Chapter 21: Service
The studio smelled of turpentine and quiet. Dust motes swam in a single slant of afternoon sun cutting through the high window, illuminating a chaos of half-formed clay figures and canvases turned to the wall. Liberty stood before a fresh, white panel, a loaded brush in her hand. She wore an oversized, paint-stained linen shirt, threadbare jeans. Nothing underneath. The denim was rough against her skin, a constant, abrasive reminder.
Her arsehole was a quiet, tender pulsing. A dull ache that flared when she shifted her weight. It was a grounding sensation, a secret she carried. Between her legs, a different heat simmered. A persistent, distracting dampness had soaked through her jeans, a small, dark patch at the crotch. She ignored it, or tried to. The emptiness there was a physical craving, a hollow echo of the fullness she’d felt elsewhere.
She dipped the brush into a mound of burnt umber, made the first sweeping mark. It was a grounding line, the beginning of a landscape only she could see. For a few minutes, there was only the scratch of bristles, the smell of the paint. Her mind began to still.
Then her phone, placed on a stool beside her, vibrated with a low, insistent buzz. Not a call. A text. She finished her stroke, then wiped her hand on her thigh and picked it up.
Emma: Solicitor’s office. Third floor, north wing. Now.
Liberty’s breath caught. She looked at the painting, at the single, bold line. It was a beginning. She typed a reply.
I’m painting. Can it—?
The three dancing dots appeared immediately, cutting her off.
Emma: Was that a question? It’s not a question. It’s an instruction. You have ten minutes. Don’t make me come find you.
The tone was casual, almost breezy. The threat was absolute. Liberty put the brush down. She didn’t clean it. She just left it on the palette, the burnt umber bleeding into the white. She grabbed her keys.
The walk to the legal district was fifteen minutes. She did it in twelve, her quick steps sending little shockwaves of soreness through her with each footfall. The receptionist in the sleek, modern building didn’t blink when Liberty asked for Emma Farrow. She was waved toward the elevators.
The north wing was quiet, carpeted, lined with dark wood doors bearing discreet nameplates. She found the third-floor office, door slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
Emma was behind a massive desk, stacks of legal briefs on one side, a laptop open on the other. She was on the phone, speaking in a low, professional murmur. She didn’t look up as Liberty entered. She simply held up a single finger.
Liberty stood just inside the door, her hands clasped in front of her. She felt enormous, a dirty, denim-clad intruder in this clean, orderly space. The scent of lemon cleaner and ambition hung in the air. She watched Emma. The sharp cut of her blazer, the sleek fall of her blonde hair over one shoulder. She was a different creature here. Commanding. Polished.
Emma finished her call, hung up, and finally looked at Liberty. A slow, appraising smile spread across her face. “You made it. Just.”
“You said ten minutes.”
“I know what I said.” Emma leaned back in her chair, the leather sighing. She didn’t invite Liberty to sit. “Lock the door.”
Liberty turned and pushed the heavy door until the lock clicked. The sound was final.
“Come here.”
Liberty walked to the front of the desk. The carpet was thick and silent under her boots.
Emma’s eyes travelled over her, lingering on the dark patch between her legs. “No underwear.”
It wasn’t a question. Liberty shook her head.
“Good girl.” Emma’s voice was light, approving. She swiveled her chair slightly to the side and patted her knee. “Sit.”
Liberty hesitated for a fraction of a second. This wasn’t the dim living room or the steam of a shower. This was a place of business. The cognitive dissonance roared in her ears.
“Now, please,” Emma said, her smile never fading. “I have a conference call in twenty.”
Liberty moved around the desk. She lowered herself awkwardly onto Emma’s lap, facing out toward the room, her back against the desk. Emma’s hands settled on her hips, holding her there. Through the thin denim, Emma’s fingers dug in, firm and possessive.
“You’re still sore,” Emma murmured into her ear. It was an observation, devoid of pity.
Liberty nodded, her throat tight.
“And wet.” One of Emma’s hands slid from her hip to the front of her jeans, cupping her. The pressure was immediate, electric through the rough fabric. Liberty gasped, her head falling back against Emma’s shoulder. “Christ, you’re dripping. Is this from walking over here? Thinking about what you’re for?”
Emma’s hand began to move, a slow, grinding rub over the seam of her jeans. The friction was maddening, too much and not enough. Liberty bit her lip to stop a moan.
“Quiet,” Emma whispered, her own breath becoming a little uneven. “Sound carries. I don’t need the partners hearing my new stress-relief toy.”
The words, so casually dropped, sent a fresh wave of heat through Liberty. Stress-relief toy. She arched into the pressure, seeking more.
“Greedy,” Emma chided, but her fingers worked harder, a precise, relentless rhythm. “Just a quick one. You don’t get to come. This is for my benefit. I had a very tedious morning.”
Her hand on Liberty’s jeans stilled. “But that’s enough of that. Off.” Emma gave her a little push. Liberty stood on unsteady legs, the denim soaked. Emma looked up at her, that professional smile still in place. “Kneel.”
The word hung in the lemon-scented air. Liberty’s gaze flickered to the closed door, to the world of polite society just beyond the polished wood. Her knees bent. The thick carpet was scratchy against her skin through the thin denim. She settled back on her heels, looking up at Emma still seated in the executive chair.
Emma watched her, an eyebrow slightly raised. “You look confused. Have you forgotten your purpose?”
“No,” Liberty whispered.
“Good. Then you know what to do.” Emma didn’t move from the chair. She simply spread her knees, the sleek fabric of her trousers pulling taut. “I’m not taking these off. You’ll have to work for it.”
Liberty’s heart hammered against her ribs. The thought was profoundly counterintuitive. She had never sought out a woman before Emma. The desire wasn’t there. The desire was for the dissolution, for the act of being forced to perform. That was the stimulation.
She leaned forward, her face level with Emma’s crotch. The subtle, musky scent of her was unmistakable even through the clothing. Liberty nuzzled the seam of the trousers with her nose, a tentative, awkward exploration.
Emma chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Use your teeth, you adorable idiot. The zipper.”
Heat flooded Liberty’s face. She bent her head, took the metal tab between her teeth, and pulled. The sound was loud in the quiet room. She repeated the motion, lowering the zipper inch by clumsy inch. Her own breath felt hot and frantic in her throat.
“Now the button.” Emma’s voice was instructional, almost bored.
Liberty fumbled with her fingers this time, popping the button open. She then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of trousers and underwear together, and tugged them down just enough. Emma lifted her hips to assist, then settled back.
There she was. Exposed. Different from anything Liberty had ever willingly put her mouth on. The sight sent a jolt of pure, adrenalized shame through her.
“Go on,” Emma murmured, her hand coming to rest on the back of Liberty’s head. “Don’t think. Just serve.”
Liberty closed her eyes and pressed her face forward. Her first contact was clumsy, just her closed mouth against the soft, coarse hair. She heard Emma sigh, not with pleasure, but with amused impatience.
“Your tongue, Liberty. Use it like you’re trying to clean a plate. A very dirty plate.”
The command broke something open. Liberty opened her mouth, letting her tongue loll out. She began to lick, broad strokes. She felt Emma shift, opening herself wider.
“There. A little higher. Yes.”
Liberty followed the mumbled directions, her movements becoming more deliberate, more focused on the swollen flesh she found. It was a mechanical process. Find the part. Apply the tongue. Listen for a reaction.
Emma’s breathing deepened. Her fingers threaded through Liberty’s short hair, not gently. “You’re thinking about it too much. Just be the thing that does this.”
Liberty leaned into the grip, letting her mind go blank. She was a tool. A living, breathing implement for Emma’s use. She lapped at her with a steady, dogged rhythm, her jaw beginning to ache.
“That’s it,” Emma cooed, her hips starting a slow roll. “Now suck on it. Gently. Yes.”
Liberty took the tender nub between her lips, applying soft pressure. A low groan escaped Emma, the first genuine sound of pleasure. The vibration of it travelled through Liberty’s skull. She redoubled her efforts, her own discomfort becoming a secondary signal, a background hum to her primary function.
“Fuck, okay, just like that,” Emma gasped, her professional composure dissolving into breathy urgency. Her hold on Liberty’s head tightened, guiding her faster, harder. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
Liberty obeyed, her world narrowing to the taste, the scent, the pressure of Emma’s hand forcing her face deeper. Emma’s thighs began to tremble on either side of her head. A high, tight sound was building in Emma’s throat.
Then it broke. Emma’s back arched off the chair with a choked cry. Her grip became vicelike, shoving Liberty’s face firmly into her as she ground herself against her mouth in a series of relentless, slick circles.
Liberty couldn’t breathe. She was smothered in the hot, convulsing friction of it. Emma’s release flooded her senses, a bitter-salt wave coating her lips, her chin, her nose. The act seemed to last forever, Emma riding out the pulses against Liberty’s immobilized face.
Finally, the pressure eased. Emma slumped back into the chair, her hand slipping from Liberty’s hair to pat her cheek absently. “Good. Very good.”
She pushed Liberty back. Liberty fell onto her heels, gasping for air. Her face was glistening, wet, utterly marked. The smell was heavy, clinging to her skin and her hair.
Emma looked down at her, eyes lidded with satisfaction. She slowly pulled her trousers back up, zipping them with a clean, efficient motion. “Good.” She glanced at her watch. “My call is in five. You should go.”
Liberty pushed herself to her feet. Her knees protested. She stood there, musky, disoriented.
“Don’t wipe your face,” Emma said, reaching for her phone. “I like the idea of you walking back like that. Everyone you pass will smell the musk on you. My scent on your face. Your own between your legs. They just won’t know why.” She gave Liberty a dazzling, impersonal smile. “See you soon.”
The walk back to the studio was a blur of humid afternoon light and passing strangers. Liberty kept her head down, but the scent rose around her, a intimate, vulgar cloud. She felt the dry, tightening stickiness on her skin like a second mask.
Back in the studio, the smell of oil paint and dust clashed violently with the one she carried. Her unfinished painting waited, the single bold line now seeming foolish, naive. She looked at her reflection in the dark window. A stranger with a slick, glazed face stared back.
Her phone buzzed again on the stool. A different tone this time. Alan.
The buzz was a dull, metallic vibration against the paint-stained wood of the stool. Liberty stared at the phone, her reflection in the dark window still wearing Emma’s dried release like a vulgar gloss. The scent of it, musky and intimate, clung to her upper lip. She picked up the device, her thumb leaving a faint smudge on the screen.
The message was from Alan. No greeting. Just an address and instructions: Waitrose. Borough High Street. Disabled toilet, cubicle nearest the wall. Skirt up. Bent over. Text when ready.
Her breath hitched. The studio’s quiet, filled with the ghosts of her own artistic ambitions, seemed to press in on her. The half-formed figures watched with blank clay eyes. She looked at her painting—the single, defiant stroke of burnt umber. It was a line going nowhere.
She didn’t reply. She went to a small wardrobe, pushed past hanging canvases, and found a simple, knee-length black skirt. She stepped out of her jeans, the denim peeling away from her damp skin with a soft sound. She pulled the skirt on, the soft cotton brushing her thighs. No underwear, never outside the house. The tender ache from the night before throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
She left the studio, locking the door behind her. The afternoon sun was strong, and she felt absurdly exposed. The skirt was light, swishing against her legs with each step. Every passerby felt like a witness. She kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, counting cracks, feeling the persistent, empty dampness between her legs.
Waitrose was air-conditioned and bright, humming with the quiet efficiency of mid-afternoon shoppers. The grocery section smelled of earthy potatoes and ripe bananas. She moved past it all, a ghost in a black skirt, headed for the back corner where the signs pointed to the toilets.
The disabled toilet was a single, spacious room. It was clean, smelling of lemon disinfectant and artificial pine. Quiet. The only sound was the distant hum of the store. She locked the door behind her, the bolt sliding home with a heavy, final thunk.
Her hands were cold. She walked to the white cistern, its surface cool under her fingertips. She lifted her skirt, bunching the fabric around her waist. The cold air of the room hit her exposed skin, raising goosebumps. She bent forward, her head resting on her arms folded on the cold porcelain lid. She stared at the white-tiled wall, her breath coming in shallow clouds.
She was a statue of offering. A diagram of vulnerability. The position was profoundly utilitarian, utterly degrading. Anyone opening the door would be confronted with her nubile legs stretched long, her shapely buttocks… her engorged underparts. Her heart hammered against the cistern, a frantic bird in a bone cage. She fumbled in her pocket for her phone, her movements clumsy.
In place.
She sent the text. The silence after was immense. It was the silence of a trap waiting to be sprung. Every sound from beyond the door—a cart rolling past, a muffled voice—jolted through her. Her vulva, exposed to the empty, antiseptic air, felt monstrous. The sensation of being so hideously open, so available, sent a fresh, hot pulse of liquid from her cunt. She felt it trace a path down her inner thigh, a warm tickle against her cool skin.
She parted her legs slightly, a tiny adjustment that made the exposure feel even more complete. The air kissed her everywhere. She closed her eyes, listening to the frantic rhythm of her own blood.
A minute passed. Then two.
Then, the sound. Metal on metal. A faint, probing scrape at the lock of her door. Her eyes flew open, staring at the white tiles. Her body went rigid. There was a click, a soft thump as the bolt was pushed back from the outside. The door opened, then closed just as quietly. A shadow filled the space behind her, changing the light in the sterile room.
She didn’t look. She didn’t speak. The presence was large, male, familiar in its silence. She heard the rustle of clothing, the quiet rasp of a zipper. Her hands curled into impotent fists against the cistern.
There was no preamble. No touch. Just the blunt, sudden pressure of him, slick and insistent, against her entrance. She was obscenely wet; she heard the shameful, slick sound as he pushed forward. Her own juices welled out around him, easing his invasion as he drove inward in one smooth, relentless stroke.
The breath left her lungs in a choked gasp. He was inside her, filling that persistent, hollow ache with a sudden, brutal completeness. The stretch was exquisite, a sharp relief after an age of empty longing. He began to move, a slow, deep withdrawal followed by a steady, punishing thrust. Each push forced another small sound from her, a muffled gasp against the porcelain. Each impact rocked her whole body forward, her cheek sliding on the cold lid.
His rhythm was methodical, unvaried. The only sounds were the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies, his low, controlled breaths, and her own ragged attempts to inhale. The soreness in her arse was a distant, background throb to the vivid, overwhelming sensation dominating her core. Her cunt clutched at him, greedy and desperate, trying to pull him deeper.
The tension coiled, hot and urgent, deep in her belly. It built with each precise, devastating thrust. It was a physical inevitability, a wave gathering force, ready to crash. A whimper escaped her, high and thin in the sterile room.
“Can I come?” The words blurted from her, ragged and desperate.
“No.” His voice was a flat, single syllable, stripped of all inflection. It wasn’t a command. It was a simple statement of fact.
The denial was a physical blow. The orgasm, which had been cresting, slammed into an invisible wall inside her. It recoiled, a trapped current searching for release. She gasped, her body shuddering, her internal muscles clenching around him in a frantic, futile spasm. He didn’t change his pace. He kept fucking her, deep and steady, while she wrestled to contain the pleasure that longed to burst free.
He kept fucking her, deep and steady, while she wrestled to contain the pleasure that longed to burst free. Her knuckles were white on the cistern, every muscle clenched against the rising tide. A silent scream built behind her teeth, trapped by the rule he’d laid down.
Then his rhythm fractured. A guttural groan escaped him, harsh and raw in the tiny room. His thrusts lost their measured control, becoming short, sharp, and desperate. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, his body curling over hers.
She felt the hot, sudden flood deep inside her, a pulsing rush that had no exit. He came and she rejoiced at being inseminated. Relief too washed over her, sweet and immediate. The ordeal of suppression was over. The frantic, clawing need to climax subsided, leaving a trembling, grateful void.
But the void echoed. Even as his warmth spilled into her, a deeper, colder grief unfolded in its shadow. This fullness was a temporary loan. Soon he would slide out, and the aching emptiness would return, worse than before, because now she knew the exact shape of what was missing.
More than ever, she longed to be fucked. Not just now, but always. She wanted the perpetual motion of a cock sliding in and out of her, a constant presence anchoring her to this purpose, filling the hollow that lingered within, she knew not from where.
He slid out of her. The loss was physical, a chilling vacancy that made her gasp. He held her still with a flat, heavy hand on the small of her back, preventing her from straightening up. She heard the soft, wet sound of his spend beginning to leak from her, dripping onto the tiled floor between her feet.
His other hand moved. He caught the trickle, gathering the viscous fluid in his palm. Then his fingers smeared it, deliberate and thorough, all over her inner thighs and vulva. He coated her most intimate parts in the clammy, viscous residue, marking her with a crude, possessive gloss.
It was quick-drying, already tightening on her skin as he stepped back. He zipped his trousers. She heard him wash his hands.
The door opened, then clicked shut. He was gone.
She stayed bent over the toilet, the cold air now biting against the wet, sticky mess he’d painted on her. She knew immediately, with a certainty that felt like peace, that she would bear this feeling of filthiness between her legs just as she bore Emma’s musk all over her face.
Slowly, she straightened. Her skirt fell down, the cotton immediately sticking to the drying mess. Every step would be a faint, peeling pull. She looked at herself in the metal mirror above the sink. Her face was still shiny with Emma’s dried discharge. Her eyes were huge.
She unlocked the door and walked back through the bright, sane supermarket. The crust forming on her thighs itched. She carried the smell of three people’s sex, every fibre of her being cried out to be fucked more- the smell of the pheromones and the legacy of her denied orgasm, a feeling she was becoming more and more accustomed to. No one looked at her twice but Liberty realised that she’d willingly allow herself to be fucked by almost everyone she passed.