The Oncologist's Obedience

1. An Extra

Chapter one

An Extra

‘Use your mouth,’ Margot growled breathlessly, a fist full of brown curls already moving Remi’s head down her body.

‘What?! But…’ Remi’s protest died in her throat the moment she remembered who the fuck she was speaking to.

‘Use your fucking mouth, Remi.’

Obediently, Remi dropped to her knees. The grip in her hair tightened, anchoring her in place.

Pushing a now trembling hand under Margot’s thigh, she lifted her leg allowing a foot to press onto her collarbone.

Cautiously, she moved along Margot’s thigh, pushing her up and open against the hotel dressing table.

With Margot’s thigh draped over her shoulder, Remi took a brief moment to appreciate what was happening before she eviscerated the remaining space between them.

A sharp gasp forced its way from Margot’s throat into the otherwise silent hotel room as Remi’s open mouth made contact.

Her lips and talented tongue moved over Margot’s soaked labia, ensuring absolutely nothing could be misconstrued as a kiss.

Almost inebriated on the taste of her, Remi sucked as the flat of her tongue moved back and forth over Margot’s swollen clit.

‘Oh God fuck yes—like that!’ Margot was louder than Remi had ever heard but still held a predictable element of restraint. ‘Fingers, Remi!’

Diligently, Remi started to fuck Margot, curling and pulsing her fingers exactly where she knew to.

A balled fist remained tightly tangled in Remi’s hair, holding her face firmly in place.

With her head arching back, Margot threw her other hand behind her, fingers splayed on the dark wood surface for balance.

The sharp clack and roll of a falling vase momentarily drowned out the rasp of erratic breaths.

With a desperation Remi had never seen before, Margot's hips rolled aggressively, demanding more speed, more force, more of what her mouth could give.

Two years of longing for this moment spilled from Remi as she moaned into Margot, breathing expertly while maintaining exquisite, unrelenting contact.

But no matter how good it felt or how moreish the taste of Margot was, a painful, acute reminder lingered—as per the rules, she herself was not to climax.

Arousal pooled heavily between Remi’s thighs, as she quickly brought Margot to the brink of her first orgasm.

As Margot’s body began to tremble and jolt, she announced her climax loudly into the room, coming on Remi’s tongue and fingers so violently, it almost shattered all of Remi's senses.

Even in the midst of her climax, Margot seemed to hold onto that signature Miss Grenson restraint.

Remi knew control was Margot's currency, something she would never relinquish completely, least of all in front of her.

‘Fuuuck,’ Remi breathed in awe, her entire body pulsating with a desperate want to rest her head on the inside of Margot’s thigh, but she didn’t dare to.

As Margot panted, she slowly unfurled the fist clinging to Remi’s hair, her fingernails raking down the sides of her buzzed fade.

The exquisite drag of slow nails over Remi’s scalp was an almost, but not quite, tender sensation.

It was a soft touch she had never experienced with Margot before, hanging heavy and unacknowledged in the air between them.

Still on her knees, trousers on and bare chest heaving, Remi looked up. Pinned against the dressing table, Margot pressed her head against the mirror, the column of her elegant throat exposed, as she tried to steady the cadence of her breaths.

Remi didn’t move. Instead, she waited for the unspoken permission she’d come to recognise.

Only when Margot offered a terse nod did Remi ease the weight of her thigh from her shoulder, gently guiding her foot back to the carpet.

Remi watched as Margot slid off the dressing table, testing her balance for a moment until she finally stood unsupported.

Pausing for a beat, Margot took a short, steadying sniff as she raised her chin.

Squaring her shoulders she allowed another heavy beat to pass, seemingly waiting for the tremors in her legs to subside, before she confidently sauntered toward the bathroom.

‘Get dressed,’ Margot said bluntly. ‘Let the agency know there was an extra.’

‘I don’t have to—’

‘If you’re about to say you work for free, don’t,’ Margot interrupted coldly in her posher-than-average Mancunian accent; which always made Remi a little weak at her core. ‘You provide a service, Remi. I pay for that service. Nothing you do to me is free of charge.’

Remi—or Dylan, as she was known to anyone not paying for the privilege of her sex or time professionally—was used to this level of detachment from Margot.

Despite being her escort of choice, they had never so much as exchanged two words outside of Margot’s sexual demands.

The pseudonym was enough for Margot, she didn’t know her real name, of course, and Dylan knew she wouldn’t have cared to.

As far as Margot was concerned, Remi was simply the name the agency had provided.

It was clear she neither wanted nor needed any more information than that.

Watching as Margot disappeared into the bathroom had become a habit, reflexive almost. Finding her captivating, Dylan would always steal glances whenever she could, but only if she thought Margot wasn’t aware.

Of the few regular names that cycled through the agency’s booking system, Miss Margot Grenson was the only one that made Dylan’s pulse quicken.

The intimacy they shared, however, was very carefully curated, a fact Dylan was painfully aware of.

It was a dynamic dictated by a strict, paid-for service where Dylan ceased to exist and was replaced by the submissive obedience of Remi.

Despite this, Dylan held a quiet, growing, persistent ache to truly know the woman she was paid to fuck every week.

Whether their meeting called for a strap or the use of Remi’s fingers, every movement was a response to Margot’s specific commands.

It was a sexual relationship built entirely on demand and instruction, leaving Remi to painfully navigate the heat and thrumming need of her own body while strictly bound by the constraints of Miss Grenson’s sexual desires.

Remi was not to show any initiative or freestyle in any way.

She was to listen carefully and do as she was told.

No kissing. No emotion. She wasn’t permitted to use her mouth on any part of Margot’s body, and above all else, under no circumstance was Remi to climax.

These weren’t the rules of the agency; they were Margot’s rules.

From the moment Remi arrived at the hotel, she would be expected to adhere to a set of pre-imposed instructions.

They were designed to ensure absolute discretion at all times, giving Margot the undeniable thrill of knowing that Remi would arrive strapped or not, simply at her behest. Remi would be told exactly what to wear, whether to be strapped immediately, to strap on in front of Margot, or to just use her hands.

The control lay solely with Margot; every pulse of a dildo or stroke of a finger.

Permission would be sought prior to entering the hotel room.

Three slow knocks and silence until summoned; ensuring she arrived exactly on time—never early, and most certainly never late.

After two years of stealing glances, Dylan had surmised that Margot was perhaps in her early forties.

With her attraction to Margot’s femininity and curves growing with every meeting, Dylan had, for some time, found the no climax rule particularly difficult to adhere to—making her Manchester’s most impressive edger.

If instructed to, Dylan would hold Margot’s ample breasts, or her cinched waist, and fight the thrumming urge to run her hands over the swell of her glorious arse and the curve of her hips.

Without Margot’s explicit instruction, Dylan hadn’t dared to kiss and lick her thick thighs before tasting her for the first time.

She had managed to stop just short of contact, reminding herself that Margot probably wouldn’t think twice about informing the agency and having Remi fired.

***

As Dylan dressed Margot remained in the bathroom, as was their routine.

Still reeling from being told to go down on her; the lingering smell and taste of her was driving her wild.

She took off her trousers to change her soaked underwear, resisting the urge to make herself come quickly and quietly before she left.

After pulling on fresh tight boxers, she put her black trousers back on, fastening the button and zip over her toned stomach.

After finding her shirt, she stuffed it into her bag, smiling to herself at the buttons now scattered on the floor due to Margot’s urgency and impatience.

There was a distinct satisfaction in watching agency-funded shirts be pulled from her in the heat of the moment.

It was a thrill Dylan wouldn’t be able to afford herself, though she often thought she would let Margot bankrupt her without a second thought.

The spare black vest she pulled on was a stark contrast to the vivid colour of her sleeve and chest tattoos, before she covered them with her suit jacket.

After finding her shoes, she perched on the plush grey ottoman to pull them on.

Stepping toward the mirror for a final inspection she leaned toward the glass, a wide smile induced by euphoria spread over her face.

Suffused with a post-sex glow and heat, she looked all the more attractive under her messy brown curls.

The constant defiant spark still glistened in her green and amber eyes.

No matter how exhausted or jaded her responsibilities left her, Dylan always managed to stay healthy and look her best—keeping the promise she had made almost a decade before.