4. Colin #2
My grip goes strong at the thought. I want to hear her whimper my name as she comes with me deep inside of her.
Feel her shatter on my cock. My balls pulse at the thought.
I want to rock her on my hips and make her explode.
And then, I want to bend her over and bind her to the bed, make her take every last inch of me up her tight little ass.
I feel the hot cum on my hand before the orgasm really hits, but when it does, I need a minute to catch my breath and clean up. Is it wrong to jerk off to the virgin you bought, but haven’t met yet? I don’t know. But somehow, it makes me feel like she’s already ours, like I’ve marked my territory.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
Door hinges rustle. The dancer peeks in. “All good?”
“Perfect. Thank you.” I stand, smoothing shirtsleeves. “Take the long route back. Earn your break.”
She winks. “Will do, handsome.”
Handsome. Funny how the adjective sounds alien—custom-tailored shirts and soft-heart disclaimers never quite camouflage the perpetual coding-goblin circles under my eyes. But it lands warm enough, thanks to her expert tone.
Reub meets me midway through the corridor, cheeks flushed, gold-flake cocktail napkin in hand. “Everything satisfactory, Mr. Copeland?”
“Exceedingly.” I fall into step beside him. “Apologies, duty calls—I have a deployment window to hit.”
He blinks in disappointment but recovers. “Understandable. I’ll email a demo. Maybe we schedule a proof of concept next month?”
“Shoot me an email and we’ll get it on the calendar,” I echo Tic’s phrasing, a subtle string to pull later. Not a yes, not a no. The man looks hopeful, and hope is currency.
Stepping into night air, I inhale the city’s after-rain petrichor. Sparse droplets cling to streetlamps, refracting crimson taillights. Atlanta, for all its sprawl, has moments where it feels like a half-abandoned film set—the hush between takes.
The rideshare curb is vacant. I contemplate calling my driver to fetch me, but decide on solitude.
I request a blacked-out EV sedan on the rideshare app—arrival time is six minutes.
In the lull, I peer again at Thalassa’s profile, noting an unchecked box: Allergies?
Blank. I make a mental note to ask. Hazelnut oil can kill the unprepared, but it tastes amazing to lick off someone’s skin.
Funny. I’m always prone to overpacking, but this weekend, I’ll need one of those wheeled carts for all the fun I plan to bring with me. Thalassa being a virgin means we will want to try all kinds of things with her, and that requires equipment.
A beep signals ride arrival. I slide into the cool cocoon of synthetic leather. The driver—a woman sporting silver braids and a lanyard of scent diffusers—nods a greeting, classical guitar leaking softly from hidden speakers.
Once inside, a signal flares to life on my phone. Trouble in paradise. To the office, then. Guess I wasn’t lying that much to Reub.
I change up the destination location and watch raindrop comet-trails along the window, picturing the upcoming weekend as a probability tree: Branch A, she enjoys our company, we part ways amicably, everyone enriched.
Branch B, she recoils, we pivot to concierge luxury and send her home banking tuition for the next semester.
Branch C—unexpected chemistry blooms into… something.
Relationship? Laughable. I don’t subscribe. But possibility shapes itself like wet clay, and I find myself curious what form it might choose.
Streetlights strobe across my reflection—pale crescent of face, thoughtful crease between brows. My mother used to smooth that line with a fingertip and say, “Brains don’t have to wear worry lines to prove they’re working.”
I was eight, soldering LEDs to a breadboard. Some habits calcify.
I key into HQ—fluorescent silence, still air conditioning, floor-to-ceiling windows frowning over a deserted Peachtree. The building feels like the inside of a sleeping dragon, its potential heat curled under stone ribs.
The server room first. Fans buzz, LED constellations pulse. Forty minutes, eighty keystrokes later, and response times settle like skittish birds. I leave a note in the comment history: Emergency patch. Flag CFO for retroactive approval.
Marcus will scowl at unauthorized spending, but customer retention metrics will muzzle him.
Back in my glass-walled office, I perch on the edge of the couch—a mid-century reproduction I splurged on after reading an article claiming Eames balanced cortisol. Sure, why not.
I open my laptop, but instead of spreadsheets, the Just Desserts dashboard greets me. A message from Thalassa springs up: Let me know the preferred dress code for Friday dinner so I can practice walking in heels.
The mental image—her pacing a dorm hallway, wobbling, giggling—hits me hard. She’s either actually this endearing, or she knows how to play the game, and isn’t a virgin at all.
I prefer to believe she’s who she says she is, so I respond with: Black-tie option for dinner. Practice optional; we’re decent spotters.
The clock reads 03:22. If I go home now, I’ll sleep maybe two hours before the East Coast scrum call. But my skull hums too loud for sleep. I set my phone to Do Not Disturb except VIPs —brothers, on-call team, Dad. Dad rarely calls, but the habit’s muscle memory.
Before closing the tab, I scroll one more time through her gallery. Nine images, each candid. Each tells the story of a young woman who embraces life. Pictures in parks, in a library, in a lab. She has a sweet, uneven grin and dresses casually.
In short, she’s the perfect person to spoil, and we’re the right men for the job.