Chapter 4: Deaf to Her Ecstasy
The tinny sound of Dean’s voice, laced with concern, sliced through the thick air of Biscuit’s penthouse office. "Are you okay, babe? You sound... winded." It echoed from the phone lying discarded on the vast desk, the screen lit with Dean’s name and the Singapore flight icon.
Tsunade’s forehead was pressed hard against the sun-warmed glass, her breath fogging a small circle. Below, the city crawled, oblivious. Inside, Biscuit Oliva slammed into her from behind with a force that vibrated the window pane. Each powerful thrust drove a choked gasp from her lungs, her body pinned between his immovable strength and the unyielding glass. The thick black leather collar felt like a brand around her throat, the small silver bell jingling wildly with every impact – ting-ting-ting-ting – a frantic counterpoint to the wet slap of flesh and Biscuit’s low, controlled grunts.
She tried to swallow, tried to find her voice. "Oh, I’m just..." Another brutal surge stole her breath. "...working out, Dean." The lie tasted like ash. Her knuckles were white where she braced against the glass. "It’s... intense." Her voice hitched, rising on the last word as Biscuit angled deeper, hitting a spot that sent white sparks across her vision. A ragged moan escaped before she could clamp down.
Biscuit chuckled, a dark rumble she felt vibrate through her own spine. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into the flesh above her thigh-high boots. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice a hot, intimate whisper meant only for her, yet perfectly audible over the phone. "Tell him how much you love your workout, Senju." He punctuated the command with a sharp, grinding thrust that made her cry out.
"It’s... good," Tsunade gasped into the receiver, squeezing her eyes shut against the panoramic view and the terrifying intimacy of Dean’s voice while Biscuit owned her body. Shame burned through her, warring violently with the overwhelming tide of sensation Biscuit relentlessly stoked. She felt stretched impossibly full, raw and sensitized from his earlier use, yet her traitorous core clenched around him, seeking more friction, more of that devastating fullness Dean had never come close to achieving. "Really... effective." Another involuntary moan slipped out.
Dean’s sigh crackled through the speaker. "Okay, okay, just... be careful? Don’t push too hard." His voice held that familiar blend of worry and helplessness. "Singapore’s insane. Humid as hell. Just landed. Meeting the client in an hour." He paused. "Miss you like crazy already."
Biscuit’s thrusts became shorter, harder, deeper. Tsunade whimpered, her body arching back against him instinctively. The bell jingled frantically. "Miss you... too," she managed, the words thick with unshed tears and the strain of holding back screams. She pictured Dean in the humid Singapore airport, his hazel eyes earnest, his muscular frame tired from the flight, completely unaware his wife was naked, collared, and being ruthlessly fucked against a skyscraper window by her billionaire boss.
"Gotta run, babe," Dean said, oblivious to the rhythmic pounding shaking the glass behind his wife’s voice. "Love you. Call me later?"
"Love... you..." Tsunade choked out, just as Biscuit drove into her with a final, punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A strangled cry tore from her throat, muffled against her arm.
The line went dead. Silence descended, broken only by Tsunade’s ragged panting and the frantic ting-ting of the bell settling against her damp skin. Biscuit held her there, impaled, his heat radiating into her back, his breath hot on her neck. The sudden absence of Dean’s voice felt like a physical blow.
Slowly, deliberately, Biscuit withdrew. The emptiness was profound, a hollow ache echoing the lie she’d just told. Tsunade sagged forward, her trembling arms barely holding her up. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. She stared blankly at her distorted reflection in the glass – a blonde woman marked by leather, flushed and wrecked.
Biscuit stepped back, adjusting his trousers with casual efficiency. He picked up the phone, glanced at the screen, then tossed it carelessly back onto the desk. It skittered across the polished surface. "Sentimental," he remarked, his voice smooth, detached. He walked around her, his gaze sweeping over her nakedness, the collar, the sheen of sweat on her skin. He stopped directly in front of her reflection in the glass. "Look at you."
Tsunade forced her eyes up, meeting his reflected gaze. Her green eyes were wide, haunted, pupils dilated. Her lips were swollen.
"You lied to him," Biscuit stated, a simple fact. He reached out, his fingertip tracing the line of the collar where it met her throat. The bell gave a soft ting. "Fluidly. While I was buried inside you." His thumb brushed over her lower lip. "You came twice while talking to him. Did you know that?"
She hadn’t. The orgasms had ripped through her with terrifying speed amidst the panic and the overwhelming physicality, blurring together. Shame flooded her cheeks anew. She looked away from his reflection, down at the dizzying drop below.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice hardening.
Her gaze snapped back, trapped.
"You belong here," he said, his voice low and absolute. "On your knees. Taking what I give you. Wearing my mark." He tapped the collar bell. Ting. "Dean’s love is a comfortable lie. A safety net you don’t need anymore." He leaned closer, his reflection dominating hers. "You crave the truth. The intensity. The ruin." His hand slid down, fingers brushing the wet, swollen flesh between her legs. She flinched, a fresh pulse of arousal warring with humiliation. "You crave this."
He withdrew his hand, leaving her trembling. "Get dressed." He gestured towards the crumpled red silk dress still lying on the floor near the desk. "We have a strategy session. The Frankfurt team needs their noses rubbed in your revisions."
Tsunade pushed herself away from the glass, her legs shaky. She stumbled slightly, the bell chiming softly. The cool air felt harsh on her exposed skin after the heat of his body. She walked unsteadily towards the dress, feeling his gaze like a physical weight. Bending down felt like an immense effort. As she pulled the silk over her head, the collar remained starkly visible above the plunging neckline. She didn’t try to hide it. The leather felt heavier now, a constant reminder of the phone call, the lies, the devastating pleasure he’d wrung from her while Dean’s voice filled the room.
She smoothed the dress down, the silk clinging uncomfortably to her damp skin. She felt raw, exposed, utterly owned. The Frankfurt revisions, her brilliant, ruthless work, felt like ashes.
Biscuit was already seated behind his desk, tapping something into a sleek tablet. He didn’t look up. "Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "We start in five. Prepare the holoscreen."
Tsunade moved to the chair, the bell giving a muted ting with each step. She sank into the cool leather, the collar pressing against her throat. She stared at the blank holoscreen projector, the Frankfurt file icon glowing on the desk interface. Dean’s final words echoed in the hollow space inside her: Love you. Call me later?
How could she possibly call him? How could she hear his trusting voice again while wearing Biscuit’s collar, feeling the phantom ache of his possession, remembering the sound of her own moans mingling with Dean’s concern? The gulf between the woman Dean loved and the one kneeling in this penthouse felt wider than the ocean separating them. She touched the cool leather at her neck. Ting. The truth, as Biscuit named it, was a terrifying precipice. And she was already falling.
The leather collar felt heavier than chains. Ting. That small, mocking sound echoed the plunge she couldn't stop. Dean’s trusting voice still echoed faintly in her skull, a ghost haunting the sterile, powerful air of Biscuit’s domain.
Biscuit didn’t glance up from the glowing holoscreen projecting Frankfurt’s quarterly losses. His finger traced a jagged red line downward. "Senju," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the growl from before, yet utterly commanding. "The projections are still soft. Weak." He tapped the screen, making the red line pulse. "Needs teeth."
Tsunade stared at the numbers blurring before her eyes. Her thighs were slick beneath the silk dress. The phantom ache lingered. She swallowed, the collar pressing against her throat. "I... I can sharpen them, sir. The market volatility in sector seven..."
"Later." He cut her off, still focused on the screen. His other hand dropped casually below the desk’s edge, out of sight. A soft rustle of fabric. "Get over here."
Her breath hitched. She knew that tone. Knew what it demanded. The Frankfurt figures swam, meaningless. Her pulse hammered against the leather band. Ting.
"Now." The single word cracked like a whip. No room for hesitation. No space for Dean’s ghost.
She pushed herself up from the chair, legs trembling only slightly now. The bell chimed softly with each step across the cool marble floor. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with her own sweat and arousal, thick in the air. She stopped beside his massive chair, the holoscreen bathing his sharp profile in cold light.
He finally turned his head, just enough to pin her with those dark, assessing eyes. His gaze flicked down her body, lingering on the collar above the red silk. A faint, predatory smile touched his lips. "Down."
No preamble. No request. Just expectation. Tsunade sank to her knees on the plush rug beside his chair. The position felt terrifyingly natural. The city lights sprawled below the windows, indifferent. Her blonde hair fell forward, brushing his polished shoes.
He shifted slightly, spreading his legs wider. His hand reappeared, guiding himself free. Fully hard, thick, glistening faintly at the tip. The sight sent a jolt of pure, electric need through her core, momentarily drowning the shame. He smelled musky, primal, utterly unlike Dean’s clean soap scent.
"Work," he commanded, nodding back towards the holoscreen displaying Frankfurt’s failures. His thumb brushed the swollen head against her lips. "Don't stop."
He turned his attention fully back to the projections. Tsunade leaned forward, her green eyes fixed on him for a second longer. Then she opened her mouth. She took him in, slowly at first, savoring the familiar, salty-bitter taste she craved. A low groan vibrated in his chest, but his eyes stayed locked on the screen.
She began to move, her head bobbing rhythmically. The world narrowed to the heat and weight on her tongue, the slick slide against her palate, the intoxicating taste flooding her senses. She loved this taste. Loved the power she felt wielding it, the way it made him tense and grunt even while analyzing profit margins. Her tongue swirled, pressed, explored the sensitive ridge beneath the head.
Biscuit’s breathing deepened, roughened. One hand remained on the holoscreen interface, scrolling, highlighting, dragging figures. The other rested heavily on the back of her head, fingers tangling in her blonde hair, not forcing, just guiding, anchoring her. "Adjust the Q3 forecast," he muttered, his voice thick but focused. "Factor in the Berlin acquisition fallout. Negative twelve percent minimum."
Tsunade hummed her understanding around him, the vibration drawing another sharp inhale from him. She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, lost in the rhythm and the taste. Her own arousal pooled hotly between her legs, the silk clinging damply. The bell at her throat chimed softly with each movement. Ting. Ting. Ting.
He shifted his hips, pushing deeper. She relaxed her throat, taking him further, the head nudging the back. Tears pricked her eyes, but it was a familiar burn, welcome even. Her hands rested on his powerful thighs, feeling the muscle tense beneath the fine fabric of his trousers. She looked up, past the hard line of his jaw, watching his eyes scan the data, his brow furrowed in concentration even as pleasure tightened his features.
"Good," he rasped, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. His gaze flickered down to her for a fleeting second, dark with approval and possession, before snapping back to the screen. "Now the labor cost overlay. Aggressive." His hand tightened slightly in her hair, urging her pace faster.
She obeyed, increasing the suction, the rhythm becoming more insistent. The taste was everything – musky, potent, uniquely him. It obliterated thought, drowned the lingering echo of Dean’s 'I love you'. This was visceral. Real. Consuming. She moaned softly around him, the sound muffled, vibrating against his flesh.
Biscuit’s scrolling on the holoscreen paused. His breath hitched, a low growl building in his chest. The hand on her head pressed down firmly, holding her deep as his hips jerked upwards once, twice. Hot saltiness flooded her mouth, thick and sudden. She swallowed instinctively, eagerly, chasing every drop of that addictive taste.
He held her there for a long moment, buried to the root, his body rigid. Then he slowly relaxed, releasing the pressure on her head. Tsunade pulled back, gasping for air, her lips slick and swollen. She looked up at him, dazed, satisfied, the taste lingering powerfully on her tongue.
Biscuit’s eyes finally left the holoscreen. He looked down at her, his gaze hooded, satiated, yet still intensely focused. He tucked himself away with efficient, unselfconscious movements. His thumb brushed a stray droplet from her lower lip. "Frankfurt is handled," he stated, his voice rough but regaining its usual controlled timbre. He tapped the holoscreen, now displaying revised, brutally sharp projections. "Send it."
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. His gaze swept over her kneeling form, the collar, her flushed face, her wet lips. A faint, satisfied smirk played on his lips. "Clean yourself up. We have the Tokyo call in ten." He picked up a sleek stylus, already moving to another file. "And Senju?"
She blinked, still tasting him, her mind foggy with endorphins and submission. "Sir?"
"Keep the collar on." His eyes met hers, holding her captive. "It suits you."
The bell chimed softly against her throat as she stood. "Yes, Master." The word slipped out, raw and unbidden, tasting of salt and truth. It felt right. Necessary. Dean’s worried face flickered briefly in her mind, pale and distant, then dissolved like smoke in the sterile office air.
Biscuit’s eyes snapped to hers, a dark spark of approval igniting. He didn’t smile, but the intensity of his gaze deepened, pinning her in place. "Go," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her bones. "The washroom. Fix yourself. Tokyo doesn’t tolerate tardiness." He returned to his tablet, the holoscreen flickering with data streams.
Tsunade walked, the silk whispering against her damp skin, the leather collar a grounding weight. Each step made the bell ting. Her reflection in the polished chrome elevator door was a stranger – flushed cheeks, swollen lips, blonde hair escaping its pins, and that stark black band proclaiming ownership above the scandalous red silk. The phantom ache between her legs pulsed in time with the bell. She felt stripped bare, yet paradoxically powerful. Dean’s ring felt cold and foreign on her finger.
Inside the marble-clad washroom, cool air kissed her overheated skin. She splashed water on her face, avoiding the haunted green eyes in the mirror. The taste of him lingered stubbornly on her tongue. Dean’s text notification buzzed in her discarded clutch resting on the sink’s edge. Landing smooth? Hope workout wasn’t too brutal. Love you. She stared at the screen, her finger hovering. A week ago, guilt would have clawed at her throat. Now? It was just noise. Static. Irrelevant. She silenced the phone and dropped it back into the bag with a hollow clatter.
Smoothing her dress, she adjusted the collar. It sat prominently, impossible to hide. A mark. A crown. Ting. She didn’t try to cover it. Leaving the washroom, her heels clicked purposefully back towards the penthouse office’s oppressive energy. The Frankfurt holoscreen still glowed, its brutal projections finalized. Biscuit stood by the window, a monolith against the city’s sprawl, a sleek headset curving around his ear.
He gestured sharply towards the secondary comms console without looking back. "Senju. Patch Osaka into the conference. Voice only. They fucked up the tariffs." His tone was clipped, all business. The Tokyo call was imminent, layers of international tension crackling in the air.
Tsunade slid into the chair, fingers flying over the holographic interface. "Patching through Osaka now, Master." The title flowed easier this time, natural as breathing. It acknowledged the undeniable truth resonating in her bones, in the leather against her skin, in the taste still coating her mouth. Dean belonged to a different life, a faded photograph. This – the pressure, the power play, him – was her oxygen.
The Osaka connection crackled to life, a nervous voice filling the room. "Oliva-san, apologies deeply, the customs oversight–"
Biscuit cut him off, cold and precise. "Save the groveling. Send the corrected figures to Tsunade Senju within five minutes. Fail, and your division funds the Berlin write-down." He paced, a predator surveying territory. "Senju? Status on Tokyo."
Tsunade scanned the live feed. "Ambassador Kurosawa's team just entered the virtual lobby, Master. Protocol requests visual confirmation before initiating." Her voice was steady, professional, utterly devoid of the tremor Dean’s texts used to inspire. She felt his gaze shift to her, heavy and assessing.
"Give them confirmation," he ordered, stopping directly behind her chair. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, warm through the thin silk. Possessive.
She activated the visual feed, her screen flickering to show the solemn faces of the Tokyo delegation. One impeccably dressed aide blinked, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her appearance on his monitor – the flushed face, the disheveled hair, the impossible black collar stark against her throat above the red dress.
"Ambassador," Tsunade announced smoothly, ignoring the aide’s stare, the bell tinging softly with the movement. "We are ready to proceed when you are." Her green eyes met the Ambassador’s on screen, unwavering.
Biscuit’s thumb brushed the pulse point just below the collar’s edge. A silent command. A brand. Ting. Her phone buzzed again in the clutch under the desk. Dean. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the pressure of Biscuit’s hand, the bell’s quiet affirmation, and the dangerous game unfolding on the screens. She belonged here. To him. Master. The word was a key turning in a lock deep inside her, sealing everything else out. The call began, dense with economic jargon and veiled threats, and Tsunade leaned back slightly into Biscuit’s touch.