the idea,” she murmured, and then took him into her mouth.
It was nothing like the fumbling, loving intimacy he knew. This was voracious. Her lips stretched around his girth, her head beginning to bob with a ruthless, rhythmic precision. She used her tongue like a weapon, swirling the tip, pressing hard against the sensitive spot just below the head. Her jaw seemed to unhinge as she took him deeper, her nose pressing into his pubic bone. He could feel the tight, wet clutch of her throat.
“Oh, god, Marla…”
She pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva bridging her lips to his glistening crown. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice garbled. “You look at me while I do this.”
Her eyes were dark, unwavering. She dove back down, taking him all the way, holding him there until he felt a gag reflex flutter around his shaft. It was degrading. It was the most electrifying thing he’d ever felt. One of her hands cupped his balls, rolling them, squeezing just shy of pain. The other hand worked the base of his cock in time with her mouth, a slick, filthy piston.
The sounds were unbearable. The wet, hungry slurps, his own choked whimpers, the soft thud of his head against the mirror. He tangled his hands in her perfect red curls, not to guide her, just to hold on as the world dissolved into sensation. He was a tool she was using, a button she was pushing, and his betrayal was complete, exhilarating.
“I’m gonna… I can’t…”
She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, her throat working. He came with a broken shout, his hips jerking uncontrollably, pumping his release deep into that hot, demanding mouth. She took it all, swallowing convulsively, until he was spent, soft, twitching in her grasp.
She released him slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The crimson lipstick was a ruined smear across her cheek and chin. It was smeared along his shaft, a lurid, possessive tattoo.
She rose smoothly on her expensive heels, towering over him as he sagged against the sink, his pants around his ankles. She looked down at the mess on him, on her, with a satisfied, almost clinical expression.
“The personal assistant job is yours,” she said, her voice back to its normal, cool register. She turned to the sink next to him, calmly ran water, and began cleaning the lipstick from her face. “The formal offer letter comes tomorrow. A fifty percent raise. That window office on twenty-two.”
Billy could only stare, his mind white noise. He fumbled to pull his pants up, his fingers clumsy.
“Go home to Kate,” Marla said, not looking at him, examining her reflection as she repaired her makeup. “Tell her the good news about the promotion. Just not,” she finally met his eyes in the mirror, a ghost of a smile on her now-clean lips, “the details of the interview process.”
She unlocked the door and walked back into the office, leaving him alone in the cold, beautiful bathroom. He looked down at himself. The lipstick wouldn’t all wash off. Pinkish-red streaks still stained his skin, a brand he could not hide. He scrubbed at it with a hand towel until his flesh was raw, but a faint, rosy ghost remained.
He walked out of the office ten minutes later, past the silent receptionist, into the elevator. The city lights blinked below, indifferent. He had the promotion he’d dreamed of. He had the raise that solved everything. And all he could taste was the peaty, expensive whisky, now soured with the copper-penny tang of his own corruption, stuck in the back of his throat.