Chapter 9 #2
The drive back to my house isn’t long—at this time of night, the roads are mostly empty, not to mention the neighborhood that Paramour exists within is rather upscale and not far from my own.
Though that was not purposeful, it has been rather useful.
I glance at the Chromebook, left on the seat.
I pick it up. A faint smirk forms on my lips as I realize my little pet will not have any way to complete his work as he’d possibly intended. I look at it in question.
I could drop it off. It is late, though, and I do need to get home. He’s probably sleeping, unaware of his error. I think about that—about Oliver in his bed, blissfully unaware.
I could just give it to him tomorrow.
Perhaps with a carrying case or a backpack so he doesn’t lose it or leave it again.
I’d hate to have to fire him over something like that considering all the pertinent information stored on here.
I know he likely didn’t leave it on purpose, though.
I don’t usually give the benefit of the doubt, but something tells me that Oliver is different.
That he was perhaps nervous because of my driving him home.
Nervous because his boss was driving him home, and he felt slightly judged, perhaps?
It’s not as if he was nervous because he knows my preferences.
He doesn’t. I’ve been more than careful to craft the image of Sloane Pierce as a suave playboy. I’ve spent longer curating my image than I have on Phantom. Longer than I spent advocating for the Veil. I suck in a breath as I stare at the Chromebook.
I swear I can smell the faint lingering of sweet vanilla and musk. I swear I can still smell him. My cock jumps in my pants, and I growl in response.
“You are more trouble than you are worth,” I nip, shaking my head. I set the Chromebook down, deciding I will give it back to him tomorrow, but not before I show him what happens when he is careless.
My little pet needs to learn that as nice as I can be, there are consequences. He told me he would have the top three businesses recommended for the gala to me by eight am, and I doubt, without his Chromebook, at this hour, he will have things ready for me as he promised.
Which I am counting on. My cock hardens at the idea of punishing my little pet.
Though I try to keep my focus on the road, my mind wanders to all the ways I wish I could punish him.
His cheeks pinken so beautifully I can only imagine how his ass would turn scarlet from my palm or a whip. Perhaps a cane…
I groan as I adjust my cock with one hand, the other gripping the steering wheel.
My dick strains against my pants, and the touch does nothing to quell the ache.
I imagine Oliver, with those big green eyes staring up at me, hands on his thighs, cock jutting out, waiting for me to reprimand him.
The car accelerates as my cock throbs. I stroke myself through the fabric of my pants, feeling the rigidness I was unable to earlier.
My cock aches, needing release. The night is a blur as I race through the roads to my house, my thoughts slipping down back roads I know I shouldn’t, but fuck it.
It’s not like anyone will know. It’s not like I’m going to divulge my fantasies to Oliver. Besides, they are just fantasies. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Just because my cock likes the idea of turning Oliver’s ass red or shoving my cock in his mouth doesn’t mean I’m going to act on those desires.
Attraction or not, I don’t mix business with pleasure.
Not anymore. And I should have never done it in the first place.
What happened with my ex was a lesson learned the hard way.
So I’ll keep my fantasies where they belong.
In my head. It’s better this way. Besides, Oliver seems like he might actually be a good assistant, and I haven’t had one of those yet.
When I pull into my driveway, it’s nearing eleven. I all but rush out of the car and punch in the code to let myself in.
I don’t waste a second as I undress on my way upstairs, passing my play room.
When I bought this house, I thought I’d get more use of it.
Turns out, having an actual space to practice was like a sensual curse.
Like investing in a guest room expecting your family and friends will stay there and then no one ever visits.
I wander into my room, taking in the sight of everything untouched.
The cross. The swing. The stocks. Even the warming massage table has never been touched.
My cock strains in my briefs as I make my way over to the four-poster bed. I climb atop the silky teal sheets that adorn it, relaxing in the softness against my skin. I slide my briefs off, relishing in the feel of the cool air and the sheets against my skin.
I curse at the sight of my cock, already dripping wet with precum.
Fuck.
I suck in a breath as I wrap my hand around my cock. It feels better than when Bruno did it, and that fact is not lost on me.
Forty minutes. I stayed in that half-hard, not-quite-there state. It was so frustrating. Frustrating because I wanted to come so I could feel better, so I could get over this weird melancholy shit and not do or say something I’d regret to my new assistant.
But the minute I touch myself, the minute I think about said assistant—about punishing him for taunting me with those big green orbs and that pouty mouth and his Yes, Sir’s, I find myself climbing that mountain.
My thumb slides over my slit, spreading the fresh bloom of precum over my head. My hips thrust of their own accord as my eyes close and I give myself over to the fantasy, riding it like a roller coaster as I chase my release.
I imagine Oliver on his knees—like Bruno was—staring up at me with those big green eyes as I press my cock to his pouty lips.
“You want this cock?” I bite, my voice strained to my own ears.
“Yes, Sir.” I can hear the smooth, silky words escaping his throat. I imagine him opening that mouth for me with ease, ready to obey my command like the good little pet I know he can be.
I let out a heavy moan as my balls draw tight, and it won’t be long.
My motion quickens as the sound of wet skin echoes in the air.
Precum beads at my tip, and I spread it along my shaft like it’s lube, reveling in the feel.
My back arches and my legs stiffen as the monster awakens, building ever so higher.
I imagine that perfect, pouty mouth fitting itself around my cock, imagine that sweet tongue of his rolling around my head.
I imagine my fingers threading through those golden locks as I shove his head forward until he chokes on my cock.
Until those long, slender fingers of his grip my thighs for support, until his fingernails dig into my skin and his face turns pink because he can’t breathe.
“Fuck!”
My orgasm hits me like a brick to the chest and my entire body tenses. Cum erupts from my twitching dick, spraying me across my chest, down my fist, and down my shaft.
My vision goes white, and I groan with relief. It feels so good.
So fucking good.
I lazily pump through my orgasm as the high starts to fade, and that’s when the guilt kicks in. Because it doesn’t last.
It never does. Not like I need it to.
My cock continues to twitch, slowly, until I’m spent.
Shame and guilt ransack me. It’s just a fantasy. It shouldn’t leave me feeling like this. I know that, but yet…
I feel empty. I feel like a monster.
Finally, I get up, if only because I hate the feeling of dried cum on my skin, so I know I need to clean up and get the fuck to bed.
I make my way over to the en-suite shower in the playroom—another aspect of this place that hasn’t seen anyone other than me.
The deep teal tiles shimmer as the water hits them, and I think it’s a travesty.
No one will ever see this. But I wish they could.
God, I wish someone could see the things I do. That someone could see me. Not the CEO of Veil Technologies. Not the carefully curated playboy image I spent twenty years creating.
Me.
But that’s never going to happen. So, I push aside the deprecating bitterness and focus on washing myself of my sins, and when I’m done, I crawl into the playroom bed and pass out, dreaming of big green eyes and things I’ll never have.