by Stasia Black
“After you sign the non-disclosure agreement, take off your shirt. You’ll work the rest of the morning until the meeting with those fat juicy tits of yours on display. No bra either. I want to see your nipples and remember what it was like having them between my fingers.”
Then he goes back to his computer, typing in something on what looks like a password screen. Like nothing unusual just came out of his mouth.
Meanwhile I just stand there for a second, slack-jawed. He can’t be serious. What the hell? It’s only the hundredth time I’ve had that thought in the brief time I’ve spent with this guy.
He’s not just some small-time grocery store manager. He has big time government contracts, for fuck’s sake. But then it sinks in. Of course. He’s a wealthy, powerful man. Used to getting whatever he wants.
And I’m a nobody.
Don’t even think of ever telling. No one would believe you, you little bitch. It’d be your word against mine. And who’d ever believe a little nothing bitch like you? I’m the richest man in town. I’ll fire your father and then you’ll have nothing. Nothing.
I cringe at the memory and then shake my head. This is nothing like that. I’m not a teenage girl anymore. I’m a grown woman with choices.
Choices. Right. I could always choose to walk away, knowing it could mean I lose my son.
Eighty-five thousand dollars a year.
So maybe I don’t have that many more choices than I did when I was sixteen after all.
Screw it. Choice is overrated anyway. Besides, it’s not like it’ll be that much different than working at Hooters. There was just thin fabric separating my boobs from guys staring at them all day when I worked in the restaurant.
And I already decided last night. Bryce just momentarily threw me off guard by being courteous and professional and then it was all boom out of left field, ‘take off your shirt.’ But yeah, I gotta always keep it in mind—as far as Bryce Gentry is concerned, civility is only a slim mask.
I let out a slow breath and walk toward my office. The room is decorated very similarly to Bryce’s. It’s smaller, but it has the same chrome and white furniture and ultra-modern feel—the kind of place you imagine a Bond villain would use as his lair.
Slapping the paperwork on the desk, I glance down. Naturally, the NDA packet is first. It’s not just a single page either. Nope, it goes on for pages and pages. I can only imagine what the actual work contract will be like. Glancing at it below the NDA, I can see it’s a giant stapled stack of papers as well. And you better believe I’ll go through every page of that damn thing with a fine-toothed comb.
But the NDA I want to just get over with. Bryce was taunting me. He probably thought I’d put off his request. Leave it until the end of the paperwork as some sort of passive rebellion. Screw that. This is what it is.
He’s paying for tits, he gets tits.
I read through it quickly. It’s long and wordy, with lots of scary legal jargon for all possible infractions regarding the leak of any information I might learn while employed by Gentry Tech. I sign it quickly and then yank off my suit jacket.
If he wants to make this some kind of power play, I get it. He has the power. Hope it makes him feel like a big man.
The childish part of me wants to dramatically throw my jacket and shirt at the window between our rooms. Maybe a shoe while I’m at it. Instead, I calmly walk over to a tall cupboard I notice at the back of the office. My room is smaller than his, but still impressive. All the white is frankly annoying, but it is sleek. When I pull open the door to the cupboard, I not only find hooks to hang up my shirt and jacket, I find clothes inside.
In my size. Okay, cause that’s not creepy.
Bryce’s voice suddenly fills my office. “I’ll expect you to take the wardrobe home and dress in appropriate attire from now on.”
I spin around. He’s still sitting in the chair in his office, not even looking my direction. My gaze goes back to my desk. There’s a small, sleek mini triangle tripod thingy I’ve seen on TV that must be the intercom and maybe even phone system.
But yeah. As if the glass wall didn’t give it away, it’s clear there’s never going to be any privacy. Ever.
“And I believe I said that the bra needs to go as well, Miss Cruise.”
Fucker.
I turn my back to him and force myself not to visibly react. He might be putting me in this position but really, it’s my circumstances that have me between a rock and a hard place. I smirk. No pun intended. Christ. Maybe it’s not so bad after all if I’m still making jokes.
I breathe out a long breath, then take off my bra and hang it along with my shirt and jacket on some empty hangers. I take another quick moment to flip through the rack of clothing. It feels expensive. Silks and fine thread-count wools. All skirts and low-cut blouses. Shocker.
At least Bryce’s predictable. He thinks he holds the power but apparently all straight males can be moved by the influence of a big rack and a swaying ass. I can use that. I turn around and sit down at my desk without glancing his way. If this is a game to him, I’ve just been tossed in the deep end. Now I only have to learn how to swim, and fast, or else be swallowed by sharks.
At four-thirty, I glance again at the little clock at the bottom of my computer screen. I’ve almost survived my first day of work. And it’s been, well… exceedingly normal. Except for the not wearing a shirt for the first half of a day.
But ever since we left for the meeting, Bryce was a perfect gentleman. A charismatic employer.
We greeted several of his research and development team department heads in the conference room and they talked about ongoing projects as Bryce got status updates. It was overwhelming as I tried to follow what the hell was going on and take even semi-competent notes. Yeah, I studied coding and robotics in college, but not even remotely at the level of the stuff they were talking about at that meeting. Bryce understood it, or seemed to, though a lot of what he does as the CEO is delegation at this point.
Meanwhile, I realized I’m in over my head, and way more than I thought this morning. Ever since we got back from the meeting, I’ve been googling note-taking strategies, because I’ve got to come up with something faster than trying to write down every word. That wasn’t cutting it. Writing up the notes was probably supposed to take half an hour but it took me almost two. And I still only caught maybe half of everything that was said. I need to read up more on the Gentry Tech products in general so I can keep afloat of what’s going on. They’re most famous for their drone research, but they also work in all kinds of surveillance technology. Bryce’s famously (or infamously, depending on who you ask) quoted as saying that Gentry Tech products will be the “eyes on the globe.” Whether you consider his company big brother or not, he’s doing massively ambitious work here.
And shit, am I going to lose this job because I can’t do the actual work involved? Would that make me feel better or worse than if I lost it because of taking the moral high ground?
“Miss Cruise?” Bryce’s voice comes over the intercom.
Double shit. I look over at him. I emailed him the notes document half an hour ago after lunch, but that was probably way after he expected them. He’s not looking at me. Is he going to fire me over the intercom?
“Roll your chair over to the window.”
Wait. My brain can’t follow for a second. What?
“Don’t keep me waiting.” He sounds impatient, so I do what he says even though it doesn’t make any sense. How can I finish working through the emails he sent me to answer if I’m not at my computer? I roll my chair over close to the window anyway.
“Pull your skirt up to your thighs and take off your panties.”
I blink.
“Miss Cruise?”
Right. Sex job. I follow the instructions, but simultaneously feel like I want to both laugh and cry. I can’t believe I got so caught up for the last few hours thinking about this like a real job.
It’s just, it felt real for a little
while there. In front of his colleagues, he treated me like I was a real Personal Assistant. He introduced me as if I was. I let myself forget. Because I’m a stupid girl.
But I won’t be. Not anymore. I stiffen my back as I kick off my panties and push up my skirt. It bunches uncomfortably at my waist and I sit back on the chair. The smooth leather feels strange against my ass.
Bryce keeps working without looking up. I just sit there. He still doesn’t look up.
“Um,” I finally say. “I’m here. In position.”
“I know,” is all he says.
I can’t help the breath of air that huffs out. Bastard. God, what does he want from me? To just sit here like some pornographic statue for the last hour of the day while he finishes up?
He lets me sit there another good long while. Five minutes. Ten.
Finally, he decides to grace me with his attention.
He stands up and pulls his chair to roll with him as he walks over to the glass. He pauses on the other side of the glass right in front of me. He sits down with that charming smile firmly in place.
“Open your legs, Callie.” His voice isn’t muted at all even though the door between the rooms is still closed. It’s coming through the intercom. Handy trick. “Spread them wide. I want to see your cunt.”
I sit perfectly straight and do as I’m told. Last night, this is how I determined I’d approach everything he requests of me. Do it without thinking. Be a robot. He wants a monkey on a string, fine. That’s what I’ll be.
“Wider.”
I stretch my legs open wider, eyes focused on the outside wall where I can look out on the city. I’ll pretend I’m in one of those cars on the bridge, driving far, far away from here.
“Put your fingers on your pussy lips and open so I can see.”
I do.
He makes a tutting noise. “Ah ah ah, Callie, you’re being a naughty girl. You aren’t even a little bit wet. I want to look at a pretty, juicy, wet cunny. And you’re going to give me want I want, aren’t you, my pretty little slut?” His voice deepens. “Look at me. Callie.” His voice is sharp as he calls my name. “Calliope. Eyes on me.”
My eyes snap to his. His brown eyes are so dark they seem to bleed into the pupils.
“That’s right,” he croons. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare take them away. You signed the contracts this morning. You’re mine. Stick a finger in your mouth.”
My anger flares before I shut it down. Robot, Cals, you’re a robot.
I pop my forefinger in my mouth and pull it out again, but he’s quick to stop me. “Suck on it,” he hisses.
Reluctantly, I stick it back in my mouth.
“That’s right,” he says with a lazy smile. He leans back in his chair. In the bottom of my periphery, I can see his hands are going to his pants. He unbuckles them and pulls his cock out. He’s uncut and he pulls the skin back—
I snap my eyes back up to his. Dammit. Why did I let my eyes go there?
“It’s okay my pet. I want you to look. Look at my hard cock and suck harder on your finger.” And, a second later. “You’re not sucking hard enough.” The hard edge to his voice. “And look.”
I suck, and I look.
His cock is big. Not gigantic or anything, but bigger than the couple I’ve ever encountered before—and only one of those was a man I actually slept with. Mr. McIntyre never actually went that far. Everything else, but not that.
Isn’t that the irony?
Here I am. The whore who’s only officially slept with one man in her twenty-two years.
Bryce doesn’t jerk at it frantically like I’ve seen other guys do. No, he just rolls his hand lazily, up and down, up and down with a little twist when he reaches the head. A wet drop slips out the slit and then he rubs that all around the head so that it glistens a little in the well-lit room.
I swallow.
Bryce laughs. “Now stick that finger in your cunt. I can see I’m starting to make you wet. That’s right, whore, stick it up in there.”
A rush of mortification swarms me. I want to turn away from him. But no. This is what I signed up for.
Just do what he says. Be a robot. Be a goddamned robot. I jam my forefinger up in my vagina, a little harder than necessary. He can get off. That’s what this is about. But I don’t have to. I can still walk out of here with my dignity.
But it’s like the bastard can read my thoughts. “Aw, did I hurt my precious slut’s feelings? I’m sorry, baby.” His voice is soft. Like he genuinely cares, in spite of calling me a slut. “You need to learn when I say these things, it’s because you’re mine. I like that pretty pussy of yours. You don’t have to come today. But you’re still going to touch yourself. Put your thumb on your clit and stick two fingers in your pretty pussy. Stretch yourself while you rub and look in my eyes.”
I do what he says and look at him. That’s the most difficult part, I swear. Because his words are one thing. They’re crass. They’re dirty. Sometimes they’re even mean. But he looks at me with this intensity. A sort of want that borders on craving.
And he’s touching himself. “That’s right. That’s riiiiiiiight. You know how hard you’re making me right now? All I can think about is ramming into that dirty little pussy of yours. Stretching you open so fucking wide.” He only breaks gazes with me enough to look down at me touching myself. Unwittingly, I do the same. I look down at him pulling on his cock. He’s rougher now. He’s still not quick about it, though. Like he’s not letting himself rush the experience.
In spite of my determination not to let myself be affected, it’s absurdly hot. This attractive, put-together and powerful man, in his suit and tie but with that most intimate part of himself out on display… When I look at his face, I can see his teeth are gritted and his jaw is tensed. And those eyes. They’re heated, every ounce of his energy and power directed at me and his pleasure.
His eyes look back down at what I’m doing between my legs. And fuck it, I’m grinding into my hand. My back bows against the leather chair because Christ, it feels good. I’ve never felt things like this bastard pulls out from me.
Sex with David had been sedate. Some missionary, but more often than not, he just wanted me to suck his cock after he’d had a long day of teaching or office hours. Which worked for me because I rarely if ever came when David and I had sex. That was part of what I liked about being with him. Not cumming during sex made it feel… cleaner somehow. Like it meant I was finally different from the girl I used to be. Different from the little Barbie Mr. McIntyre liked to play with on those shame-drenched nights in my darkened bedroom.
I glare at Bryce because I can see the satisfaction in his face. He knows what he’s doing to me. He can probably see how engorged I’m getting. How wet he’s making me.
I arch again in spite of myself. Why? God, why does this turn me on? It’s wrong. So fucking wrong.
Come on, little Barbie, we’ll make each other feel good. It’s not wrong if we both feel good.
“You’re fucking juicing for me now, aren’t you?”
Bryce stands up and presses one hand to the glass, leaning over with his cock in his other hand. I bet it’s the same posture as when he’s jacking off in the shower.
Because as disgusted as I am with myself, I can’t stop the fascination at what I’m seeing. I witnessing something terribly intimate. Yes, I’m touching myself in front of him, but he’s doing the same. Just the thought and the sight of him so hard right in front of my face sends another wave of heat between my legs.
Because he’s not a dirty old man or some disgusting pageant judge touching himself in front of me. It’s Bryce Gentry. He’s gorgeous. He’s watching and waiting for my pleasure. Oh God, but this is still so wrong. My back arches again as the pleasure rises higher inside me.
His cock seems like it’s even bigger now, and I don’t think it’s just because it’s closer with him standing near the glass like that. I can’t stop staring. It’s long, with a thick vein running up along the underside
and a pink mushroom head that he squeezes and twists every time he gets to it before pulling back down along the shaft.
“Your cunt is fucking squelching over there, isn’t it? Just from looking at my cock. You wish I had you up against this glass, don’t you?” He pounds at the glass wall with his hand and I look back up toward his eyes. They’re so hot with want. Is he going to open up the door and come around and fuck me? Surely that’s what all this has been leading up toward. I keep touching myself, having no idea what I’d do if he did.
“You’re creaming yourself just at the sight of me,” he says, voice elevated. “Tell me the truth,” he slams at the glass again. “Come, you fucking slut! Do it now!” He hammers again at the glass, looking wild as he pumps so hard at his dick it looks almost painful.
Oh Christ, we’re losing control together.
I’m panting so hard I can barely breathe and rub at my clit while pumping fingers from my other hand in and out of myself, imagining it’s his cock and I come, quick and hard—
A high-pitched squeal that barely has sound eeks out of me as my vision goes white. I feel it to the tips of my fingernails and the furthermost edges of my toes. Quick. Sharp. Like lightning, and then it’s gone, leaving a warm haze behind.
When I open my eyes, ready to see the shared experience on Bryce’s face, but he’s sitting back down in his chair.
Still rubbing his dick back and forth.
He didn’t come with me.
Instead, he pulls a cloth out of his suit pocket and lays it on his lap. Then, looking bored as he glances down at something on his phone, he keeps jerking at his cock. A few seconds later, he spews cum onto the cloth. Without another glance my way.
He cleans up his cock with the cloth, then drops it in a bin in one of his cupboards. He whistles while he packs his laptop in a briefcase and saunters toward the door of his office. Before he leaves, his voice comes through the intercom one more time—he must have it wired through his damn phone or Bluetooth or something, because I can’t see him pressing anything,
“Oh, and Miss Cruise, tomorrow I’ll need you to take out my dry-cleaning.” With that, he’s gone.