11. Day Two
ELEVEN
Day Two
I wake to fingers inside me.
For a disoriented moment, I don't know where I am. Strange bed, strange sheets, someone touching me in ways that should be alarming. Then memory crashes back: Sebastian. The contract. The Protocol building in my blood.
Day two.
"You're wet." His voice is clinical. Observational. Like he's noting the weather. "The Protocol's building. Your body's responding even in sleep."
I'm on my back, his hand between my thighs, two fingers sliding in and out of me with lazy, deliberate strokes. The pleasure is immediate and overwhelming. The Protocol amplifying every sensation until I'm gasping, arching into his touch before I can stop myself.
"Good morning to you too," I manage.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't acknowledge the sarcasm. Just keeps working his fingers inside me, thumb circling my clit, building me toward something I'm not ready for.
"Mornings start like this." His voice is matter-of-fact. "You'll wake to my touch. You'll be ready for me. This is the expectation."
Ready for him. Like a machine he can turn on at will.
I'm close—embarrassingly close, after only minutes—when he withdraws his hand.
"Shower."
He rises from the bed. Walks toward the bathroom without looking back. I lie there for a moment, panting, aching, the denied orgasm throbbing between my legs.
Day two. And it's already worse than day one.
The shower is a ritual now.
He turns on the water, adjusts the temperature, waits for steam to rise. Then he pulls me under the spray with him, positions me against the tile wall, and looks at me with those frozen eyes.
"On your knees."
I kneel. The marble is cold and hard, the water streaming down over both of us. He's already hard. Impossible to miss. And the expectation is clear.
"Every morning." He fists his hand in my wet hair, tilts my head back. "You'll service me here. This isn't negotiable. This isn't a reward. This is the baseline of your existence now."
I open my mouth to respond—to argue, to push back, to say something—but he feeds his cock past my lips before I can form words.
The blow job is efficient. Mechanical. He uses my mouth the way he uses everything else.
With precision, with control, with complete disregard for my experience of it.
His hand guides my head, setting the pace, and I take him the way I'm learning to take everything: with silent, seething compliance.
He comes down my throat without warning. Holds my head in place while he pulses, while I swallow, while tears stream from my eyes from the pressure of not gagging.
"Good girl."
The words are hollow. Empty of the heat they carried yesterday. He's already pulling out, already reaching for the soap, already moving on to the next item on his agenda.
I stay on my knees for a moment. Catching my breath. Swallowing the last of him along with my pride.
Then I stand, and we wash in silence.
The Protocol dose happens in the kitchen.
Same ritual as yesterday. Him at the counter, me standing before him, the vial of clear liquid held up to the light. But something's different today. Something in the way my body responds to his proximity, the way my skin prickles when he reaches toward me.
"Open."
I open my mouth. He pours the liquid onto my tongue. I swallow.
The warmth spreads faster this time. Deeper. Within seconds, it's working. The arousal roaring back to life, the sensitivity of my skin increasing until the air itself feels like a caress.
"Day two." He sets down the empty vial. "The Protocol builds with a twenty-four-hour half-life. Yesterday's dose is still partially active. Today's dose adds to it. By the end of the week, you'll reach steady state. A constant level that your body maintains."
"What does that feel like?"
"You'll find out." He turns away. Dismissal. "Breakfast is on the counter. Eat. Then come to my office. I have calls this morning."
He walks away without looking back.
I stand in the kitchen, the Protocol singing in my blood, and realize that today is going to be nothing like yesterday.
The difference is immediate and terrifying.
Everything is more.
His voice, when he speaks, resonates somewhere deep in my chest. The sound of it makes me want to lean toward him, to get closer, to press myself against him like a plant seeking sunlight.
I find myself watching his hands as he types, mesmerized by the movement of his fingers, remembering what those fingers felt like inside me.
The arousal doesn't fade.
Yesterday, there were ebbs and flows. Moments when the need receded, when I could think clearly, when I felt almost like myself.
Today, there's no recession. The want is constant.
A low hum that underlies everything, that colors every thought, that makes it hard to focus on anything except the man sitting three feet away from me.
And my body is learning him.
The first sign is when he shifts in his chair. Before he says anything, before he even looks at me, I'm already turning toward him. Anticipating a command that hasn't been given. My muscles tense in preparation for obedience, and I have to consciously force myself to relax.
The Protocol is attuning me to him. Not just making me responsive. Making me predictive. Teaching my body to read his, to anticipate his needs, to orient around him like a moon around a planet.
I sit on my cushion beside his desk and try not to scream.
The video call starts at ten.
I've been sitting for two hours, trying to read, failing to read. The Protocol won't let me concentrate. Every time Sebastian speaks, even to his assistant, even about spreadsheets, my body responds. My nipples harden. My thighs press together. The wanting is endless, inescapable.
"Stay quiet." He adjusts his camera. "This call is important."
The screen fills with faces. Four men in expensive suits, speaking about development projects and investment returns. Sebastian's voice is different with them: colder, sharper, the voice of a man who eats companies for breakfast.
I try to focus on my book.
Ten minutes into the call, his hand drops to my head.
I freeze. His fingers run through my hair, slow and deliberate, and I know he's not looking at me. He's looking at the screen, talking about market projections, his hand touching me like I'm a pet he's absently stroking.
Then his hand tightens in my hair. Pulls.
"Under the desk." The words are barely audible. "Now."
I look up at him. He's not looking at me. Still focused on the call, still talking about quarterly returns. But his grip on my hair is unmistakable.
He wants me to?—
During a call. While four men watch his face on their screens.
"—the projections are conservative," he's saying, his voice perfectly even. "We'll exceed them by Q3."
I crawl under the desk.
It's dark here. Close. His legs, his lap, the evidence of his arousal straining against his tailored slacks. He's hard. He's been hard this whole time, and I didn't know.
His hand finds my hair again. Guides me forward.
I unfasten his pants. Extract his cock. And while he discusses profit margins with his business associates, I take him in my mouth.
The wrongness of it burns through me. The humiliation, pleasuring him while he conducts business, like I'm not even worth his full attention. But the Protocol won't let me feel only humiliation. It twists the shame into something else, something darker, something that makes me wet despite my fury.
I work him slowly. Quietly. His hand stays in my hair, guiding but not forcing, and above me his voice carries. Perfectly controlled, perfectly steady, giving no indication that a woman is on her knees between his legs.
"Gentlemen, I think we can reconvene next week with the revised figures. My assistant will send calendar invites."
The call is ending. He's tensing, getting close, and I increase my pace?—
"Thank you for your time."
He yanks me up by my hair.
I gasp, his cock sliding from my mouth, and then I'm being hauled out from under the desk, spun around, bent over its surface. Papers scatter. Something crashes to the floor. I can't see what.
"Hands flat on the desk." His voice is rough. Strained. "Don't move."
I press my palms against the wood. Feel him behind me, feel my skirt being shoved up, my underwear yanked to the side.
He slams into me.
No preparation. No gentleness. Just one brutal thrust that buries him to the hilt, that makes me cry out, that knocks the breath from my lungs.
He fucks me like I'm nothing.
Hard, fast, punishing strokes that use my body without any consideration for my pleasure. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. His cock pistons in and out of me, and he's chasing his own release. Using me to get there, taking what he needs, giving nothing back.
I'm wet. The Protocol has made sure of that.
Made me ready for him, made me responsive, made my body a willing vessel for whatever he wants.
But there's no pleasure building. No orgasm approaching.
He's not touching my clit, not angling to hit the spots that made me scream last night. He's just taking.
He comes with a grunt.
He pulses inside me, heat flooding, and then he's pulling out. Stepping back. Leaving me bent over his desk, his cum dripping down my thighs.
"Go read." His voice is flat. Controlled. "I have work to do."
Go read.
Like I'm a child being dismissed. Like what just happened was nothing. A biological function, a bodily need addressed, utterly insignificant.
I straighten up. Pull my skirt down. His cum slides down my inner thigh, the ache of being used without being satisfied still throbbing.
I don't look at him as I leave.
I make it to my room before the rage hits.
It crashes over me like a wave. Fury so intense my hands shake. I pace the length of the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, wanting to scream, wanting to break something, wanting to march back to his office and?—
And what? What power do I have? What recourse?
None.