Chapter 27: The Client's Demand
The boardroom at Tanaka Holdings felt like a different planet from the sterile intimacy of Room 4C. Here, the air was chilled, filtered to a scentless purity that somehow still carried the weight of money. Aidan adjusted his tie, feeling the crisp, new fabric of his suit—a dark, expensive wool Catriona had bought him that morning. “You’re representing more than just the firm now, darling,” she’d said, her fingers smoothing his lapel. “You’re the product. Look the part.”
Catriona sat to his right, a vision of calculated power in an emerald suit that matched the velvet chairs. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes, the color of bottle glass, missed nothing.
Across the vast expanse of polished mahogany sat Yamada Shiori, the CFO. She was a slender woman in her fifties, with a sleek black bob and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Flanking her were two younger associates, their tablets ready, their expressions uniformly serene.
“The data from Subject Seven is promising,” Yamada began, her English flawless. “Significant reduction in autonomic stress responses during phasic stimulation. The neural re-patterning is holding.”
“Mei,” Aidan said, the name slipping out before he could stop it. “Her name is Mei.”
A beat of silence. Yamada’s smile remained fixed. “Of course. Mei. Her progress validates the methodology. Which brings us to the proposed expansion.” She tapped her tablet. A schematic of the office floor appeared on a hidden screen. “We have forty-seven female employees in the targeted stress-bracket. The potential for increased productivity, via controlled somatic release, is considerable.”
Aidan’s stomach tightened. Forty-seven.
Catriona leaned forward, her voice a low, pleasant hum. “The initial consultation was for one subject. An assessment. What you’re proposing is a full-scale implementation. My associate’s time is valuable. As is his… unique expertise.”
“We understand,” said one of the associates, a woman with a sharp gaze. “We are prepared to compensate Finch & Associates at three hundred percent the initial consultancy fee, plus all lodging and expenses for Mr. Walters for the duration.”
“Which is?” Catriona asked, though she already knew.
“Three months,” Yamada stated. “A comprehensive training program. Each employee will require a baseline assessment and a customized acclimatization schedule. He will work under our Head of Wellness, Dr. Sorenson, to ensure protocols are followed.”
Three months. In this building. A procession of women, each lying on that mat, each being stretched and filled and measured. The thought should have horrified him. Instead, a treacherous current of arousal pulsed through him, mingled with a deep, sour shame.
“The fee is acceptable,” Catriona said, dismissing the money with a wave. “But the bonus structure needs clarity. Measurable outcomes. A success metric.”
“Reduction in documented stress-related leave. Increase in overtime voluntarism. Subjective well-being scores,” listed the other associate.
“I want a per-subject completion bonus,” Catriona countered. “A flat rate, paid to the firm, upon each employee’s successful… graduation. We’ll define that as full, tolerated penetration and induced climax. Verified by your Dr. Sorenson.”
Aidan stared at the table’s gloss, seeing a blurred reflection of the city lights. They were talking about him like he was a piece of medical equipment. A specialized tool. He felt a hand on his thigh under the table. Catriona’s. Her fingers dug in, a silent command.
“Agreed,” Yamada said, after a glance at her associates. “We will draft the addendum.”
“Do it now,” Catriona purred. “We’ll sign before the whiskey gets warm.”
As the associates busied themselves with tablets, Yamada’s eyes drifted to Aidan. They were appraising, entirely professional. “You have shown adaptability, Walters-san. And a certain… initiative with the subject. That is useful. Initiative within parameters is desirable.”
He nodded, unable to speak. Catriona’s hand slid higher up his thigh. Her intention was clear. This was her celebration. Her claim.
The contract appeared on a tablet before her. Catriona scrolled, her eyes sharp. “Looks in order,” she said. She reached into her briefcase and produced a sleek, silver pen.
At that moment, her other hand unzipped his trousers beneath the cover of the table.
He froze. The associates were focused on their screens. Yamada was pouring a measure of amber whiskey into two glasses. Catriona signed the first digital page with a flourish, her body angled to block any potential view.
Her fingers, cool and sure, reached into his open fly and found him. He was already half-hard, a response to the sheer surreal tension of the room. She stroked him to full, rigid thickness, her grip firm, a proprietorial touch. She signed another page.
Aidan kept his face neutral, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall behind Yamada. His heart hammered against his ribs. The risk was insane. The humiliation was acute. Yet, the thrill was a drug, hot and immediate. He was kneecapping their multi-million dollar deal under the table while they discussed his schedule.
“The logistics,” Yamada said, sliding a whiskey toward Catriona. “We will need Walters-san to begin next Monday. We have drafted a preliminary roster. Priority given to executives in high-burnout divisions.”
“Of course,” Catriona said, her voice perfectly even. Her hand moved faster, a ruthless, efficient motion. Aidan could feel the head of his cock pressing against the fine wool of his trousers, trapped by her grip. He fought to keep his breathing steady.
She signed the final page. “Done,” she announced, a smile in her voice. She hit ‘send’ with her thumb.
As the digital copy whirred to the associates, Catriona didn’t let go. Instead, she shifted in her chair, hooking a heel around his ankle. She was wearing a skirt. He felt the heat of her through her stockings as she guided him, with terrifying precision, to her entrance. She wasn’t wearing underwear.
He pushed into her in one slow, hidden stroke. She was wet. Ready. She’d planned this.
A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her as she took all of him, settling back in her chair as if getting comfortable. She picked up her whiskey with her free hand, taking a small sip.
“To a fruitful partnership,” Yamada said, raising her glass.
“Oh, immensely fruitful,” Catriona replied, her eyes locking with Aidan’s for a fraction of a second. They were blazing with triumph.
And then she began to move. Tiny, subtle clenches of her inner muscles. A minute rock of her hips. It was maddening. Invisible. Aidan’s knuckles were white where he gripped his own thighs under the table. Sweat beaded at his temple. He was buried to the hilt in his boss in a room full of people who had just bought him for three months.
Yamada began discussing scheduling blocks, clinic times. One of the associates mentioned something about dietary supplements to aid recovery.
Catriona participated, her comments sharp, her questions pertinent. All while her body milked him slowly, relentlessly. It was a power play of such breathtaking arrogance that Aidan felt dizzy. She was demonstrating, to him more than anyone, who was really in control. The contract was signed, but she was taking her commission now.
He couldn’t last. The stress, the shame, the illicit intensity of it built a pressure in his groin that was impossible to withstand. He gave a slight, desperate shake of his head. Her only response was a deeper, slower clench.
He came. A silent, violent eruption, his body seizing as he spilled into her under the table. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, riding the wave of pulsing release, praying his face wasn’t giving him away.
Catriona took another sip of whiskey. He felt her own internal contractions, a swift, rhythmic fluttering—her own quiet climax, triggered by his. A soft, warm gush followed his, mingling with his release inside her.
“Excellent,” Yamada said, concluding the scheduling discussion. She stood. “We look forward to welcoming you properly on Monday, Walters-san. The details will be sent to your provided email.”
Catriona smoothly disengaged, pulling herself off him and adjusting her skirt as she stood. She shook Yamada’s hand, then the associates’. Aidan rose on unsteady legs, praying the front of his trousers didn’t show a stain. He managed a bow, his mind utterly blank.
Outside in the elevator, descending from the silent sky, Catriona leaned against the mirrored wall. She looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her green eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction.
“You see?” she said softly, reaching out to wipe a trace of sweat from his brow. “It’s all about knowing the value of your assets. And knowing how to make everyone pay.”
The elevator doors opened to the bustling lobby. As they walked toward the exit, Aidan felt a slow, warm trickle escape him, soaking into his briefs. A tangible reminder of the deal. Of his new role. Not just a tool for Tanaka. But forever, unmistakably, Catriona’s.