Chapter 17
Lorenzo
T he city still slumbers as I arrive at Blackwood, the towering Gothic spires piercing an inky pre-dawn sky.
An unnatural hush fills the underground garage, the usual click of heels and murmur of political machinations yet to pollute the air. I relish this eerie stillness, knowing I am the man who fills the silence.
Using my private elevator, I bypass the lobby, taking a detour down the darkened hall that leads to her cubicle. The overhead lights flicker on, triggered by my presence, and cast a cold glow across the generic workspace.
Her desk is painfully neat, uncluttered by any hint of personality. How convenient that she makes it so easy for the world to ignore her, to walk by without a second glance. All the easier for me to brand her as mine.
From my jacket pocket, I retrieve a velvet pouch and place it in the center of her desk. The contents are simple; one of my black ties and a single folded card. The note is brief.
If you’re ready to sit in on some real action, be in Conference Room X by 5 p.m. Blindfolded. Under the table. –E
As I walk away, slipping back into the shadows of the hall, I picture her reaction. The way her breath will hitch as she unfolds the card, pupils flaring as she reads the terse instructions. I imagine her mind racing, trying to unravel the mystery in the vague promise of real action.
She hungers so desperately for knowledge, for a taste of the darkness that lives beneath the polished veneer of this city. And oh, how I will feed her until she chokes on it.
I can almost feel the phantom heat of her body cowering beneath my desk. My toy, tucked away until I decide to play with her.
It’s a test of obedience as much as it’s a temptation. There’s no Conference Room X on any official blueprints of Blackwood. The meeting rooms stop at H, a little architectural sleight of hand to disguise the most important room of all—my office.
There are thousands of reasons I shouldn’t risk it, pull her into the pitch-black center of my world. But I’m much too selfish not to do it.
As the hours drag by, as I suffer through an endless stream of meetings, I’m too impatient to give my full attention, I keep wondering if she’ll rise to the challenge.
Maria knows that if Piper asks her for directions, she’s allowed to give them. Only if my toy asks directly, though. Politics might thrive on the unsaid, on reading between the lines—but I don’t, not when it comes to her.
Anticipation builds in my blood with each tick of the clock. I know her, perhaps better than she knows herself. She won’t be able to resist the forbidden pull of seeing what lies behind the curtain, not even when I’m the one holding it open for her.
At precisely 4:30 p.m., I enter my office, the only sound is the measured click of my steps against polished wood. The air itself seems to part before me, charged with ozone, a storm building in my wake.
The faint scent of cedar and tobacco still lingers from this morning’s cigar—my one indulgence before the day began. A ritual. A reminder that power, like smoke, should never be wasted on the undeserving.
Only when I reach the desk do I allow myself to look down, to acknowledge her. Even with my tie over her eyes, she tracks my movements, her head tilting to follow the cadence of my steps.
I let her wait, let the anticipation curdle in her belly as I settle into my chair. I can smell her uncertainty, the acrid tang of nerves mixed with something headier—lust, perhaps, or fear. They are so often the same in the dark.
With deliberate ease, I lean back in the chair. The leather creaks beneath me as I cross one leg over the other. My hands rest on the curved arms of the chair, but my attention is wholly focused on the shape kneeling in the dark.
“You found it,” I say, voice low and smooth as silk. “Tell me, did you ask for directions, or did you figure it out yourself?” I ask, curiou s to find out.
She doesn’t answer right away, but I can see the twitch of her spine, the subtle shift of her weight, as if her body is responding to my words even when her mouth remains sealed.
I let the silence stretch.
Finally, she huffs. “I asked Maria Wilson for help. Her email signature says she’s the assistant to the CEO, and since you told me you’re the owner…” she trails off as though that’s enough of an explanation.
I smirk. “Not every owner is also the CEO,” I observe.
“True,” she relents. Then she smiles slyly. “But you strike me as too much of a control freak not to be both.”
“So you do pay attention,” I grin, grazing my knuckles against the crown of her head. The soft waves of her hair warm beneath my touch.
“Of course,” she quips as though there should never have been any doubt.
“And now you’re on your knees for me again,” I say slowly, each word carved in granite. “Blindfolded, again. Not knowing why I invited you. Is that trust, Toy? Or desperation?” Her breath catches, a small, involuntary intake of air that feeds my hunger.
I drag my thumb across the knot of silk at the back of her head, tightening it slightly. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who’s in charge. I move my hand to her nape, keeping it there.
She shifts again, just a little, her thighs tightening beneath her. Good girl. She wants to speak, maybe even challenge me—but she doesn’t. That’s what makes her mine. Not the submission, but the fight she hides behind it.
“Why do I have to be under the table?” she asks, her voice low but steady, threading through the stillness like a dare.
“Because this is where you belong,” I drawl. “Toys don’t sit at the table. They wait to be used.”
She exhales sharply through her nose, and she’s shaking slightly, but not from fear. No, this is something hotter. She wants to argue. I can feel the tension coil through her spine like a wire pulled too tight.
“I’m not a toy,” she whispers.
“No? Then why are you here? Following my every command like a good little possession?” I slide my hand to her throat, flexing my fingers. I feel the shudder pass through her. I savor it.
“I’m here for the meeting,” she says, voice clipped now, defensive. But the edge is dulled by the way she almost pants when I tighten my grip on her delicate throat.
“You’re here because I want you here,” I growl.
I slide my fingers up and down the slope of her neck, slow and proprietary, watching the way her pulse pounds just beneath her skin.
“Are you sure you’re ready for what happens next?” I ask. I let the question hang in the air for several moments before contin uing. “Once the meeting starts, you don’t get to leave. You don’t get to run. You’re mine.”
She swallows. “You don’t scare me.”
I lean in closer until my mouth is just above her crown. “You should be terrified,” I rasp.
There’s a knock on the door. What perfect timing.
I straighten, adjusting the fall of my suit jacket with slow precision. I pat her head once before removing my hand from her, and she stills completely, like a toy being set down.
Reaching for my cigar case, I pick one up, and light it. I only savor a little before resting it in the crystal ashtray on my desk, exhaling the smoke toward the ceiling. One last breath of indulgence before the real game begins.
I smile, cold and sharp, as I turn toward the door. “Let’s begin.”
Congressman Malcolm James and Senator Jane Slade enter my office, twin sharks scenting blood in the water. Their faces are tense, postures angled to strike, but I remain at ease, a lion watching two jackals fight for scraps.
Normally, I’d get up, shake their hands, and we’d sit at my glass table. But not today. So I simply nod at them, not bothering to get up. There will be no glad-handing, no pretense of friendship. Only the cold calculation of people who know the value of power, and the cost of losing it.
“We’re sitting at your desk?” Slade asks, arching an eyebrow.
“ I am,” I reply firmly. “However, you’re free to sit wherever you like.”
James’ chuckle as he sits down across from me sounds more like a wheeze. There’s a bead of sweat already forming at his temple. He likes to pretend he has a spine, but I see how his fingers twitch.
Slade, on the other hand, is calmer. She’s always reminded me of a cold-blooded snake; coiled and ready.
As they settle across from me, James already stammering about optics and blowback, I slide my right hand beneath the desk, fingers combing through her hair until I find the base of her skull.
I twist, gently but with purpose—tightening my grip into a leash.
Then I tug her forward, until I feel her breath, damp and shallow, against my zipper.
Relighting my cigar, I offer them one as well, but they both decline. “Help yourself to something to drink then.” I point at the decanters and glasses Maria’s neatly arranged on my desk.
I tap the edge of the ashtray with two fingers as I watch Slade reach for the vodka. James doesn’t touch the liquor—smart. He knows not to let his guard down.
While Slade pours herself a hefty amount of vodka, James babbles on, his words a meaningless hum. I catch snippets—crowds at the mall, an outraged social justice contingent. Empty noise, a cough into the wind .
With my hand still fisted in her hair, I reach down with my right and slowly draw down my zipper. The sound is obscenely loud, a drawn-out hiss that cuts through James’ prattling. Slade’s eyes flicker to mine, a question, but I meet her gaze without flinching.
Releasing myself from the confines of my suit pants, I stroke the head just once, enough to smear pre-cum across the tip, before guiding my toy’s mouth to where it belongs.
I feed my cock into Piper’s waiting mouth, thrusting past the wet silk of her lips.
She takes me beautifully, snaking her tongue around the crown.
Such. A. Good. Fucking. Toy.
The urge to groan rises fast—fierce and raw—but I force it back, biting the inside of my cheek until I taste iron. I don’t make sounds. Not in front of them. Not even for her.
Above the table, Slade drones on about containment, about controlling the narrative. I lean back in my chair, a lazy sprawl of dominance, and let Piper work me with her tongue. Each flick and swirl sends sparks of pleasure humming along my nerves. My thigh tenses beneath the desk.
“The story breaks tomorrow night,” Slade says, her voice a distant buzz. “Primetime across all networks. We’ve got our scapegoat lined up, some low-level intern who’ll eat the blame.”
Piper stills below the table.
I nod, slowly, making sure I’m not giving away that my hand below the table tightens in my toy’s hair, reminding her she has a job to do. She obediently hollows her cheeks, sucking harder, and I feel my balls tighten.
James pipes up, a mouse daring to squeak. “But if it gets traced back to us—”
“You better make sure that can’t happen,” I interrupt. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”
He swallows audibly and lowers his eyes.
Slade smiles, a slash of cold amusement. “The press will spin it as youthful hijinks. An overzealous employee acting out of turn. The public has the attention span of a gnat. By next week, it’ll be forgotten.”
The tip brushes the back of my toy’s throat. A shudder rolls through me so fast I have to cough—sharp and low—masking the sound that almost escaped. Almost.
“And for the parts that are beyond any intern, it’s awfully convenient that we’ve just had someone resign. I’ve already planted the email trail at her feet…”
As Senator Slade continues speaking, I yank my toy closer, burying myself to the hilt in her convulsing throat. She gags around me, and my body riots. Every muscle coils, desperate to thrust, to take, to break through the facade. But I don’t move.
I hold my toy in place for two more seconds, then pull her off me with a wet pop only I can hear. She gasps, but I silenc e her with a vicious tug on her hair.
“We’ve got everything covered,” James finishes.
Slade nods, satisfied, but I’m no longer paying attention. The pressure inside me is building to a fever pitch, a storm surge of black pleasure.
With a calculated tug, I angle Piper’s face. A quick glance down—just enough to aim at her face. Two sharp strokes, and I fucking erupt. Cum shoots from my cock, splashing onto her face. I grit my teeth so hard my vision spots, but no sound escapes.
I glance down again. Fuck, my toy has never looked more beautiful than right now when she’s drenched in my cum. And, to her credit, she remains quiet. Not a single sound escapes her.
This is how she should always look—filthy, and most of all, mine.
Releasing Piper’s hair, I tuck myself away and refasten my pants while she slumps back on her heels, trembling. I glance at my watch, noting the time. The cigar has long gone out beside me, but the scent still lingers.
“If that’s all…” Trailing off, I rise smoothly, buttoning my suit jacket.
James scrambles to follow, nearly knocking over his chair in his eagerness to escape. Slade stands as well, her eyes flickering briefly to the desk.
“Always a pleasure, ” she drawls, emphasizing the last word. “We’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget to let the girl up for air.” She smirks as they leave.