Chapter 16: Elysium's Gambit
The Elysium’s private room felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with cloying perfume and the greasy scent of Franklyn’s expensive cologne mingling with the remnants of the filet mignon. His hand, damp and insistent, was a trespassing creature beneath the heavy damask tablecloth, sliding higher up your thigh. You stiffened, the silk of your dress suddenly abrasive against your skin.
“M-Mr. Franklyn,” you murmured, your voice tight but surprisingly level, a skill honed in countless boardrooms and tense dinners. “Your napkin’s slipped.” You gestured vaguely towards the floor on his side.
He chuckled, a wet, phlegmy sound. His breath, sharp with expensive Cabernet and something vaguely medicinal, washed over your cheek. He didn’t remove his hand. If anything, his stubby fingers pressed harder, kneading the muscle just above your knee. “Nonsense, my dear Rachel. Quite comfortable where it is.” His eyes, small and watery behind thick glasses, scanned your face with naked hunger. “Boss promised… promised me a very… thorough dessert. Said you were… obliging.”
Obliging. The word landed like a stone in your stomach. You pictured Boss’s impassive face, the way he’d delivered the instructions earlier that day, crisp and devoid of inflection: "Show Franklyn a good time tonight, Rachel. Make sure he enjoys himself. Seal the deal." He hadn’t looked at you, already turning back to his screen. You’d known what it usually meant. The implication hung heavy in the air between you two, an unspoken command that curdled your insides then and turned them to ice now.
Why? The silent scream echoed in your skull. Why Franklyn? This lump of a man? Short, sweating, his suit straining at the buttons over his paunch. A man whose stutter worsened with every glass of wine, who talked endlessly about obscure bonds and his connections to people whose names he constantly mispronounced. Gavin, for all his faults, was sharp, athletic, commanding in his own way. This… this felt like an insult. You were a jewel, you thought, the bitterness acrid on your tongue, polished by Boss’s demanding hands, honed into something sharp and dangerous. And Franklyn? Franklyn was beneath you. Beneath notice. Beneath contempt.
Disgust, cold and slick, coiled in your gut, warring with a shiver of something else – a perverse twinge of betrayal aimed squarely at Boss. Had he meant this? Was this his idea of your value? To be served up like a sweetmeat to this sweaty sycophant? The idea repulsed you. Your fingers, resting beside your unused dessert fork, twitched. Your gaze slid sideways, landing on the steak knife lying discarded on the white linen beside your plate. The candlelight caught its serrated edge, a cold, sharp glint against the opulent warmth of the room.
One swift movement. The thought flashed, unbidden and electrifying. A lunge across the table. The satisfying resistance of fabric and flesh. His shocked gasp cut short. The horror on his face. Freedom, violent and messy. Your knuckles whitened on your fork.
Then, another image surfaced. Boss’s eyes, dark and fathomless, watching you across his vast desk. His voice, low and implacable: "Stop flinching. Your fear is a weapon only if you control it. Everything else? Your body, your smile, the way you make them want… those are the real blades. Sharper than steel."
The tension in your hand eased fractionally. The steak knife suddenly looked crude. Childish. A tool for butchers, not for what you were becoming.
Your body was the weapon.
Boss hadn’t specified how Franklyn should enjoy himself. Only that he should. The boundaries, terrifyingly, were yours to navigate. The thought was dizzying, a precipice. Obedience warred with revulsion. You had to obey. The compulsion was wired deep now, a fundamental chord vibrating beneath your skin. But obedience didn't have to mean submission to Franklyn's clammy fantasies.
You took a slow, deliberate sip of water, the cool liquid barely touching the heat rising in your throat. You shifted subtly in your seat, not away from Franklyn’s groping hand, but towards him, turning your body to face him more fully. You let your knee press back against his intrusive fingers, a move that could be construed as acquiescence. His breath hitched, a hopeful little gasp escaping his lips.
“Mr. Franklyn,” you began again, your voice dropping lower, huskier. You leaned in conspiratorially, forcing a small, enigmatic smile onto your lips. The diamonds at your earlobes caught the light, winking coldly. “Boss did mention you appreciate… excellence.” You let your gaze flicker over his face, lingering just a fraction too long on his mouth before meeting his watery eyes again. It wasn’t desire you projected, but a cool, assessing confidence. Power. The power of the object of desire, utterly in control of the desiring.
He blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. The stutter intensified. “Y-yes! Ex-exactly! Only the best, R-Rachel. Only the b-best.” His hand, still on your thigh, had gone still, tense with anticipation rather than aggression.
You tilted your head, a predatory grace in the movement. “And do you know what makes something truly excellent, Mr. Franklyn?” You didn’t wait for an answer. “Discernment. Knowing what’s worth… indulging.” You let the implication hang, heavy and ambiguous. You saw the confusion war with lust in his eyes. He wanted simple conquest. You were offering him a riddle wrapped in silk.
“I-I…” he stammered, completely lost.
You gave a light, almost imperceptible laugh, a sound like ice cracking. “Exactly. Now,” you smoothly extracted your leg from under the tablecloth, the movement fluid and decisive, forcing his hand to fall away limply. You stood up, the picture of elegant composure. “If you’ll excuse me a moment? Powder room.” You didn’t ask. You stated.
His mouth opened and closed, fish-like. “B-but… dessert?”
You paused, looking down at him, letting the cool mask of your expression hold. “All in good time, Mr. Franklyn,” you purred, the promise empty, the threat implicit. “Boss expects you to be… satisfied. Doesn’t he?” You let the question hang, a reminder of the true power dynamic at play. It wasn’t Franklyn demanding dessert. It was Boss commanding you to serve it. And how you served it was entirely your choice.
Without waiting for his spluttered reply, you turned and walked towards the restroom, the click of your heels on the polished marble echoing in the sudden silence of the room. You felt his eyes boring into your back, hot and frustrated. But beneath the disgust, beneath the lingering tremor of fear, a new sensation bloomed. Cold. Sharp. Calculating.
In the gilded mirror of the opulent restroom, you met your own reflection. The woman staring back was pale but composed, her eyes holding a dark, unfamiliar glint. The diamond collar at your throat gleamed like captured starlight. You touched it lightly, remembering Boss fastening it, his fingers firm and impersonal. A collar. A leash. A weapon's hilt.
You leaned closer to the mirror, your breath fogging the glass for a second. The fear was still there, a constant hum. But overriding it, colder and more potent, was the understanding. You weren't just obeying. You were wielding. And Franklyn, that sweaty, pathetic lump, was merely the first clumsy target in your sights. You smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from your dress, the ghost of a dangerous smile touching your lips. It wasn't warmth. It was the baring of teeth.
The restroom door clicked shut behind you, sealing away the clinking crystal and Franklyn’s wheezing anticipation. Your reflection held steady in the ornate mirror, the diamonds cold fire at your throat against skin suddenly too warm. That flicker of defiance, the bared teeth in the glass, faded like smoke, replaced by a chilling, absolute clarity.
Boss’s voice wasn’t just a memory; it was a command etched into your bones. Obedience is the only currency that matters here. Franklyn wasn’t the point. His sweaty hands, his reeking breath, his pathetic demands – they were merely obstacles on the path Boss had set. The steak knife fantasy shriveled, useless. True power wasn’t defiance; it was yielding completely to the only will that mattered. His will.
You ran a fingertip over the diamond collar’s hard edge, feeling the imprint it left. It wasn’t just jewelry. It was a brand. A claim. And accepting that claim, truly embracing it, was the ultimate weapon. The revulsion towards Franklyn didn’t vanish; it simply became irrelevant noise. Your purpose streamlined, sharpened to a single point: please Boss by ensuring Franklyn’s satisfaction, exactly as ordered. However necessary.
The muffled sound of Franklyn clearing his throat, thick with impatience, seeped under the restroom door. A fly buzzing against a windowpane. You inhaled slowly, the perfumed air thick, filling your lungs. Then you exhaled, releasing the tension, the fight, the last shreds of Rachel who flinched. When you opened the door, your expression was serene, blank as polished marble.
Franklyn twisted in his chair, his jowls quivering. “Where’d you go, sweet thing? Got lonely.” His hand patted the seat beside him, a damp spot already darkening the velvet. His grin was a leer, expecting resistance or fear. Finding neither visibly, it faltered slightly
This time, you didn’t stiffen. You didn’t shift away. You let his hand settle, heavy and possessive, on your waist. A test. His breath hitched, triumphant, his other hand moving towards your thigh beneath the tablecloth once more. The clammy touch was repulsive. Your skin crawled. But the crawling sensation was replaced by something unexpected, as you gave into your submission to Boss you found purpose and power. And...was you pussy wet. Not from this bag for sure, but from the submission from the power, from feeling Boss control even here, and from the power you knew you had over this man.
"Yes," you look down at him with your own preditory stare "Dessert." It was sultry and filled with promise. You lowered yourself slowly, deliberately, not onto the chair, but onto Franklyn’s lap.
He gasped, a wet sound of surprise and greedy delight. His arms fumbled to encircle you, pulling you firmly against the unyielding bulk of him. The scent of sweat, wine, and cheap cologne enveloped you. His hand slid higher up your thigh, bunching the silk. "That's more like it," he breathed, hot against your neck, his lips seeking skin.
You closed your eyes. Not in fear. Not in pleasure from him, but in pleasure in being able to servie your purpose. To focus. To feel the submission like a physical thing. It flowed over you, through you, warm and absolute, washing away the anger, the disgust, the shame. It left behind only purpose. A blank slate awaiting only Boss’s imprint. Franklyn’s groping hands, his sloppy kisses on your collarbone, became insignificant sensations – pressure, wetness, friction. Meaningless.
You turned your head slightly, offering him the line of your throat, the diamonds pressing into your skin. A deliberate offering. At the same time calling for the waiter to bring you a shot to celebrate. One that Mr Franklyn and not yourself would be drinking. Because on the way back from the bathroom you had stopped by the bar and told them to bring shot glasses but only put water in yours. And so your game began.
20 minutes later you were on Mr. Franklyn's lap, your dress had ridden all the way up and was around your waist now, but you had been able to keep your legs closes the whole time. You could feel is hard cock throbbing under his pants, and you had to admit you enjoyed his admiration of you, and so you grind your pussy into his pants a little more. And what you were hoping for happened. The booze and the dress did their work and as your but rubbed his cock you could feel a tightening in his arms around you and felt him release in his pants. Your power intoxicated you. You had done that. You had conquered him. You didn't get away scott free of course, but you didn't have to lower yourself below your standards either. The thought made you laugh as if this situation was built on your standards. hmmm maybe it was.
"See?" he slurred, triumphant. "Knew you'd come around. Boss knows how to train 'em." His words barely audible under his heavy sedation. You stand up fixing your dress and check your make up, put your self together, and walk to the bartender, giving him Mr Franklyn's card. You also pulled out a 100 and handed tom him as a tip. Call a ride for him, and thanks for the water.