Chapter 12: Supply Closet Submission
The scent of burnt coffee and toner hung thick in the copy room. Victoria stood at the machine, feigning absorption in a report, her peripheral vision tracking the blur of navy silk moving toward the industrial brewer. Seraphina’s blouse was new, a shade of cobalt that made her eyes look like fractured sea glass. It was also pristine.
Victoria’s fingers tightened around her own mug. The plan was juvenile, but effective. A stumble, a splash, a ruinous stain. Public embarrassment. A small, sharp victory. She waited for Seraphina to lift the carafe, then took a calculated step sideways, her heel catching—she thought—on the edge of a loose floor tile.
Her body didn’t connect with Seraphina’s. Instead, her wrist was caught in a vise-like grip. The coffee sloshed, scalding, over her own hand and the front of her cream-colored blazer. She gasped, more from shock than pain.
Seraphina hadn’t even turned from the coffee machine. Her other hand was still steadying the carafe as it poured. She simply held Victoria’s trapped wrist aloft, a pale, fluttering thing between them.
“Clumsy,” Seraphina said, her voice devoid of inflection. She finished pouring, set the carafe down with a quiet click, and finally turned. Her eyes traveled slowly from Victoria’s startled face down to the dark, spreading bloom on the expensive wool of her blazer. “Look what you’ve done to yourself.”
Victoria yanked her wrist. It didn’t budge. “Let go of me.”
“Or what?” Seraphina’s voice was a low murmur, meant only for the two of them beneath the thrum of the idling copier. “You’ll report me for preventing you from assaulting me with a hot beverage?” Her thumb stroked the frantic pulse point on Victoria’s inner wrist. The touch was oddly soothing, a cruel contrast. “You’re shaking.”
Before Victoria could form a retort, Seraphina moved. Still gripping her wrist, she used her own body to pivot and push, driving Victoria backward two stumbling steps until the sharp edge of the large photocopier dug into her lower back. The machine whirred, expelling a warm, ozone-scented breath.
“What are you doing?” Victoria hissed, her bravado cracking. The office was just beyond the flimsy door. Anyone could walk in.
“Administering a lesson.” Seraphina released her wrist, but only to place both hands flat on the machine on either side of Victoria’s hips, caging her. She leaned in, her strawberry blonde hair creating a private curtain. Her gaze was analytical, dissecting. “This pathetic little sabotage campaign ends today.”
Victoria’s heart hammered against her ribs. The proximity was overwhelming. She could see the faint dusting of freckles across Seraphina’s nose, the unwavering coolness in those blue-green depths. The brat in her rallied, searching for a barb. “You think you can intimidate me? Here?”
“I don’t think.” Seraphina’s hand left the copier. It drifted down, skimming Victoria’s side, over the hip of her tailored trousers. “I know.”
Her palm settled high on Victoria’s thigh, just below the hem of her blazer. The warmth of it bled through the fine fabric. Victoria froze. The hum of the machinery seemed to amplify, filling her skull. Seraphina’s fingers pressed in, not tentative, but possessive. A claim staked.
“Bad brats,” Seraphina whispered, her lips now so close her breath ghosted over Victoria’s cheek, “get punished.”
Her fingers curled inward, biting into the soft muscle of Victoria’s inner thigh through the cloth. It wasn’t a caress. It was a compression, a promise of force. A wave of heat, wholly unwanted and terrifyingly potent, flooded Victoria’s gut. Her breath hitched, a tiny, traitorous sound.
Seraphina heard it. A faint, knowing smile touched her mouth. She increased the pressure for a three-count, her eyes locked on Victoria’s, watching the struggle—the outrage, the fear, the undeniable, flickering arousal. Then she released her, straightening up as if she’d just adjusted a crooked painting.
She plucked a few paper towels from the dispenser and handed them to Victoria, her manner shifting back to bland professionalism. “For your blazer. You should attend to that.”
Then she picked up her full mug of coffee, turned, and left the copy room. The door sighed shut behind her.
Victoria stood paralyzed, the cold edge of the copier grounding her. The throbbing heat where Seraphina’s hand had been was a brand. Her whole body trembled. She pressed the rough paper towels to the stain, the gesture automatic. Whimpers choked in her throat, held back by sheer force of will. She was disheveled, panting softly, her carefully constructed composure shattered into sparkling, humiliated pieces.
He’d seen. She knew it the moment she fled the copy room, her blazer clutched like a shield. Beau was leaning against the doorframe of his own office, sipping water from a crystal glass. His gaze followed her frantic progress across the floor. There was no surprise in his expression. Only a dark, simmering assessment. As if she were a ledger entry he was finally understanding.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of acid anxiety. Every time her office door opened, her heart spiked. But it was only assistants with files, or Carl with a question. Seraphina did not look her way again. Beau left early, a fact she noted with twisted relief.
At six-thirty, the floor was quiet, the cleaning crew’s distant whirring the only sound. Victoria needed a box of black ink cartridges for a printer that was, in truth, functioning perfectly. The supply closet was at the end of a dimly lit hallway, away from the main thoroughfares.
The air inside was still and dense, smelling of dust and dormant electronics. She reached for a box on a high shelf, her silk blouse stretching taut across her back.
The door clicked shut behind her.
She spun, the box tumbling from her hands to the floor with a soft thud.
Beau filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the faint light from the hall. He didn’t speak. He simply stepped inside, pulling the door closed until the latch engaged with a final, quiet snick. The space, already cramped, became a cell. The shelf units loomed like dark sentinels.
“Beau,” she said, her voice uneven. “This is—”
“Quiet.” The word wasn’t loud. It was a stone dropped into still water, the ripple of it silencing her instantly. He took a step forward. She took an instinctive step back, her calves hitting a low stack of ream paper. “You spilled coffee on her.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an indictment.
“It was an accident,” she whispered, the lie brittle.
Another step. His cologne, sandalwood and something darker, filled the small space, overwhelming the scent of paper. “You touched what’s mine. You’ve been trying to for months.” He was close enough now she could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the cold precision in them. “First her career. Then her tire. Now you think you can lay a hand on her, even by accident?”
“I didn’t—”
His hand shot out, not to strike her, but to grip her chin, his fingers firm against her jawbone. He forced her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do not lie to me again.”
The command vibrated through her. The brat in her wanted to sneer, to bite the hand that held her. But a deeper, more primal instinct recognized the absolute authority in his touch. It was the same authority she’d felt from Seraphina, mirrored and amplified. A whimper escaped her pressed lips.
He studied her face, his thumb stroking roughly over her bottom lip. “Sera told me about her idea. Making you our pet.” He saw the shock in her eyes, the frantic denial, and his mouth curved into a smile that held no warmth. “You think you’re a player in this. You’re not. You’re the toy we’ve decided to share.”
He released her chin, letting his hand fall. “You have a choice. A simple one. You can continue this pathetic brat performance. You can try to report us, smear us, slash more tires.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that coiled in the dusty air. “And we will ruin you. Not just your career. Everything. We’ll dismantle you piece by piece until there’s nothing of the formidable Victoria Sterling left but a husk who jumps at shadows.”
He paused, letting the image solidify in the dimness. “Or,” he continued, his tone shifting to something almost conversational, “you can submit. You can accept that you belong to us now. That your defiance is a gift you give us, because we enjoy the process of breaking it.”
Victoria’s mind was white noise. Terror and a searing, grotesque excitement warred within her. This was the scenario she’d fantasized about—two dominant forces wanting her. But in her fantasy, she was the prize, the controller. Here, she was the subject being discussed like a malfunctioning asset.
“Why?” The word was a ragged breath.
“Because you need it,” Beau said, as if stating a simple fact. “And because we want it.” His eyes raked over her, from her disheveled hair to her trembling hands. “Think about it. You have until Friday evening. We’re having a private dinner at our home. Eight o’clock. The address will be texted to you.”
He turned, unlocking the door with a soft click. He paused, half in the light of the hallway, half in the closet’s gloom. He didn’t look back.
“Come dressed as you are now. In something expensive and fragile. It’ll be more satisfying to hear it tear.”
The door closed, leaving her in near darkness, the only sound the frantic, rabbit-quick pounding of her own heart. She slid down the shelves until she sat on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. The ghost of his grip still burned on her chin. The memory of Seraphina’s hand on her thigh was a live wire.
She had fantasized about this. Craved this very attention. Now, faced with its brutal, non-negotiable reality, a cold sweat beaded on her spine. This wasn’t seduction. It was a conquest. And they had already drawn the map.
Across the city, Seraphina stood on her balcony, the night wind tugging at her hair. Her phone lit up with a single, incoming text from Beau.
Beau: Conversation held. Terms presented. The invitation is delivered.
She typed a reply, her face illuminated by the screen’s cool glow.
Seraphina: Good. Let her marinate in it. The fear is the best part.
The fear is the best part. She sent the reply and let the cool night air calm the immediate flush on her skin. The city’s grid of lights stretched below, a circuit board of indifferent lives.
Just when Seraphina was going to put her phone down, her phone pinged again.
A photo and message from Beau. The photo was a picture of him sitting in the front seat of his car. The angle pointed down towards his watch and crotch, showcasing his hard cock straining against the zipper of his slacks. The message read: She tried to touch my watch during our conversation. I feel like it needs a good cleaning.
Seraphina knew exactly what that meant. Her mouth was already watering just seeing the picture, not to mention the dampness growing between her legs. She sent a simple message back: Don’t worry love, I have just the thing.
With that, Seraphina turned and walked back into their shared condo. She put her hair up in a messy bun and removed her blouse. She kept only her lace bra, pencil skirt, and heels on. Just how Beau liked.
She knew, with the anticipation of Victoria becoming their pet and the special dynamic they shared, it was going to be an especially rough night. They might even break their record.
The click of her heels on the hardwood floor was a metronome counting down the minutes until his key sounded in the lock. She poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a heavy glass, the liquid catching the low lamplight. She didn’t drink it. She let it sit on the kitchen island, a placeholder for him.
Headlights washed over the ceiling as his car pulled into the driveway. Seraphina felt her pulse in her throat, a slow, heavy beat. She heard the front door open, then shut with a solid, final sound. His keys landed in the ceramic dish with a precise clink.
She didn’t turn around.
His footsteps were quiet, deliberate. She felt the air shift behind her, felt the heat of his body a moment before his hands settled on her bare shoulders. His thumbs pressed into the knots of tension at the base of her neck.
“You got my text,” he said, his voice a rough scrape against the silence of the condo.
“I did.” She leaned back into his touch, her head lolling to the side. “She actually touched you?”
“Her fingers brushed the casing. A ‘thank you for the advice’ gesture.” His hands slid down her arms, leaving a trail of raised flesh. “It was calculated. An attempt to establish a tactile precedent.”
Seraphina turned within the circle of his arms. She looked up at him, her eyes tracing the tight line of his jaw. “Was it effective?”
“No.” His smile was a fleeting, dark thing. “It just made my skin crawl. All I could think about was her pathetic, scrambling desperation. It felt cheap.”
He grasped her waist, his fingers spanning the bare skin between her bra and skirt. He lifted her, setting her on the edge of the island counter. The cool marble seeped through her skirt. He stepped between her legs, the fine wool of his slacks brushing her inner thighs.
“We need to wash it away,” he murmured, his gaze locked on hers.
“I know.” She reached for the glass of whiskey. Instead of handing it to him, she brought it to her own lips and took a slow sip, letting the burn cascade down her throat. Then she leaned forward, her free hand going to his belt.
He watched her, his breath coming slower now, his eyes glazed with intent. She unfastened the buckle, the metal whisper loud in the quiet room. The zipper’s rasp was deliberate. She didn’t touch him yet. She set the whiskey glass aside and placed both her hands on his hips.
“The watch first,” she said, her voice low.
He offered his wrist. She took it, her fingers closing over the expensive titanium and face. She bent her head, her messy bun exposing the nape of her neck. She drew the flat of her tongue slowly, thoroughly, across the crystal and the band beneath it. The taste was of salt, clean metal, and him.
A muscle in his thigh jumped where it pressed against hers.
She released his wrist. “Better?”
“Almost.” His hands came up to frame her face, tilting it up to his. “Now the rest of it.”
Her smile was all promise. She slid off the counter, her heels giving her the height to nudge him backward until his legs hit the arm of the sprawling leather sofa. She pushed gently, and he sat, his expression one of raw expectation. The room was dim, lit only by a single floor lamp that cast long, dramatic shadows.
She knelt on the plush rug before him. The texture of it was harsh against her bare knees. She didn’t hurry. She looked up at him, her blue-green eyes holding his, as her hands settled on his thighs. She leaned in, her breath warm against the fabric tented over his aching hardness. She nuzzled him there, a soft, open-mouthed press through the wool.
“Tell me about the closet,” she said, her words muffled against him.
“I gave her the choice.” His voice was strained. “Submission or ruin. I could smell her fear. It was like ozone and spoiled flowers.”
Seraphina hummed, the vibration making him jerk. She mouthed him, her teeth scraping lightly over the zipper. “Do you think she’ll come?”
“Yes.” His hand buried itself in her hair, not forcing, just holding. “The brat in her won’t be able to resist the challenge. She thinks she can still win a game we invented.”
“Good.” With that, Seraphina took the zipper between her teeth and pulled it down with a slow, relentless precision. The sound was obscenely loud. She freed him, her tongue immediately tracing the angry, flushed line from base to tip.
She took him into her mouth, deep, her throat relaxing in a practiced, willing surrender. Her eyes stayed open, watching his face contort above her. This was their liturgy. This act of cleansing was as much about her ownership as it was about his pleasure. She was reclaiming what had been lightly trespassed upon, scrubbing the ghost of Victoria’s fleeting touch away with heat and wet pressure.
Her rhythm was punishing, deep and steady, designed to unravel his control thread by thread. One of her hands worked him in tandem, the other gripping his thigh, her nails biting through the fabric. Guttural sounds tore from his chest, filling the high-ceilinged room.
He was close. She could taste the shift, feel the rigid tension coiling in his muscles. She pulled back, her lips swollen and glistening, and looked up at him. “Not yet,” she whispered, her own need a sharp ache inside her. “Not until you’re inside me. I want to feel you remember who you belong to while you’re thinking about breaking her.”
A ragged groan was his only answer. He hauled her up by her arms, his mouth crashing down on hers, a clash of teeth and whiskey and shared desire. He turned her, bending her over the back of the sofa, the soft leather against her stomach. His hands shoved her pencil skirt up around her waist.
He didn’t ask if she was ready. He knew. One hand fisted in her hair, the other guided himself to her soaked entrance. He drove into her in one brutal, perfect stroke.
The air left her lungs in a punched-out cry. He stilled, buried to the hilt, letting them both feel the full, shocking completeness of it. “Say it,” he growled into her ear.
“I’m yours,” she gasped, pushing back against him. “You’re mine. She’s nothing.”
It was the incantation they needed. He began to move, a relentless, driving pace that had her scrambling for purchase on the smooth leather. Each thrust was a reassertion, a vengeance for the whispered threat in a dusty closet, for the coffee that never hit its mark. He fucked her with a concentrated fury that was entirely for her, because of her.
Her climax built like a wave, inexorable and deep. It crested, breaking over her with a force that blurred her vision, her cries muffled against the couch. He followed, his own release a shuddering, silent violence, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breaths mingling with the distant hum of the city. He slowly withdrew, his hands gentling on her hips. She pushed herself upright, her skirt falling back into place. She turned and leaned against the sofa, facing him.
He was watching her, his eyes dark and sated, the predatory edge softened for now. He reached out, tracing a finger along the strap of her lace bra. “We’re going to break her,” he said, the statement simple and absolute.
Seraphina caught his finger, brought it to her mouth, and bit down gently on the pad. “I know.” She released it. “But tonight, you’re clean.”
She walked toward their bedroom, leaving her blouse on the floor where she’d dropped it. She didn’t look back. She knew he was watching, knew the record they’d threatened to break was now just a mark on the floor they’d already crossed. The real game was just beginning, and the anticipation coiled in her gut, sweet and venomous.