11. The Mansion Gym Setup #2
I sat there in the dark of my study with my scotch gone warm and forgotten, a cold sweat cooling on my ribs, my teeth ground together so hard my jaw ached, and I didn’t move, didn’t reach for anything, didn’t do a single thing except watch her hold that look on the screen a beat longer, her nostrils flaring wide and steady, her fingers still locked white-knuckled around the bench’s edge, waiting for whatever Charles decided came next.
***
Charles didn’t announce anything further. He simply moved.
I’d pulled my chair close enough to the desk by then that my breath fogged a faint patch on the monitor’s glass, and I didn’t bother wiping it away.
He came around to the bench’s rear, positioned himself behind her raised hips, and started working her open with his hands, no urgency in it, no words either, just the methodical patience of a man checking his work.
His fingers moved slow at first, testing, spreading, and the rear camera caught every inch of it in unforgiving close focus, her flesh flushed and glistening under the halogen wash, his hand working a steady, methodical rhythm against her.
On the face feed, her expression shifted in a way I’d never seen at our own bedroom’s door.
Her teeth clenched first, jaw tight, a hiss of breath dragged in through her nose.
Then her mouth fell slack, lips parted loose, and a low sound climbed up out of her throat, guttural, unfiltered, carried clean through the feed’s audio with no static to soften it.
Her nostrils flared wide with the sound, and her fingers, still curled around the bench’s edge, dragged hard enough against the leather that I heard it squeak faintly under her grip.
“You’re wet,” Charles said, flat, his eyes on the rear monitor instead of on her. “That’s baseline. I need more than baseline.”
“Then give me something worth performing for,” she said, her voice thick, stripped of the careful modulation she once brought to our dinner table.
His hand came down once, hard, across her left hip, the sound of it sharp and flat in the cold room, and it wasn’t punishment.
I understood that the second I saw his eyes cut to the rear feed, watching for the reaction the way a director watches a monitor for the perfect take.
Her whole body jerked forward on the impact, a cry breaking loose from her that had no restraint left in it at all, and Charles logged the response with a single small nod before he moved on, satisfied.
He came around to her mouth next, unhurried, working himself free of his slacks with the same economy he brought to everything, and she took him without waiting to be told, her lips parting on the front camera feed, her tongue working wet and eager along the underside of him the second he was close enough.
He paused there, once, to glance toward the low rig and check the framing on its little monitor, adjusting nothing, simply confirming, and then he drove forward into her mouth with a rhythm that had her throat working hard around him, her eyes wet at the corners and still holding that same wild, unmoored brightness that had, weeks into this, become the only expression she seemed to have left.
He pulled back from her mouth eventually and moved behind her again, and what followed built in careful, deliberate stages, exactly the way he built everything, each stage paused just long enough for him to check a monitor, confirm an angle, register a result before moving to the next.
He took her from behind first, slow, testing the depth of her, and her spine arched hard under the pressure of it, her voice breaking into something raw.
“Please,” she said, the word dragged out ragged between gasps. “Fill me up. I want your cum, I want all of it, don’t you dare hold back on me.”
He didn’t answer her. He kept his pace even, unhurried, his hands closed tight around her hips, and every stroke drove a fresh sound out of her that the feed’s audio carried clean into my study, no distortion anywhere in it.
Her nostrils flared violently now with each thrust, a hard, rhythmic pull of air that synced exactly to the rhythm of his hips, and her eyes cut to the face camera again and again, deliberate, direct, as if she needed me watching this exact moment more than she needed anything else happening to her body.
“Right there,” she said, her voice cracking apart around the words. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop, I’ll do anything, just don’t stop.”
He shifted angle once, adjusting for the rear rig’s benefit as much as for hers, and drove into her harder, deeper, and the sound she made in response had nothing articulate left in it, just a long, wordless cry that climbed and broke and climbed again.
Her hands had gone white at the bench’s edge.
Her whole body strained against the restraints, not with resistance, but with a desperate force aimed at getting closer to whatever he was giving her.
“You want to be a paid set of holes,” Charles said, his voice still flat, still even, delivered between strokes like he was reading terms off a page instead of fucking a woman bound to a leather bench under cold white light. “Prove it.”
“I am,” she said, gasping it out, her eyes wet and blazing on the face feed, fixed dead center on the lens. “I’m exactly that. Use every part of me, I don’t care how, I don’t care what it costs you, just don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop. He worked through her with the same clinical thoroughness he’d shown from the first minute, testing one angle and then another, pausing twice more to check the rear framing, and each time he resumed she met him with the same raw, unguarded hunger, her mouth running filthy and unfiltered through gasp after gasp, begging for his cum, begging to be used harder, to be given no ceiling and no limit, her nostrils flaring in that hard, sustained rhythm that had become, over the last hour, the truest signature of her face.
He finished with a low, controlled sound, no theater in it, his hand tightening once at her hip and then releasing. He stepped back from the bench without hurry, reaching down to adjust himself and straighten the line of his shirt with the same unbothered precision he brought to everything.
He turned to the low front-facing rig and looked directly into it.
Directly into me.
“She passes,” he said, flat, final, no warmth under it and no cruelty either, just a statement of fact delivered to the other end of the wire. “We’ll talk terms in the morning.”
The feed held on her after he walked out of frame, her chest heaving against the leather, wrists and ankles still bound tight.
Sweat gathered bright under the halogens.
Her cheek came to rest against the bench again, turned toward the lens, and a slow smile spread across her wet, swollen mouth—a woman who had just been told what she was worth and found the number acceptable.
I sat in the dark, my collar soaked through, and I watched that smile hold under the cold white light, fixed and perfect on the screen.