Chapter 13: Oral Contract
The cool marble bit into your knees. You knelt because he commanded it. No hesitation now. The trembling had subsided into a hollow stillness, the aftermath of the spanking a fierce, radiating heat across your ass and upper thighs, a counterpoint to the deeper ache between your legs where he’d emptied himself. Your nakedness felt absolute, the diamond choker a cold, heavy brand against your throat, the only thing besides the lingering wetness between your thighs and the throb of your punished flesh proving you weren't just a statue carved from shame.
Boss stood before you, near the edge of the imposing ebony desk, his trousers still unfastened. His cock, thick and heavy, glistened wetly in the low light, smeared with your combined fluids . He hadn’t bothered to clean himself. He’d left that task for you. The musky, primal scent of sex filled the small space between you, sharp and undeniable.
"Clean it," he ordered, his voice calm, conversational, yet resonating with absolute authority. His gaze held yours, dark and inescapable. "Use that pretty mouth I watched tremble with defiance. Show me you understand your place now."
The command hung, a tangible thing in the perfumed air thick with cigar smoke and the faint salt tang of the distant sea. Your mind, still reeling from the violence and violation, offered no protest. The fight had been spanked and fucked out of you. You leaned forward, the movement stiff, every shift reigniting the sting across your backside. The scent intensified as you neared, a visceral reminder of what he’d done, what you’d taken, what you’d felt. You closed your eyes for a second, a futile attempt to distance yourself, but the image of the glittering city below, smeared by your tears as he claimed you against the glass, burned bright behind your lids.
You opened your mouth. The first touch of your tongue against the velvety, salty head was electric, a jolt of pure degradation that tightened your stomach. It tasted of salt, of musk, of him. You flinched internally but didn't pull away. Your tongue lapped hesitantly, tracing the thick vein running along the underside, swirling around the crown, collecting the sticky evidence of his dominance. The flavor was complex, bitter and sweet and primal, layered with the lingering trace of expensive whiskey. It was the taste of your submission, undeniable. As your mouth explored his cock, you began to realize why his penetration of you felt so violent, he was massive. He was thick and long, and to your shame you notice it is alot bigger then Gavin's tiny cock. You also realize with a sinking feeling, and fear that compared to this thick cock in your mouth, Gavin was not all that interesting anymore. You were now a broken housewife. What were you?
Boss groaned above you, a low rumble of pleasure that vibrated through him and into your mouth. "Good girl," he murmured, his hand coming to rest possessively on the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, just holding, it was strangly reasuring and comfortin compared to eh brutality of just a few moments ago. "That's it. Take your time. Lick your Boss clean." His thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear, a perverse caress. "Show me how well you learn."
Encouraged by the praise you didn't want but instinctively craved, your movements became slightly less hesitant. Your tongue explored the thick shaft, lapping away the drying streaks, the rhythm settling into a slow, deliberate servitude. You cleaned him meticulously, the heat still radiating from your punished skin making the cool marble under your knees feel almost icy. You focused on the task, the texture under your tongue, the weight of his hand on your head, anything to avoid the whirlpool of shame and unwelcome arousal swirling inside you. Your body, shockingly, responded again; a treacherous warmth pooled low in your belly despite the ache, despite everything.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate, more dangerous. The hand in your hair tightened fractionally. "While your mouth is busy pleasing me, your ears will listen. You need to understand the parameters of your new role." He paused, letting the implication sink in. "Effective immediately, Rachel, you are no longer just Gavin's neglected wife visiting the office. You report directly to me. As my PSA, publicly that stands for Personal Support Assitant, basically what you were before. But this contract does not say that although we will use the same acrnym, your new job title is Personal Slut Attendant."
Your tongue faltered for a second. Personal Slut Attendant. The words hung, heavy with implication. I am a slut? What did that even mean? He pushes your head down slightly, forcing you to take the first thick inch into your mouth. Your lips stretched, your jaw ached instantly. You sucked instinctively, the saltiness flooding your taste buds.
"Your duties," he continues, his voice steady, controlled, contrasting sharply with the primal act you are performing, "are both professional and personal. You will accompany me on all necessary travel. And will continue your secretarial duties. But you will be available at all hours." His cock slids deeper as he emphasized the point, nudging the back of your throat. You gagged softly, tears springing to your eyes. He didn't pull back. "Every morning, without exception, you will greet me on your knees." His hand flexed in your hair, a reminder of your current posture. "Like this. Ready for inspection. Ready for instruction. Ready for use."
He pulled his hips back slightly, letting you gasp a shallow breath, your lips still stretched wide around him, saliva slicking the shaft. Your eyes, watering, looked up at him, meeting that dark, implacable gaze.
"Before every important client meeting," he went on, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear, "you will present yourself to me. Privately. I will inspect you." His eyes raked over your kneeling form, lingering on your reddened ass, the choker, the helpless vulnerability. "I will ensure you are appropriately attired. That your demeanor reflects the... standards... required. That you are ready to project the correct image." His meaning was purposefully unclear. Ready to be offered? Ready to be used? The ambiguity was part of the terror.
He pushed forward again, deeper this time. You choke, your throat muscles fluttering desperately around the intrusion. Your hands, lying limp at your sides, clenched into fists against the marble. The sting across your ass flares.
"And when you are home," he said, his voice hardening, turning icy, "playing the dutiful wife for your oblivious cuckold of a husband..." He thrust shallowly, fucking your mouth slowly, deliberately. "When he finally decides to grace you with his inadequate cock..." Each word was a lash. "...you will not allow him in your pussy or mouth. Those are mine now. And I may take more later" He held himself deep, his cockhead nudging your clenched throat. "You will wear my cum. Under your clothes. Against your skin. Inside your cunt, if I choose to leave it there. You will carry my claim into his bed."
The image slammed into you: Gavin’s earnest face, his familiar touch, he will be crushed when you deney him, and you will know it is because while he is denied Boss's seed, hidden, seeped into your core or dried against your thigh will be there. The betrayal was absolute, corrosive. A low whimper escaped your stuffed throat.
"He will not fuck my sluts cunt, but he willl be smelling me on you, tasting me in you, when you let him goi down on you and he will never fucking know." The rhythm became frantic, his grip on your hair turning punishing, holding your head immobile. "He lost you because he couldn't see your worth. I own it now. Every fucking inch."
His voice thickened, roughened. "Swallow it, Rachel. Swallow every fucking drop. Show me you belong to me!" His hips snapped forward one final, brutal time, burying his cock to the root in your throat. You gagged violently, eyes bulging, tears streaming freely.
You feel the hot, thick spurt hit the back of your throat. Then another. And another. Salty, bitter, overwhelming. It floods your mouth. His command echo's: Swallow it. Your throat convulsed involuntarily, obeying the ingrained reflex even as your mind screamed. You swallow. Gulp after gulp, the viscous fluid burning its way down, the taste of salt, musk, and absolute ownership coating your tongue, your throat, your soul. He holds himself there, pulsing, until the last shudder passes through him.
Finally, with a satisfied groan, he pulled out. A thin strand of saliva and semen connected your swollen lips to his glistening cock for a moment before snapping. You slumped forward, catching yourself on your hands, coughing violently, saliva and tears dripping onto the cool marble. The taste, the scent—him—filled your senses, a brand seared into your very being. You had never even taken Gavin inside you before like this. Now Boss had ownership of you inside and out. There was nothing left for Gavin. At the same time, even as your eyes watered and you gagged, a deep dark part of you loved being claimed this way, he had fulfilled a need and desire you didn't know you had.
He tucks himself away, zipped his trousers with a crisp, final sound. He looked down at you, kneeling broken and gasping at his feet, your body bare and marked, your mouth violated, your throat burning with the proof of his possession. He reached down, not to help you, but to trace the line of the diamond choker once more, his touch cool and deliberate against your heated skin. He hands you the contract, which you could clearly see said alot more then what he mentioned. You weakly take it, and sign it with a shaky hand. He then quickly grabs and folds it up.
"The contract is sealed," he stated, his voice regaining its smooth, controlled timbre. "Welcome to your new position." He turned, walking back towards the window, leaving you kneeling in the wreckage, the brutal terms echoing in your head, the bitter taste of your surrender thick on your tongue.
The silence after his footsteps retreated was absolute. Only the frantic hammering of your pulse filled the oppressive quiet. Cooling semen slicked your inner thighs, the diamond collar a cold noose against your sweat-damp skin. The contract’s harsh terms – Personal Slut Attendant, kneeling greetings, wearing his cum for Gavin – echoed, each syllable a fresh wound.
Your throat still burned from his violation, the taste of salt and musk thick on your tongue. Spit and tears pooled on the cold marble beneath your cheek. Shame warred with a terrifying, hollow emptiness where defiance once lived. He’d taken everything against that window, over the desk, and finally, on your knees. The fight was gone. Spanked out. Fucked out. Swallowed.
A low hum vibrated from the casino below, a distant reminder of the oblivious world. His silhouette stood framed against the glittering harbor, an indifferent god surveying his domain. He didn’t turn. He simply waited. The vast gulf of polished floor between you felt like an unspoken command, heavier than any word.
A tremor started deep in your gut. Not fear anymore. Something else. Resignation? Acceptance? The terrifying ease of surrender? The sting across your ass, the ache deep inside your cunt, the choker’s relentless pressure – they weren’t just punishments. They were markers. Proof of belonging. His possession felt like the only solid thing left in your shattered world.
Your palms pressed flat against the icy marble. You pushed yourself up onto trembling hands and knees. The movement reignited the fire across your punished backside, a sharp gasp escaping your swollen lips. The sheer vulnerability of the position – naked, marked, on all fours – was absolute. But the diamond collar felt strangely grounding now. An anchor.
He still hadn’t moved. Just the broad back, the quiet power radiating from him. The silence screamed louder than any order. It demanded completion. The contract was signed. Your submission was given. Now, the performance of it.
Your gaze fixed on the gleaming toes of his oxfords, stark against the dark marble. The distance felt immense. Every inch crawled would be a surrender. A confirmation. Your body, exhausted and aching, protested. Your mind screamed no, but the scream was weak, distant. The hollow space inside craved to be filled again, even if it was only with degradation.
You lowered your head. Took a shaky breath that smelled of sex, sweat, and expensive cologne. Then, you moved. One knee forward, scraping slightly on the polished stone. A hand followed. The movement was stiff, painful, igniting the burns on your ass and the deeper, throbbing ache between your legs where he’d emptied himself twice. A low whimper escaped you.
Another knee. Another hand. Dragging yourself across the cold floor towards him. Towards your owner. The choker felt heavier with each shuffle, a constant reminder. The soft slap of your breasts against the marble as you crawled echoed obscenely in the quiet room. Your cunt, impossibly, began to pulse with a treacherous, shameful warmth, slickness gathering despite the raw ache.
You focused only on his shoes. On closing the gap. On fulfilling the silent command his turned back represented. The glittering city vanished. The opulent suite blurred. There was only the marble, the sting, the ache, the choker, the taste of him in your mouth, and the magnetic pull of the man at the window. You were an animal returning to its master. The crawl was your penance. Your acceptance.
YOU CRAWL CLOSER.
The marble scraped your knees, each inch crawled a fresh humiliation layered over the sting of his handprints blooming across your ass. You focused solely on the gleaming leather of his oxfords, the only fixed point in your shattered world. The diamond choker felt heavier with every painful shuffle, a cold brand declaring what you’d become.
He didn't turn. Didn't speak. His stillness was the loudest command. Your breath hitched as you reached his feet, finally stopping, your forehead brushing the cool toe of his shoe in instinctive supplication. The scent of sex, sweat, and his expensive cologne filled your nostrils. You waited, trembling, the raw ache between your legs a dull throb, the taste of his cum still coating your throat.
A long moment stretched, taut with your abject surrender. Then, a shift. Not in you, but in him. The predatory tension that had radiated from his broad back dissolved, replaced by a different energy, almost… satisfied. Possessive, still, but calmer. Conqueror surveying secured territory.
He turned. Slowly. His gaze swept over you, crumpled and marked at his feet, taking in the vivid red handprints on your ass, the slight tremors running through your limbs, the utter vulnerability. A low, almost approving hum vibrated in his chest. "Good," he murmured, the single word landing like a balm and a brand simultaneously. "That's precisely where you belong." "Now that I have broken you down, I can properly build you back up."
He stepped past you, not roughly, just… moving with purpose. You stayed frozen, cheek pressed to the cool floor, listening as he crossed to the ornate telephone on the ebony desk. The sharp clicks as he dialed cut through the thick silence. "Room service," his voice was calm, authoritative, devoid of the earlier violence. "Send Claudette to my suite immediately. Prepare a bath. Hot. Add the jasmine salts. And bring the arnica balm." A pause. "Yes. Now."
He hung up. The silence returned, but softer now. He walked back towards you, his steps measured. He didn't lift you. Instead, he simply stood near, looking down, his expression unreadable but intense. The shift was disorienting. The man who had fucked you raw against glass and over his desk, who had forced your mouth onto his cock and dictated ownership over your cunt, was now ordering a bath and balm. The juxtaposition knotted your stomach tighter than fear ever could.
Minutes crawled by, measured by your ragged breathing and the distant thrum of the casino far below. Then, a soft chime echoed through the suite. "Enter," he commanded, his voice carrying easily.
The door opened silently. A woman in a crisp, white uniform entered, pushing a small cart laden with fluffy towels and bottles. Claudette. Her face was a mask of professional neutrality, eyes politely averted from your naked, marked form sprawled on the floor. She didn't flinch, didn't stare. She simply moved to the expansive en-suite bathroom you could glimpse through a doorway.
You heard the rush of water filling a tub, the clink of bottles, the scent of jasmine beginning to permeate the air, mingling strangely with the lingering musk of sex. Steam soon drifted into the main suite.
Boss finally moved. He crouched down beside you, his movements fluid, controlled. His hand, the same hand that had spanked you crimson, came to rest gently on your shoulder. The touch was startling in its lack of aggression. "Claudette," he called, his voice low but carrying. "Attend."
The maid emerged silently from the bathroom, steam curling around her. She approached, her gaze carefully neutral, focused on a point just above your head. Boss’s hand slid from your shoulder to cup your cheek, turning your face slightly towards the maid. "Gently now," he instructed Claudette, his thumb brushing your tear-streaked skin. "She’s had a strenuous evening. My prize needs tending. Clean her thoroughly. Apply the balm where she’s marked. Be meticulous."
Claudette nodded once. "Of course, sir." Her voice was soft, professional.
Without another word to you, Boss stood. He looked down at you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the diamond collar, the reddened skin of your ass, your tear-swollen eyes. A flicker of something unreadable – satisfaction, perhaps, or pure possession – crossed his features. He turned and walked towards the window again, leaving you with the maid.
Claudette knelt beside you, her movements efficient but surprisingly gentle. Her hands, cool and capable, slipped beneath your shoulders and knees. "Easy now, madame," she murmured, her tone devoid of judgment. She lifted you as if you weighed nothing, cradling you against her crisp uniform. The sudden elevation, the unexpected gentleness, made a fresh wave of tears well up, born of confusion and a terrible, unwelcome relief.
She carried you effortlessly into the steam-filled bathroom. The air was thick with the heady scent of jasmine. A vast, sunken marble tub gleamed, filled with swirling, fragrant water. Claudette lowered you carefully into the steaming depths. The heat was a shock, then an instant, penetrating relief, enveloping your sore muscles, the sting of your punished skin, the deep ache between your legs. You gasped, sinking deeper, the water rising over your breasts, the diamond collar cool against your throat even in the heat.
Claudette knelt by the tub, picking up a soft sponge and a bottle of milky bath oil. She began to wash you with impersonal care, her touch firm yet gentle, cleansing away the sweat, the dried semen slicking your thighs, the salt of your tears and his release from your skin. The sponge moved over your shoulders, down your back, carefully avoiding the reddened areas for now, rinsing away the evidence of your degradation. The warm water, the soothing scent, the quiet efficiency of her ministrations – it was a stark, surreal contrast to the brutality that had filled the last hour. Your mind struggled to reconcile the Boss who commanded this care with the Boss who had inflicted the wounds needing it. He owned the pain. He owned the balm. He owned you. The water lapped at your chin as Claudette’s sponge circled lower, the heat seeping into your bones, a temporary sanctuary bought and paid for by absolute surrender. Outside the bathroom door, his silhouette remained a dark cut-out against the glittering Monaco night. Waiting.