11 #3
Then, it’s the weekend, and he asks me what I usually do on the weekend, and I have to admit that I mostly do nothing.
I sometimes have events for my mother or family activities and I sometimes get invited to a Friday happy hour with other people from the agency.
But that usually is just us sitting around complaining about authors writing that characters are releasing breaths they didn’t realize they were holding and overusing saidisms and about this one submission that made some really weird choice (“The author put every scene that took place in the past in present tense. Like, why?”), so even if I had been invited this week (I wasn’t) I wouldn’t bring Ellis, because he would be bored to tears.
I tell him I was going to read some submissions.
He looks over my shoulder and asks me if I ever wanted to be a writer myself.
“Me?” I look at him like he’s crazy. “Oh, I could never write a book.”
“But your life’s ambition is to help other people publish books?”
“I want to preserve the publishing industry!” I say, very serious about this.
“People call agents gatekeepers, but I think everyone vastly underestimates how nice it was to have a gate to keep out all of that crap. Right now, everyone is publishing their manuscripts that were drafted by ChatGPT and then run through Grammarly and then barely edited and they’re just uploading them to , and idiot people are reading them and saying they’re good, and that’s because people don’t even know what good is. ”
“But you do? Agents do?”
“Obviously.”
“What makes you better at deciding what’s good than anyone else?”
“It’s experience,” I say. “After you read lots of terrible books, you get better at spotting good ones.”
“But if you’re good at spotting a book, you couldn’t write one?”
“Why do you think I want to write books?” I say.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to me like you want much of anything for yourself, that’s all. I was having this conversation with Callie about how betas need to stop settling. She said omegas needed to settle, however, and I’m still thinking that over.”
I gape at him. Is this the storm? “So, that’s what you’re doing with me? Settling?”
He clears his throat. “Wow, I walked into that, didn’t I?”
“Don’t deflect,” I say.
“No,” he says. “No, I’m not settling.”
I do not believe him.
“I don’t know, this is nice, though,” he says. “You don’t think this is nice? We’re just… comfortable.”
“And she’s not ‘comfortable’?”
“Well, no, she’s—”
“Exciting?” I say.
He groans. “I don’t care if you write books. I don’t care what you do. I could not give less of a shit about your job that doesn’t pay and is all about making yourself feel superior because you get to decide who’s bad and who’s good.”
“That’s not my job.”
He grins at me. “Are we having our first fight?”
“Oh, we have had a lot of fights,” I say, slamming my laptop closed.
“No,” he says. “I’ve never seen you angry, I don’t think.” His grin widens. “I kind of like it, I have to say.”
I point at him. “If you think you’re going to distract me from all of the very, very infuriating things you just said to me—”
He cuts me off with a blistering kiss.
I feel dazed when he breaks it. “Not going to be distracted,” I manage, breathless. “Definitely not going to be distracted.” Except, of course, I am. Very distracted.
We’re sitting on his couch in his living room and he drops down to the floor and starts unbuttoning my pants, saying, “Show me this. Show me your pussy, Hannah.”
And that’s very distracting.
So, then I’m sitting on the couch with one pant leg pulled off and he’s kneeling on the floor and licking me, and it’s a whirlwind of good, for a long, long time.
Until I start thinking about how that can’t be comfortable for him, and how he must be getting bored, and why can’t I just come already, because he’s been going down on me forever.
I let him keep doing it, but I start thinking maybe I should get my vibrator, maybe I should use my vibrator and put my mouth on him, because then we’d both be getting some stimulation, and I wouldn’t feel so on the spot here.
But then I don’t want to stop him. What if he gets the idea that he should stop going down on me because it never makes me come?
All of this leads to me not even being anywhere near an orgasm, of course, and then I think I need to focus, to try to come, stop thinking all these things that are keeping me from getting off.
He tilts his head back. “Hey. I lost you.”
I scrunch up my nose. “You can tell that?”
“Your noises got different.” He lazily starts rubbing his thumb over my clit. “So, I want to try something, and if you hate it, you have to actually tell me, and I’m afraid you won’t.”
I feel a little bit of trepidation, but also excitement. “Okay,” I say breathily.
“I mean it, Hannah.” He’s staring into my pussy, almost solemn. “I could be getting this really wrong, and if I am, it’ll… I don’t want to push this on you.”
More trepidation. Is he going to ask to fuck me in the ass or something? My breath catches.
He’s still playing with my clit. “You promise you’ll tell me if you hate it?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t know if I will or not, but he has to say it now. The buildup is killing me.
He looks up at me. “So, I get this vibe from you sometimes.” His voice goes liquid and rich. “It’s like that you’re a little turned on by, uh, humiliation.”
I go taut.
He’s still rubbing me. “Me too. It’s just talking right now. Does that make you feel…? How does that make you feel, me saying that?”
I don’t know. Maybe I’ve vaguely heard of humiliation kink, but I don’t really think I know what it is. “It’s fine.”
He laughs. “Okay, I’m going to stop and not—”
“No.” I cut him off. My voice is quiet, embarrassed. “Don’t stop.”
He takes a deep breath, more sure of himself. “Okay,” he says. “So, I’m thinking, you need to get really fucking turned on, and then you’ll get out of your head, and you’ll just come because you won’t be able to stop yourself?”
I bite my lip. Ideally, yeah, it just never seems to work like that. “Maybe,” I breathe.
“Close your eyes,” he says, his fingers steady on my clit.
I obey.
“Uh, let’s pretend that…” He’s thinking about it. “You work for me. You’re, like, my assistant or something. I work in some office with a big desk, and you come to work for me, and you wear pencil skirts and little button-up blouses or something.”
Who is this fantasy for again? But I’m going to go with it. “Okay.”
“And I don’t pay any attention to you. I bark out orders and make you do them, but I also make you do kind of fucked-up things. Like, in the morning, I’ll have you come over to my desk, and stand between my spread legs.”
My pussy jumps.
“And I’ll unbutton your blouse all the way down to your skirt and I’ll reach in, and pull down one side of your bra, so that one of your breasts is just out, on display.
I’ll be real businesslike about it, barely look at your bare skin, and I’ll tell you, uh, to just go and do your duties like that, for the whole day.
And you have to sit outside my office at your little desk answering phones and putting stuff on my calendar with your breast out like that.
At one point, maybe you try to hide it, and I scold you. ”
My breath is coming in funny little gasps.
His breath hitches. “Oh, Hannah, your clit is so fucking huge right now. Look at this little eager clit.” He starts making circles around it.
“I make you come in and get my coffee and stuff. Maybe I tell you, uh, that I lost something on the floor, and I make you get down on your hands and knees and look for it. All the while, uh, I’m on the phone, not paying a bit of fucking attention to you, but if you try to get up or if you try to tuck your breast away, I notice, and I put my hand over the receiver and just shake my head at you. ”
A moan leaks out of my mouth. I’m aware of something really embarrassing. I can smell my pussy. I can smell how aroused I am, and I don’t think it’s a good smell, but I kind of don’t fucking care right now. My whole pelvis feels tight and the place where he’s stroking me is hot and tingling.
“Sometimes I change it up. I’ll let you keep your boobs covered, but I’ll make you do the whole day without a skirt, just in your blouse and panties. And I make you do lots of tasks that involve bending over, but I never even look at you while you’re doing it.”
I gasp.
“One day,” he says, “a man comes to the office, and I let you be dressed to let him in, but then, while he and I are in the meeting, I call you in for something. I tell you to go over to him and show him your breasts.” He pauses. “Is this bad?”
“No.”
I can hear in his voice he’s smiling. “I tell you to let Mr.—let’s call him Mr. Oliver. I say, ‘Be a good assistant, Ms. Wihlbilt, and let Mr. Oliver fondle your breasts.’”
I gasp. “What’s he look like?”
“Oh, he’s fucking ugly as shit,” says Ellis.
I groan.
“Yeah?” he whispers, as if he just gets me in some awful, horrible way.
“He’s fat and balding, and you do it. You stand there while he touches you, and you look over at me, and for the first fucking time, I’m looking at you.
I’m sitting at my desk with my legs spread, and openly watching this, clearly enjoying it, and you and I just hold each other’s gaze while he rubs your nipples real stiff and gently pinches them. ”
Out of nowhere, I come. It’s one of those orgasms that sneaks up on me, just roars in and is clenching through me.
The first clench is good, but I climb for another one, even better, and then I hit an intense and bright peak, a shower of intensity, and I clench like mad, and I’m gasping and gasping.
He feels it and presses his thumb right into me, giving me just what I need as my orgasm stutters through my entire body.
I open my eyes, kind of horrified at myself, and he’s down there, on the floor, with his finger on my clitoris, grinning up at me like he just solved world hunger. He is very fucking proud of himself.