Chapter 8: The Office Pet
The hum of the computer was a weak cousin to the persistent ache in her chest. Every keystroke Mei made sent a subtle vibration through her torso, a reminder of the new weight she carried. The soft cotton of her blouse—a pale pink thing she’d owned for years—was now all wrong. It pulled taut across her bust, the fabric straining at the buttons. And her nipples, still darkened and hypersensitive from Klaus Kaiser’s pinching inspection, kept catching on the inner seam. A faint, rough friction with every slight shift in her chair.
Each rasp was a tiny electric shock that traveled straight to her core. She was damp. She’d been damp since sitting down two hours ago. The sleek, black miniskirt Thompson had laid out for her that morning felt insubstantial against her thighs, the stockings he’d provided whispering as she tried to cross her legs to alleviate the building pressure. She couldn’t. The skirt was too short, the position too revealing under the desk’s open front.
The office air, recycled and cool, did nothing to dry the slickness between her legs. It smelled of lemon disinfectant and, underneath, the faint, cloying sweetness of her own perfume—Thompson’s choice, something heavy with jasmine.
His office door was ajar. She could hear him on the phone, his voice a low, confident drone. A client. Something about a merger. Normal things. The surreal contrast made her head swim.
A shadow fell across her keyboard.
She didn’t need to look up. She knew the shape of him, the smell of his cologne cutting through the jasmine. Thompson stood beside her desk, holding his empty porcelain coffee cup. He placed it down beside her mousepad with a soft clink.
“The Anderson file,” he said, his voice devoid of any instruction beyond the words.
But it was an instruction. It was the instruction.
A blank calm settled over her. The calculation was complete. The ledger was open. This was just the next entry.
Without a word, without looking at him, she pushed her chair back. The wheels whispered on the carpet. She slid off the seat and down onto her knees on the floor. The space under the desk was a dim cave, smelling of dust and electricity from the computer tower. She shuffled forward on her knees, the stockings catching slightly on the carpet fibers.
Above her, Thompson remained standing, his legs shifting to accommodate her. She heard the rasp of his zipper.
Her hands, cold, went to his belt. She unbuckled it, the metal clasp loud in the quiet. She unbuttoned his trousers. She pulled them down, just enough, along with his briefs. His cock, already semi-hard, sprang free, brushing against her cheek. It smelled of clean skin and a hint of starch.
“Go on,” he said, his voice still conversational, as if discussing the weather.
She parted her new lips. They were still tender, the internal swelling reduced but the permanent, pouty fullness forever altering the shape of her mouth. Opening wide sent a faint throb through her jaw, a ghost of the pain from the recovery suite. She took him in.
The first few inches were easy. Then he thickened. Her lips stretched into that familiar, straining ring. She relaxed her throat, a skill now etched into her muscle memory. She took him deeper, until her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. She held there, breathing slowly through her nostrils, her eyes open and fixed on the shadowy fabric of his suit trousers.
Above her, Thompson let out a long, quiet sigh. He picked up his phone. “Yes, I’m still here,” he said, his voice perfectly even. “You were saying about the due diligence timeline?”
He began to move. Not a frantic pounding, but a slow, deliberate rocking of his hips. His cock slid in and out of her stretched mouth with a wet, rhythmic sound. Out. Each thrust pushed her head back slightly against the underside of the desk. A dull thud of wood against her skull synchronized with his movements.
Tears welled, not from sadness, but from sheer physical reflex. They traced hot paths down her cheeks. Saliva pooled, escaping the corners of her mouth, dripping onto her blouse.
Thompson continued his phone conversation, his voice a calm, professional counterpoint to the obscene act happening beneath his desk. “Mm-hmm. I understand. I think Q3 is optimistic, but we can push for it. The board will need more concrete figures.”
He thrust a little harder, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, her body convulsing, but she didn’t pull away. The gagging sound was muffled by his flesh.
“Pardon?” Thompson said into the phone, a flicker of amusement in his tone. “No, that was just… a personal assistant bringing in some paperwork. Clumsy girl. Please, continue.”
He tangled his free hand in her hair, fisting it, controlling the pace. He pulled her forward onto him, forcing his entire length down her throat, and held her there. Her vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges. He held her until her lungs burned, then released, letting her gasp in a ragged, wet breath before dragging her back down.
“Absolutely,” he said, his voice tightening slightly. “Email me the proposal. I’ll review it with my team.” His hips began to piston faster, losing their measured rhythm. The desk shuddered against her back. “Tonight. Yes. Goodbye.”
He ended the call and dropped the phone onto her desk with a clatter. Both hands now grabbed her head, holding her in place as he fucked her mouth in earnest. The pretense was gone. Grunts replaced measured breathing. “That’s it, you filthy cunt,” he hissed, looking down at her. “Take it. Do your fucking job.”
The crude word, so at odds with the office setting, sent a paradoxical jolt through her. It anchored her in the reality of the moment. This was her job now. This was her function.
His thrusts became jagged, desperate. He was close. She knew the signs. She hollowed her cheeks, applying suction, and pressed her tongue flat against his shaft.
“Fuck!” he choked out.
He slammed home one final time, his pelvis crashing against her face. A hot, salty pulse flooded her mouth. He held her there, shuddering, as he emptied himself down her throat. She swallowed, once, twice, mechanically, until he softened and slipped from her lips with a slick pop.
She stayed on her knees, head bowed, catching her breath. Spit and semen dripped from her chin onto her already-stained blouse.
Thompson tucked himself away, zipped up, and buckled his belt. He stepped back, straightening his jacket. He looked down at her, a crumpled, used thing under the desk. He picked up his coffee cup.
“File’s updated,” he said, his voice normal again, dry. “Now, about the Anderson file. I need the figures from the last quarter collated before lunch.”
He walked back into his office and closed the door.
Mei slowly climbed to her feet. Her knees ached. Her jaw ached. The deep, familiar ache in her chest throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She smoothed her skirt, wiped her chin with the back of her hand, and sat back down at her computer. The spreadsheet glowed on the screen, a grid of meaningless numbers.
She pulled the Anderson file onto the screen. Her fingers found the keys. The click-clack of the keyboard began again, a mundane soundtrack to the taste still lingering in her mouth. She glanced at the closed door to Thompson’s office.
Then she looked at the small, discreet lens of the security camera mounted high in the corner of the ceiling, its red light glowing steadily. It had seen everything. It was always watching. Recording. For the ledger.
She turned back to her work. The next entry would be the “negotiation” with Klaus Kaiser. She wondered, idly, what dress she would wear.