Chapter 7 #3
The makeup on my throat suffocated me, a plastic film over the bruises. It itched and pulled at my skin, denying the marks their right to breathe. I wanted to claw it off, to display his ownership properly, but I dared not move without permission.
"Turn around," he finally said, his voice soft but commanding.
I swiveled the chair slowly to face him. He hadn't moved from his position against the wall, but his stillness threatened more than any aggressive posture could.
"Stand up."
I obeyed, my legs unsteady.
"Come here."
It took only three steps to cross the room, but he made me wait before each one. His eyes tracked my approach like a predator stalking prey.
"Insufferable, am I?" His voice dropped deadly soft.
I opened my mouth to explain, to apologize, but his hand shot out, grabbed my collar, and slammed me back against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs.
"Say it again," he commanded, pressing me harder against the wall. The pressure awakened the bruises, and I couldn't suppress a gasp. "Every lie you just told. Say it to my face."
"I—" My voice cracked. The silk collar pressed against the marks, each heartbeat making them throb. "It was just the performance. What you asked—"
"Say. It. Again."
His eyes burned into mine, green fire seeing straight through to my soul. His scent surrounded me, his breath warmed my face. The hand gripping my collar pressed against my throat, fingers finding the exact spots he'd bruised. The pressure blurred my vision, made my cock leak.
"You're paranoid," I whispered, the words cutting my tongue like broken glass. "Controlling. You don't trust my judgment."
His other hand cradled my jaw, deceptively gentle. "And?"
"You're becoming insufferable." Each word burned like acid. My throat worked against his hand, and his pupils dilated at the movement.
"And?"
"I... I pick up men at clubs when you're not watching."
The lie sickened me physically. My body trembled against his, caught between arousal and revulsion at speaking against him.
His thumb brushed over my lips, and I fought not to open my mouth, to suck it inside, to show him how desperately I needed—
"Good," he said, voice dark and dangerous. "You lie so well. Years of practice."
"I had to," I gasped. "For the mission. You know I had to—"
He silenced me with pressure on my throat.
Not choking, just... claiming. Reminding me who held my life in his hands.
The bruises sang with pain-pleasure, and pre-cum soaked through my briefs.
My hips jerked forward involuntarily, seeking friction, and for one mortifying moment I thought I might come just from this, from his hand on my throat and days of pent-up need.
"You'll meet Shaw tonight," he said, each word measured. "You'll play your part. You'll give him the information we discussed. But Maxime..." He leaned until his lips brushed my ear. "If you let him touch you, really touch you, I'll know."
I shuddered violently. "How?"
"Because you're mine." His teeth caught my earlobe, sharp enough to sting. "And I always know when someone plays with my things."
He released me abruptly. I stumbled, catching myself against the desk. My legs weakened, my body vibrated with unsatisfied need. But the businessman in me recorded every detail of the conversation, every tell Shaw had revealed.
"Listen carefully," he ordered, moving to stand by the window. The late afternoon light carved his profile from stone and shadow. "Here are the rules for tonight."
I straightened, giving him my complete attention.
"You can let him buy you drinks. You can flirt, suggest interest, play at being attracted to him. You can go to his private space if necessary to gather intelligence."
He paused, letting that sink in before continuing.
"But no kissing. No intimate touching. Nothing that crosses the line from performance to reality." His eyes found mine, held them. "You belong to me. Don't forget that."
"I won't," I managed, my voice rough. "I understand."
"Your collar," he commanded. "Unbutton it."
My hands moved immediately to obey, trembling as I unfastened the top button. The silk parted, revealing the edge of the makeup-covered bruises.
"More," he ordered. "I want to see what you've hidden."
I undid two more buttons with shaking fingers. The makeup looked wrong in the harsh light, like a lie painted over truth.
He stepped closer, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. "Stand still."
His hand roughly gripped my jaw, angling my head to expose my throat. There was no tenderness in the gesture. Just ownership. He pressed the cloth against my skin and began wiping away the foundation with harsh, efficient strokes.
The friction awakened the bruises, sending spikes of pain through sensitive skin.
I bit my lip to keep from whimpering as he scrubbed at the makeup, removing it like erasing an insult.
But pain mixed with pleasure, and my body couldn't distinguish between them.
Each rough swipe jolted straight to my cock.
"Please," I gasped, my hips jerking involuntarily. "Algerone, stop. I can't—I'm going to—"
His hand stilled. "Going to what?" His voice turned dangerously soft.
Heat flooded my face as I turned away, unable to meet his eyes. "If you keep—the bruises, the pressure—I won't be able to..."
I trailed off, mortified at admitting how little control remained. My whole body trembled with the effort of holding back.
His laugh sounded dark, pleased. "You're ready to come just from this? From me cleaning your face?"
"Please," I begged, pride abandoned. "I can't control it."
He paused, studying me with calculating eyes. I stood trembling, chest heaving, teetering on the edge.
"No," he said finally, stepping back. "I need you thinking clearly tonight, not desperate for release. You'll make mistakes if you're this... compromised."
I blinked at him, confused by the sudden shift.
"Go shower," he ordered. "Take care of it. I want you focused on the mission, not on your cock."
The command surprised me so completely I couldn't process it. "You want me to—"
"Masturbate. Yes." His tone turned impersonal.
I stared at him, torn between relief and humiliation. He ordered me to touch myself like just another task to complete before the meeting.
"Wait," he said suddenly as I turned toward the bathroom. "Come here."
I moved back to him on unsteady legs. Without warning, his mouth found my throat.
This wasn’t a kiss, it was something more primal.
He bit down exactly where the darkest bruise bloomed, and I cried out, my hands flying to his shoulders.
Pain and pleasure tangled until I couldn't tell them apart.
My hips jerked forward, but he held me just far enough away to deny friction.
When he pulled back, a fresh mark overlaid the original. Darker. Deeper. Already purpling.
"So you don't forget who you belong to," he said calmly. "Now go. Hurry."
I stumbled toward the bathroom on unsteady legs, my body vibrating with need. The impersonal nature of his command somehow made it worse, reducing my desperate arousal to a problem needing solution before the mission.
In the shower, under the hot spray, it took less than thirty seconds. I thought of his teeth in my throat, his fingers pressing bruises, the way he'd ordered me to do this, before I came harder than ever before, biting my fist to muffle my cry.
After, I leaned against the tile wall, shaking. The orgasm had cleared my head, just as he'd intended. But it left me strangely empty. I'd wanted him to break my denial. Instead, he'd ordered me to do it myself, turning even my pleasure into something he controlled from a distance.
When I emerged from the bathroom, hastily dressed in pants and an undershirt, he sat at the desk reviewing something on his phone. My hair remained damp, my shirt half-buttoned, but I looked decent. He glanced up, assessing me with those calculating eyes.
"Better?"
"Yes." My voice steadied.
"Good. Get dressed. You have fifteen minutes before you need to leave."
I forced my hands steady as I reapplied the makeup. This time, I chose a midnight blue shirt. The silk tortured my hypersensitive skin, each movement sparking through my nervous system. The fresh layer of foundation suffocated me worse than before, like burying treasure that belonged in the light.
Algerone watched every movement, occasionally correcting me. "Higher. Make sure nothing shows. We can't have Shaw getting suspicious."
When I finished dressing, he conducted a final inspection.
His hands adjusted my collar, smoothed nonexistent wrinkles, lingered a moment too long.
The casual intimacy after three decades of careful distance ached in my chest. His fingers brushed against the fabric covering the bruises, and I locked my knees to remain standing.
"Perfect," he finally pronounced. "You look exactly like a man ready to betray his employer."
The words stung, even knowing they belonged to the game.
"Algerone—"
"Go." He stepped back, creating distance between us. "Do what needs to be done. But remember..." His eyes found mine, held them. "I'll know if you forget who you belong to. And the consequences for forgetting..."
He left the threat unfinished. Somehow, that frightened me more than specifics.
I gathered my things: phone, wallet, the tablet I couldn't completely abandon. At the door, I turned back.
He stood in the middle of the room, both hands resting on his cane. The evening light streaming through the windows transformed him into something mythic, untouchable. The man I'd loved for thirty-two years. The man whose marks I wore like a secret beneath my clothes.
"I would wear your claim forever if you asked," I said softly. "I would let you mark me where everyone could see, let the whole world know I'm yours."
"Go," he repeated. "Before I take you up on that offer."
I left, closing the door quietly behind me. My reflection in the hallway mirror showed a perfectly composed businessman with expensive clothes, immaculate grooming, not a hair out of place.
But underneath, I'd been destroyed. Marked. Claimed. And I was desperate for more.