Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Then, the door shut and I was alone in the conference room once more. What the hell just happened? Did I just get double fucked by two ballpoints while crouched on a mahogany table? Did Brent and James just bring me to climax by double-penetrating me with writing implements that they fully intended to use later today? Oh my god.
Then, I pushed myself off the table in a flash, while simultaneously straightening my blouse, pulling my skirt down, and trying to look decent. The door was no longer locked, and anyone could come in! I ran a hand through my hair, trying to make myself look “normal,” although of course, that’s impossible. My flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, and glowing skin gave it away, but a girl’s got to try. Still, when I finally exited the conference room, a secret smile, private and deeply satisfied, curved my lips because despite the depravity of the situation, I loved it. I loved being with Brent and James, and I adore how filthy and unrelenting the two alpha males are. What will they have in store for me on Saturday?
Because I can’t wait to find out.
8
CHAPTER EIGHT – AFTER THE PENS
Marnie
The glass of the conference-room window is so highly polished it gives back not just my face, but every secret hidden under my blouse. The whole city sprawls behind my reflection—twilight haze, car lights snaking across the river, and way down below, the ant-line of people for whom offices are still just jobs, not crucibles of power or lust. I smooth my skirt, fingers shaking slightly, then use both hands to realign the waistband. The trembling isn’t even from nerves anymore. It’s adrenaline, pure and bright, the way I imagine it feels to step out onto a stage with the curtains rising.
The room is quiet now except for the ticking of a ridiculous Scandinavian wall clock, and the memory of expensive cologne that still hangs over everything like a cloud. I can’t even tell which of the men it’s from—Brent’s is all black pepper and smoke, James’s more citrus and gin—but together, it smells like a pure male musk. The kind you never quite wash out of your skin, and in fact, want to rub it in deeper until you’re saturated with a male animal’s scent. Or in my case, two male animals.
I catch a whiff of myself in the reflection and it’s shameful, the unmistakable tang of arousal under the perfume. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, careful not to look directly at my own eyes in the window because I’m afraid I’ll see too much. I look for evidence instead: a smudge of lipstick, a dark mark on my throat (none visible yet), a line in my stockings from our dirty play. To my surprise, everything is still more or less in place. On the outside, I’m Marnie Williams, new paralegal, unremarkable except for the way my chest doesn’t quite fit the off-the-rack blouses and my heels make me walk with a wobble I can’t quite correct.
Except my body hums with what just happened, and for a second I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive.
I glance at the table, expecting to see the pens—those clinical, gleaming things both men carry, which they used not long ago as tools of humiliation and pleasure. But they’re gone. The only sign left is a damp ring on the glass and a naughty memory that throbs between my thighs.
I reach for my bag, pause, and use my phone as a mirror to check my face. Cheeks too red, pupils too dilated, but nothing that’ll get me flagged by HR unless they start scanning for “excessive carnality.” I blot my lipstick, fix my collar, and inhale slow, then exhale even slower.
When I push open the door, the corridor outside is empty except for the faint, retreating click of expensive men’s shoes. I walk the length of the hallway on unsteady legs, but by the time I reach the elevators, my stride is almost normal again. I thumb the button, and as the doors hiss open, I catch one last look at myself in the mirrored panel.
Still me. Still standing. But a different woman on the inside. I hum, I pulse, like a female in heat, and if I’m being honest, I am in heat. I need James and Brent’s cocks and literally crave being stretched again in both my holes.
Oh my god, this is so naughty! But I force myself to behave, at least on the outside. The ride down is just three floors, but it’s enough time for my mind to run the loop again—Brent’s voice in my ear, James’s hand around my throat, the slickness of cold metal as they filled me, front and back, with those thick pens. I clench, just once, and the aftershocks make me smile despite myself.