Chapter 14: The Office Retreat
The drive to the resort was three hours of curated playlists and Catriona briefing the two new associates—Maya and Jess—in the backseat. Aidan sat shotgun, watching pine forests blur past. The briefing was clinical, covering client portfolios and quarterly targets. No one mentioned him. He was scenery.
The resort rose from the lakeshore like polished glass and weathered timber. Their rooms were in a private lodge, connected to the main conference center by a covered walkway smelling of cedar and damp earth. Aidan had his own room, smaller, overlooking the service road.
“Settle in,” Catriona had said, her keycard already in hand. “Main conference suite. Seven p.m. Business casual. And eat something light.”
He did. A room service club sandwich that tasted like nothing. He showered, the hot water needling his back where the mahogany table at Sutter-Green had left its ghost of a burn. He put on dark trousers and a button-down, no tie. Looked at himself. Business casual for a stamina challenge. The absurdity didn’t even land anymore. It was just the dress code.
The conference suite was everything the promotional photos promised. Vaulted ceiling, iron chandeliers, and the entire western wall was glass, framing the lake now painted in the oranges and purples of sunset. The long mahogany table held a spread of fruit, cheese, and several opened bottles of champagne. It also held a faint, sweet-sharp scent from the night before.
Delia was already there, pouring champagne. She wore a patterned wrap dress and smiled when he entered. “The man of the hour! Or should I say, the man of the hours. Plural. Get over here, you need bubbles for courage.”
Irina stood by the windows, a silhouette against the dying light, sipping mineral water. She gave a curt nod. The two new women—Maya, with sharp cheekbones and watchful eyes, and Jess, softer, with nervous fingers—sat on a large leather sofa. They looked like they were waiting for a presentation to begin.
Catriona entered last. She’d changed into a tailored pantsuit the color of charcoal, her hair down. She carried a leather folio. She walked to the head of the table, placed the folio down, and didn’t open it.
“Team,” she began, her voice cutting through the low music from hidden speakers. “We’ve had a strong quarter. Our client retention is at ninety-six percent. Our expansion into the Henderson portfolio was successful.” She paused, her green eyes moving from face to face, finally landing on Aidan. “Tonight is about cementing that team cohesion. About pushing boundaries. About endurance.”
Delia giggled, sipping her champagne. Irina’s expression didn’t change.
“The exercise is straightforward,” Catriona continued. “A test of resilience. Of shared focus. Aidan is our resource. The objective is to maximize output before sunrise. We will track it. We will document it. Each of you will participate in a sequence of your choosing.” She glanced at the new hires. “Maya, Jess, consider this your final, practical orientation.”
Jess swallowed visibly. Maya just tilted her head, studying Aidan like a complex equation.
“Rules are simple,” Catriona said. “No condoms. My allergy stands. Positions and duration are at the discretion of the active participant. The goal is to elicit a complete… transaction. We will rotate. We will continue until the resource is depleted or the sun rises. Whichever comes first.”
Delia clapped her hands softly. “I call first go! I want him fresh. And on that sofa. It looks supportive.”
Catriona nodded. “Sequence is set. Delia, Irina, Maya, Jess. I will… audit periodically. Begin.”
It wasn’t a request. Aidan felt the familiar dissociation settle over him. He was a resource. Output was measured in transactions. It made a brutal kind of sense.
Delia put down her glass, took his hand, and led him to the large leather sofa. The sunset painted her skin gold. “You heard the boss, darling. Let’s set a high bar for the others to trip over.” Her hands were warm, efficient, undoing his buttons. She pushed him back into the soft leather and climbed atop him, her wrap dress falling open. She was already wet. “Missed this,” she murmured, guiding him into her with a familiar, slick ease. “The office just isn’t the same without our little… meetings.”
She rode him with a joyous, relentless energy, her curls bouncing, her glasses fogging slightly. She teased him about his breathing, about the way his hands gripped the leather. She came quickly, with a loud cry, then leaned down, whispering, “Don’t you dare finish yet. We’ve got hours to go.” She climbed off, patted his cheek, and sauntered to the cheese platter.
Irina was next. She pointed to the pool table at the room’s far end. “There. Bend over the side.”
Her approach was utilitarian. She hiked her skirt, no underwear. She used a bottle of lubricant from her own purse, applying it to him with cool, clinical strokes. When she entered him from behind, it was with a single, deep thrust that knocked the air from his lungs. She set a brutal, punishing pace, her hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. She didn’t speak, except once, to mutter, “Slower. You’ll waste it.” She found her own release silently, a series of tight, internal flutters, then withdrew. “Two,” she stated to the room, adjusting her skirt as she walked away.
Maya was more analytical. She had him lie on the rug before the massive fireplace, which was unlit. She knelt over him, inspecting him closely before sinking down. She moved with experimental rolls of her hips, cataloging his reactions. “Interesting,” she breathed once. She asked him to hold her a certain way, to change his angle. She came quietly, biting her lip, her eyes never leaving his face. “Fascinating yield potential,” she said, rising.
Jess was nervous, shy. She led him to the hot tub on the secluded patio, its steam rising into the cool night air. She kept her bikini top on. The warm, bubbling water changed the sensation, made everything feel floaty, unreal. She winced at first, then acclimated, moving gently. Her climax was a series of soft, surprised gasps. “Sorry,” she whispered afterward, as if she’d taken too long.
The rotations continued. Delia took him again in a plush armchair. Irina used the edge of the conference table, her heels digging into the small of his back. Maya wanted to try the broad windowsill, the cold glass against his back, the infinite black lake behind her. Jess, gaining confidence, asked him to lie still while she rode him slowly on the rug.
Champagne was drunk. Fruit was eaten. Conversations about market volatility and tax law amendments interspersed the sounds of skin on skin.
Aidan lost count of the transactions. His body became a terrain of aches and hyper-sensitivity. He was hard, then soft, then hard again at someone’s command or touch. A strange, floaty euphoria set in after the fifth time, a detached pride in the sheer mechanical function of it. He watched them come apart—Delia’s joyful shouts, Irina’s silent tremors, Maya’s focused intensity, Jess’s blossening confidence—and a warm, heavy satisfaction settled in his chest. He was causing this. He was the key turning in all these different locks.
Dawn was a faint gray line over the lake when Catriona, who had observed, directed, and occasionally timed them with her phone, called a halt. Aidan was on his back by the fireplace again, spent, the seventh and final transaction still pulsing weakly through him.
“Sunrise,” Catriona announced. “Project complete.”
The women gathered, disheveled, gleaming with sweat and other fluids. Catriona directed them to kneel around Aidan’s prone form. She produced a small towel, wiped him clean, then gently smeared the last, clear evidence across each of their stomachs, their inner thighs.
She stepped back, framed the shot with her phone: the five women in the dawn’s pale light, in various states of undress, marked by him, with the stunning lake view behind them. The click was soft.
She typed, showed the screen to Delia, who grinned tiredly.
“Retreat goals achieved,” Delia read aloud, her voice hoarse.
Catriona looked down at Aidan. Her imperious demeanor was still there, but something else flickered in her eyes—possessiveness, maybe, or a kind of professional awe. “Debrief at ten. In the main dining room. We’ll discuss individual performance metrics.”
The women drifted out, pulling on robes, whispering. Aidan lay on the rug, the first true rays of sun piercing the windows and painting a bright line across his chest. He could hear the lake now, the gentle lap of water.
He was exhausted to the marrow. Every muscle protested. He was a depleted resource.
And yet.
He closed his eyes, the image of the five of them, ringed around him, seared into his mind. Not as a violation, but as a tableau of something he alone had facilitated. A transaction, yes. A series of yields.
But also a creation. His body ached, but for the first time, the ache felt like a trophy.