Chapter 22: Employee of the Month
The silence Evan left behind was a tangible thing, thick and buzzing like the after-hum of the violet wand. Jay remained kneeling, the cool air of the back room raising gooseflesh on his exposed skin. The collar was still fastened around his neck. Chantelle watched the door for a long moment, as if ensuring the boy’s footsteps had truly faded, before turning her gaze downward.
Her expression wasn't the warm, post-coastal softness he’d seen before. It was appraising, sharp. “Stand up.”
He did, his joints protesting, his cock now soft and wet against his thigh. He moved to pull up his jeans.
“Leave them,” she said, the words slicing the quiet. She walked to a cabinet and pulled out a pair of heavy, stainless steel handcuffs. They gleamed dully under the fluorescent lights. “Come here. To the main floor.”
Jay followed, the denim bunching around his knees, forcing him into a shuffling, exposed walk. The main shop was a cathedral of shadows and neon, the flickering sign painting lurid stripes across velvet ropes and glossy silicone. Chantelle led him to the central glass display case, the one housing the most expensive lingerie: intricate lattices of French lace, sheer black mesh, corsets embroidered with jet beads.
“Hands behind your back,” she instructed. The metal was cold as it clicked shut around his wrists, the chain pulling his shoulders into a taut, vulnerable line. She tested the cuffs, then looped a short chain through them and around a solid leg of the heavy display case, securing him with a small padlock. He was tethered, bent forward slightly, his ass offered to the empty room.
“You showed Evan control,” Chantelle said, her voice echoing as she moved behind the counter. “You showed him the architecture of it. The theory. Now I want to see the foundation. The messy, shameful dirt it’s built on.” She emerged holding an armful of fabric, a riot of satin and lace. She draped it over the top of the case. “You like to wear pretty things, Jay. You secret away in your apartment and put them on. You hide it.”
She picked up the first item, a babydoll chemise in powder pink satin, trimmed with white lace. It was absurdly delicate. “But here, there’s no hiding. Here, you’re a display. My display.” She unclipped the collar, then pulled his t-shirt over his head. The cool air hit his chest. “Lift your feet.”
Trapped, he complied. She rolled the jeans down his legs, removing them completely, then the boxers. He was naked now, handcuffed to the case, utterly exposed. She didn’t touch his cock. She brought the pink satin to his shoulders, guiding his cuffed arms through the flimsy straps. The fabric was a whisper against his skin, the lace scratching lightly. She arranged it, the front falling to mid-thigh. It was a devastating contrast: the sheer, feminine garment against his massive, hairy frame, his thick muscles, his softening penis lying against the delicate satin.
“Look at yourself,” she whispered, pulling a handheld mirror from behind the counter. She held it up.
Jay saw a stranger. A giant draped in a little girl’s fantasy. His face flooded with heat, a mixture of profound shame and a sharp, electric thrill that went straight to his groin. His cock stirred, thickening against the pink satin.
“Pathetic,” Chantelle breathed, watching his reaction in the mirror. “And so fucking hard for it.” She tossed the mirror onto a plush chair with a thud. “Next.”
The pink satin was pulled off, roughly. She replaced it with a black corset, its laces dangling. She worked it around his torso, her knuckles pressing into his back as she yanked the laces tight, one by one, pulling until his breath shortened and his frame was forced into a slightly more tapered shape. The boning dug into his ribs. She didn’t fasten the front busk, leaving it gaping open over his stomach and chest hair.
“You want tits in this, don’t you?” she murmured, her hands roughly squeezing his pectorals. “You want those big, fake G-cups filling this out. Making it real.” Her hand slid down, over the corset’s edge, and grasped his now fully erect cock. She gave it three brutal, dry strokes. “But this is what’s real. This is the truth hiding under all the lace.”
She let go and picked up a third outfit: a red lingerie set, a bra and matching panties of sheer crimson mesh. She put the bra on him, stuffing the cups loosely so they puckered absurdly. Then the panties. She had him step into them, pulling the elastic up over his hips. The mesh strained against his swelling cock, the head poking through a gap in the fabric.
“So pretty,” she cooed, her voice dripping with mockery. She stood before him, her eyes roaming his trapped, adorned body. Then she leaned close, her scent enveloping him. “But I know what you really like. What you need.”
Her hand, slick with spit from her mouth, went behind him. She didn’t tease. Two fingers pressed firmly against his puckered hole, circling once before pushing inward. He gasped, the corset tightening around his breath. The invasion was rough, direct, a stark violation that made his knees buckle. The handcuffs bit into his wrists.
“There it is,” she whispered, working her fingers in to the knuckle, scissoring them slowly. The stretch burned, a filthy, perfect counterpoint to the delicate fabric on his skin. “This is where you feel most like yourself, isn’t it? When you’re filled up here, dressed up out there. A beautiful, contradictory fuckhole.”
She fingered him with brutal efficiency, curling her fingers to find the spot that made his entire body jerk against his restraints. He was panting, drooling slightly, his cock leaking pre-come that stained the red mesh. The shop was a silent witness, the mannequins seeming to leer.
Just as he felt his climax coiling, inevitable and humiliating, she pulled her fingers out with a wet pop. “Not yet,” she said, wiping her hand on the black corset. “We’re not done with the fashion show.”
One by one, she changed him. A leopard-print bodysuit that zipped up the front, straining at his shoulders. A turquoise teddy with side cut-outs that revealed his hairy flanks. A sheer nude robe that hid nothing. Each change was punctuated by her hands on him—grabbing his cock through the fabric, squeezing his ass, once shoving three fingers back into his loosened hole while he was clad in virginal white lace. She was breaking down the last walls of his private ritual, exposing the raw nerve of his desire under the clinical shop lights.
Finally, she stood back. The floor was littered with discarded garments. He was in the last outfit: a simple black lace thong and matching bra, the most blatantly erotic of the collection. His body shone with sweat. His cock, purple and angry, curved up against the thin strap of the thong. His ass felt open, used.
“Enough,” Chantelle declared, her own breathing shallow. Her eyes were dark with a feral hunger. She unlocked the tether from the case leg, but left his hands cuffed behind his back. “To the counter. Now.”
He shuffled to the checkout counter, the glass surface cold against his thighs. She pushed him forward until he was bent over it, his cuffed hands resting in the small basket of discounted condoms. The register and credit card terminal loomed to his left.
He heard the tear of a foil packet, the slick sound of her rolling a condom onto him. Then she was climbing onto the counter behind him, one knee on either side of his hips. She grabbed a handful of the black lace at his back, yanking it down. She wasn't wearing anything underneath her own skirt. He felt the hot, wet smear of her cunt against his lower back.
She positioned the head of his cock at her entrance. Then she dropped her weight.
It wasn't a slow descent. She impaled herself on him in one savage, downward motion, taking all nine inches with a choked, guttural cry. The force of it slammed Jay's torso into the counter. Glass rattled.
“Fuck! Yes!” she snarled, already beginning to ride him with a frantic, punishing rhythm. Each upward grind was desperate, each downward plunge violent. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, the corset laces, his hair. The metal handcuffs chain clinked against the glass counter with every drive.
“You’re my fucking canvas,” she panted, her breath hot against his ear. “My dirty, lace-covered masterpiece. I’m gonna fuck you until this whole goddamn store comes apart.”
Her words ignited him. He pushed back against her, meeting her thrusts, his own need shattering the last vestiges of shame. The counter shook. A display of lubricants shimmied and toppled, bottles hitting the floor with dull thuds. He didn’t care. The world narrowed to the exquisite friction of her tight channel, the burn of the lace, the metallic taste of his own sweat.
Chantelle’s movements became erratic, wild. She leaned back, bracing one hand on the counter behind her, using the leverage to slam herself down onto him with even more force. Her other hand gripped the edge of the cash register for balance.
With a final, seismic thrust from Jay, the register tipped. It teetered for a heart-stopping second, then crashed onto its side with a deafening slam of metal and plastic. Coins and receipt paper exploded across the counter and floor in a chaotic, shimmering cascade.
The sound seemed to trigger her. A raw, screaming orgasm ripped through Chantelle. Her cunt clamped down on him like a vise, rhythmic, milking pulses that pulled his own release from the base of his spine. He came with a roar that echoed off the walls, pumping into the condom inside her as she continued to shudder and grind through the waves of her climax.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The smell of sex and spilled lubricant. The cold, hard press of the glass counter against his cheek. The scattered coins glittering like fallen stars in the neon gloom.
Chantelle slumped forward, her sweat-slick back pressing against his. She was trembling. For a long time, they stayed like that, joined, trapped, breathing in ragged unison.
Finally, she slowly lifted herself off him, the separation feeling like a loss of gravity. She unlocked the handcuffs. His arms screamed as he brought them forward, blood rushing back into his hands.
Silently, she found his jeans and t-shirt and handed them to him. He dressed, the coarse denim feeling alien against his sensitized skin. He looked at the wreckage: the overturned register, the spilled inventory, the heap of delicate lingerie on the floor.
Chantelle righted the register with a grunt. It sat crookedly, its drawer hanging open. She looked at it, then at Jay. A slow, exhausted smile touched her lips. “Evan’s first lesson is on cleanup,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Tomorrow.”
She stepped through the coins, took his hand, and led him toward the back room, leaving the ruined, beautiful evidence of their collision gleaming in the dark.
The back room was a cave of quiet after the neon-lit chaos. The still air smelled of their sweat and the lingering ozone from the violet wand session with Evan. Chantelle didn’t turn on the main light. A small lamp on her cluttered desk cast a weary amber pool. She guided him to it, her fingers still laced with his, then released him to rummage in a drawer.
She pulled out a heavy bolt cutter. The metallic snick as she tested the jaws was deafeningly final. “Give me your wrists.”
He obeyed, holding out his arms, the steel cuffs from the display case still circling them, connected by a short, broken chain. She positioned the blades. With one sharp, decisive squeeze, the chain severed. The cuffs themselves remained, cool metal bracelets. She didn’t remove them. She tossed the cutters back into the drawer with a clatter and turned to face him.
For a long moment, she just looked at him. His t-shirt was inside out, his jeans unbuckled. In the low light, the ghost of the black lace seemed to linger on his skin. He saw her own dishevelment: smudged eyeliner, hair escaping its clip, the crimson blush down her chest. The authoritative mistress was gone. In her place stood a woman who looked as thoroughly wrecked as he felt.
“That was something else,” she said finally, her voice scraped raw. She reached out and touched the raised welt on his shoulder from where the corset lace had bitten in. Her touch was clinical, then softened. “Hurts?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Her thumb traced the mark. “You’re a mess. We’re a mess.” She let her hand fall. “Shower’s through there. Go get clean. I’ll find you something to wear.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. The weariness in her tone made it a command he was grateful to follow. The small bathroom was utilitarian, all white tile and a single clean towel. He stripped slowly, his body reporting every ache, every stretched muscle, the deep, satisfying throb between his legs. The handcuffs clicked against the sink edge. He let the hot water scald him, washing away the night—Evan’s tentative touches, the static electricity, the feel of lace, the taste of coins and come.
He was rinsing soap from his hair when the shower curtain rasped back. Chantelle stood there, also naked. She’d washed her face. Her skin was pale, her eyes huge. Without a word, she stepped in beside him, the water instantly plastering her dark hair to her skull.
They didn’t speak. She took the soap from his hand and turned him, her motions efficient, thorough. She washed his back, her fingers probing the lines the restraints had left. She soaped the cleft of his ass, her touch lingering without intrusion, a simple cleansing. Then she turned him back and washed his chest, his arms, his cock, which hung soft and spent under her ministrations. It was neither sexual nor servile. It was proprietorial. She was mapping the territory she had just laid claim to.
She handed him the soap. “My turn.”
He washed her with the same deliberate care, suds sliding over the curve of her breasts, the faint silvery lines on her hips, the damp hair between her legs. He knelt to wash her calves and she placed a hand on his wet head, not pushing, just resting it there. When he rose, she tilted her face up into the spray, eyes closed.
“That kid,” she said, water streaming from her lips. “Evan. He saw something in you tonight. Something… anchored. It scared him. It thrilled him.” She opened her eyes and looked at Jay. “I saw it too.”
She turned off the water. The sudden silence was a blanket. She handed him the towel, took one for herself. In the steamy room, they dried off, the earlier violence replaced by a quiet, exhausted intimacy.
On the desk chair, she had laid out clothes: a pair of soft, grey sweatpants and a black hoodie, both clearly hers, both smelling of her detergent and her skin. He pulled them on. The sweatpants ended well above his ankle, the hoodie strained across his shoulders. He looked absurd. He felt enveloped.
She dressed in similar clothes, then sat on the edge of the worn leather couch and patted the space beside her. He sat. The springs sighed. She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the side table, lit one, took a deep drag, and offered it to him. He took it. The smoke burned, familiar and calming.
“You can’t go back to just buying silicone tits and hiding in your apartment, Jay,” she said, staring at the opposite wall where a framed poster for a fetish event hung crookedly. “Not after tonight. That person is gone. You left him handcuffed to a glass case.”
He exhaled smoke, watching it curl in the lamplight. “I know.”
“What happened out there…” She took the cigarette back, her fingers brushing his. “That wasn’t a scene. That was a fucking land grab. I’m not letting you walk out of here and pretend it didn’t happen. I’m not letting you go back to being just a customer with a shameful secret.” She turned to look at him, her gaze unflinching. “So you’re not going to.”
He waited, his heart a dull, heavy drum in his chest.
“You’re staying,” she said, the words simple, absolute. “The apartment above the shop is empty. It’s mine. You’ll live there. Your clothes, your secret boxes, your fucking G-cup prosthetics—you’ll bring them here. They’ll be in my space. You’ll be in my space.”
She took a final drag and crushed the cigarette in a seashell ashtray. “You’ll work in the shop with me. Evan needs training. The books are a mess. I need someone who doesn’t flinch at the inventory.” She gave a short, breathless laugh. “And apparently, I need someone who can take apart a cash register with his dick.”
The reality of it settled over him, not with shock, but with a profound, unsettling rightness. It was a custody. An ownership of a different, deeper kind. She wasn’t offering him a relationship; she was stating a fact. She was annexing his life into hers.
“Okay,” he said. The word felt insufficient, but it was all he had.
“Okay,” she echoed. She stood and offered her hand again. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs. You can see your new cage. I’ll even let you pick which side of the bed you want.”
He took her hand. She led him not to the shop’s back door, but to a narrow, carpeted staircase he’d never noticed before, hidden behind a shelf of novelty condoms. The stairs creaked under their weight. At the top was a small landing and a solid door. She produced a key, unlocked it, and pushed it open.
The apartment was spacious but sparse, all hardwoods and high ceilings, smelling of dust and old wood. Moonlight through large windows illuminated an empty living room, a galley kitchen, a hallway leading to bedrooms. It was a blank page.
Chantelle walked to the nearest window and looked out over the dark street. “We’ll get your stuff tomorrow,” she said, her breath fogging the glass. “We’ll need a truck for that fucking heavy display case you love so much.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, a shadow in the moonlight. “This is it. No more hiding. You’re here. With me.”
Jay walked across the bare floor until he stood behind her. He didn’t put his arms around her. He just stood there, in the clothes she’d given him, in the space she’d provided, looking at the reflection of their faint shapes in the dark window. The silent, empty city stretched out beyond.
She leaned back, just slightly, until her shoulder blades touched his chest. A point of contact. A claim acknowledged.
She kept him.
The emptiness of the apartment echoed around them, a hollow counterpoint to the cluttered, neon-drenched world below their feet. Chantelle’s shoulder blades pressed into his sternum for another second, a solid truth, before she pushed off the window and walked into the gloom of the kitchen. He heard the flick of a switch, the hum of an ancient refrigerator, the clink of a bottle.
“Beer?” she called, her voice casual, as if discussing the weather.
“Yeah.”
She returned, handing him a cold bottle, and sank onto the bare floorboards, her back against the wall. He joined her, the distance between them both vast and insignificant. They drank in silence, the alcohol a bland coolness on his tongue.
“The case,” she said after a while, staring at a water stain on the ceiling. “The big one with the purple velvet. We’ll put it right there.” She pointed to the center of the living room with her bottle. “Your things should be displayed. Not hidden under a bed.”
Jay felt a clench in his gut, a phantom shame. “People will see.”
“People see what I let them see,” she said, turning her head to look at him. Her eyes were dark pools in the low light. “Evan will. A delivery guy, maybe. It’s not for them. It’s for you. So you never forget what you are underneath the jeans and the t-shirts.” She took a long pull. “You’re the man who comes apart in lace. I own both halves. I want them both in the open.”
The statement hung there, undeniable. He nodded, the motion feeling inevitable.
“Good,” she said. She finished her beer and stood, stretching, the hem of her hoodie riding up to reveal a pale slice of stomach. “I’m beat. Come to bed.”
The bedroom contained only a mattress on the floor, heaped with blankets, and a single bureau. She stripped to her skin and slid under the covers without ceremony. He followed, the sweatpants and hoodie deposited in a heap on the floor. The mattress dipped heavily with his weight. They lay on their backs, not touching, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered into the dark, “we collar you.”
He stopped breathing. The word landed in the silence between them with the weight of a physical object.
“It’s not the plaything from the shop,” she continued, her voice low and steady. “It’s not for a scene. It’s a simple band. Steel. It locks. I have the key.” She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. He felt her gaze on his profile. “You’ll wear it always. In the shop. When you sleep. When you shower. You’ll feel it. So will I.”
A tremor ran through him, a seismic shift deep in his core. This was different. The cuffs came off. The lingerie was stored away. A collar, locked, was a permanent amendment. A rewrite of his skin.
“Say it,” she said.
“You’ll collar me,” he replied, the words leaving him in a rush of air.
“Yes.” She lay back down. “Now sleep.”
He didn’t think he would, but the exhaustion of the night was a black tide that pulled him under almost instantly.
Sunlight through the dirty windows woke him. The space beside him was empty, but warm. He heard water running in the pipes somewhere. He sat up, the events of the previous night assembling in his mind with a brutal, sparkling clarity. The ruined shop floor, the shower, the beer, the words. We collar you.
He found his borrowed clothes and put them on, the scent of her on the fabric both comforting and accusatory. Downstairs, the shop was pristine. The register sat correctly on the counter, the coins and bottles gone. The lingerie was no doubt folded and put away. Only a faint smudge on the glass countertop hinted at the violence.
Chantelle was behind the counter, dressed in jeans and a tight black tank top, sipping coffee. She looked ordinary. Beautiful, but ordinary. She glanced up as his feet hit the bottom stair.
“Coffee’s made. Strong. You’ll need it.” She gestured to a mug. “Evan comes in at noon. We have until then.”
They worked in a quiet, efficient tandem, dismantling his old life. They took her truck to his apartment, a place that now seemed like a museum curated by a stranger. He was mute as she opened the closet, pulling out the silken contents, folding them with a practicality that stripped them of their secret power. She found the locked chest under the bed.
“Open it,” she said.
He did. The G-cup silicone breasts lay there, pale and cavernous. The chastity cage that mimicked a vulva. The collection of plugs, beads, and sleek vibrators. She didn’t sneer or marvel. She simply nodded, closed the lid, and picked it up. “The foundation,” she said, and carried it out.
They loaded the heavy, glass-fronted display case last. It took all their strength, grunting and shifting, to get it onto the truck bed. Standing on the sidewalk, sweating, Jay looked back at his building.
“Don’t,” Chantelle said, wiping her brow. “There’s nothing back there for you. It’s an empty shell.”
Back at the shop, they hauled everything up the narrow stairs. She was right. They placed the display case in the center of the living room, and she began to arrange his secret wardrobe inside with a curator’s eye. The pink babydoll here. The black corset there. The red mesh draped over a small stand. She placed the box of prosthetics and toys on the bottom shelf.
“See?” she said, stepping back. “It’s not shameful. It’s a collection. A facet.” She turned to him. “Now. Kneel in front of it.”
The floor was hard against his knees. The glass of the case reflected a blurry, fragmented image of himself. From her pocket, she drew a length of steel. It was a simple band, maybe half an inch wide, brushed to a dull, matte finish. A small, discreet hexagon socket for a locking screw was the only adornment.
“This is the last secret, Jay,” she said, her voice soft but clear in the empty room. “The last door. Once this is closed, nothing is yours alone anymore. Not your shame. Not your pleasure. Not your skin. It all comes through me. Do you understand?”
He looked at their reflection—her standing, holding the metal, him kneeling amidst the artifacts of his hidden self. “I understand.”
“Then offer me your neck.”
He tilted his head back, exposing his throat. The morning light glinted off the steel as she brought it around. It was cool, then neutral against his skin. He heard the faint snick of the screw being tightened, then the definitive click of the tiny lock engaging with a sound like a tooth breaking. The weight was negligible, yet immense. A perpetual, grounding touch.
She used her thumb to wipe away a single tear he hadn’t felt tracking down his cheek. “There,” she breathed. “Now you’re home.”
The collar became the center of his universe. He felt it with every swallow, every turn of his head. It pressed against the inside of his hoodie, a secret that was no longer a secret. When Evan arrived at noon, his eyes flicked to it immediately, widening for a fraction of a second before he mastered his expression and gave a slow, knowing nod. No questions were asked.
Days folded into a new rhythm. He learned the shop’s inventory, his large hands carefully dusting delicate items. He handled shipments, his presence discouraging theft. He watched Chantelle flirt with customers, guide the curious, intimidate the disrespectful. And he felt the collar, always.
One evening, a week after the locking, Evan had just left. The "Closed" sign was turned. Chantelle was counting the till, the electronic chirps of the register the only sound. Jay was re-stocking a shelf of leather conditioners.
“Leave that,” she said, not looking up. “Come here.”
He approached the counter. She finished counting, slammed the drawer shut, and finally met his eyes. Her gaze was dark, intense, focused solely on the thin line of steel peeking above his t-shirt collar.
“I want to fuck the collared man,” she said, her voice husky. “Right now. On my counter.”
A current of pure heat flashed through him. He came around the counter. She didn’t move, just leaned back against the register, watching him.
“Take your clothes off,” she ordered. “Everything. I want to see all of you. I want to see it against your skin.”
He obeyed, his movements deliberate. T-shirt, jeans, boxers. He stood naked before her, the collar stark against his skin, his cock already thickening, rising. The shop’s ambient light painted his musculature in shades of cream and shadow.
“Turn around,” she whispered.
He turned, showing her his back, his ass. He heard her sharp intake of breath.
“God, look at you,” she murmured. Her fingertips, cool from the cash, traced the lines of his shoulders, down his spine. They dipped into the cleft of his ass, brushing over his hole, which clenched instinctively. “This is mine. All of it. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” he growled, the vibration humming against the steel band.
“Yes.” Her own clothes rustled, a quick, efficient shedding. Then her naked body was pressed against his back, her small, firm breasts against his skin, one hand snaking around to grasp his cock. She was wet; he felt the slick heat of her through the seam of her folds against his tailbone.
“Bend over,” she breathed into his ear, her teeth grazing the lobe. “Hands flat on the glass.”
He leaned forward, his palms squeaking against the counter surface she’d just cleaned. His reflection, warped and fragmented, stared back at him—a collared giant, bent in submission. He saw her behind him, a pale phantom, her eyes fixed on where their bodies would join.
She spat into her hand, a crude, wet sound, and slicked his cock with it. Then she positioned the head at her entrance. She didn’t guide him in. She simply sank down.
It was a slow, devastating invasion. She took him inch by inch, a deep, stretching burn of absolute possession. He watched in the distorted glass as she swallowed him, her head falling back, mouth open in a silent cry. When she was fully seated, his ass pressed against her pelvis, she paused, her internal muscles fluttering around him.
“Fuck,” she gasped, her hands gripping his hips, her nails biting. “You feel that? You feel how deep you are in me? That’s where you live now.”
Then she moved. She set a punishing, rhythmic pace, rising up until just the tip remained inside, then driving back down with enough force to slam his hips against the counter’s edge. The glass trembled. Each impact jolted through him, a delicious shock that traveled straight to his root. Her breath came in ragged, filthy bursts against his shoulder.
“Your big fucking cock,” she chanted, “in my cunt, my collared man, my giant fucking secret…” Her words dissolved into moans.
He pushed back, meeting her thrusts, the building tension coiling like a steel spring in his gut. The sensory overload was blinding: the cool glass under his palms, the unyielding pressure of the collar, the exquisite, wet friction of her body milking his, the raw, animal sounds she made.
Her movements became frantic, disjointed. He felt her orgasm approach, a tightening, a desperate clench. “I’m gonna come,” she wailed, her voice breaking. “I’m gonna come on your locked cock, Jay, fuck, fuck!”
Her climax ripped through her, a series of violent spasms that squeezed him like a fist. The sensation tore his own release from him. He roared, the sound raw and primal in the quiet shop, as he emptied himself into her in long, pulsing jets, his vision whitening at the edges, his knees threatening to buckle.
She slumped over his back, her sweaty skin sliding against his, her breath hot and fast on his neck. His reflection was a blur. The collar was the only sharp, defining line.
After a long moment, she slowly lifted herself off him. The separation was a loss of pressure, of warmth. He heard her soft footsteps, then the sound of the small key, kept on a chain around her wrist, turning in the lock of the cash drawer. Not to put money in. He knew what she was getting.
A click. A cool trickle.
Lube. She poured it over his still-sensitive asshole, the excess dripping down his perineum. Her finger, slippery and insistent, pressed inside, working him open. He groaned into the glass.
“You’re not done,” she stated, her voice hoarse but firm. “I’m not done with you.” He heard the crinkle of a condom, the sound of her rolling it onto the thick, silicon shape of a strap-on harness. She hadn’t put it away. It was here, under the counter.
He didn’t move, his palms still flat on the glass. This was the deal. The agreement made in the silence after the beer, sealed by the steel around his neck.
She pressed the blunt, faux-cock head against him. “This is the other half,” she whispered, pushing forward, stretching him wider, deeper than her fingers ever could. “The half that gets fucked.”
And she did. She fucked him with a relentless, owning pace, her hips slapping against his ass, the strap-on plunging into his surrendered body. The pain melted into a bright, shocking pleasure, lighting up every nerve ending she had already overloaded. He was full in every way imaginable, possessed inside and out, the collar the anchor point for it all.
He came again, untouched, a dry, shattering convulsion that left him shaking and breathless, a white streak painting the glass beneath him.
She held him there, buried inside him, for a full minute, her body draped over his. Then she slowly withdrew.
“Okay,” she panted, unlocking the harness. “Now we’re done.” She turned his head and kissed him, deep and salty and tired. “Let’s go upstairs. I want to feel that collar against my cheek while I sleep.”