CHAPTER EIGHT – AFTER THE PENS
Marnie
The glass of the conference-room window is so highly polished it gives back not just my face, but every secret hidden under my blouse.
The whole city sprawls behind my reflection—twilight haze, car lights snaking across the river, and way down below, the ant-line of people for whom offices are still just jobs, not crucibles of power or lust. I smooth my skirt, fingers shaking slightly, then use both hands to realign the waistband.
The trembling isn’t even from nerves anymore.
It’s adrenaline, pure and bright, the way I imagine it feels to step out onto a stage with the curtains rising.
The room is quiet now except for the ticking of a ridiculous Scandinavian wall clock, and the memory of expensive cologne that still hangs over everything like a cloud.
I can’t even tell which of the men it’s from—Brent’s is all black pepper and smoke, James’s more citrus and gin—but together, it smells like a pure male musk.
The kind you never quite wash out of your skin, and in fact, want to rub it in deeper until you’re saturated with a male animal’s scent. Or in my case, two male animals.
I catch a whiff of myself in the reflection and it’s shameful, the unmistakable tang of arousal under the perfume.
I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, careful not to look directly at my own eyes in the window because I’m afraid I’ll see too much.
I look for evidence instead: a smudge of lipstick, a dark mark on my throat (none visible yet), a line in my stockings from our dirty play.
To my surprise, everything is still more or less in place.
On the outside, I’m Marnie Williams, new paralegal, unremarkable except for the way my chest doesn’t quite fit the off-the-rack blouses and my heels make me walk with a wobble I can’t quite correct.
Except my body hums with what just happened, and for a second I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive.
I glance at the table, expecting to see the pens—those clinical, gleaming things both men carry, which they used not long ago as tools of humiliation and pleasure. But they’re gone. The only sign left is a damp ring on the glass and a naughty memory that throbs between my thighs.
I reach for my bag, pause, and use my phone as a mirror to check my face. Cheeks too red, pupils too dilated, but nothing that’ll get me flagged by HR unless they start scanning for “excessive carnality.” I blot my lipstick, fix my collar, and inhale slow, then exhale even slower.
When I push open the door, the corridor outside is empty except for the faint, retreating click of expensive men’s shoes.
I walk the length of the hallway on unsteady legs, but by the time I reach the elevators, my stride is almost normal again.
I thumb the button, and as the doors hiss open, I catch one last look at myself in the mirrored panel.
Still me. Still standing. But a different woman on the inside. I hum, I pulse, like a female in heat, and if I’m being honest, I am in heat. I need James and Brent’s cocks and literally crave being stretched again in both my holes.
Oh my god, this is so naughty! But I force myself to behave, at least on the outside.
The ride down is just three floors, but it’s enough time for my mind to run the loop again—Brent’s voice in my ear, James’s hand around my throat, the slickness of cold metal as they filled me, front and back, with those thick pens.
I clench, just once, and the aftershocks make me smile despite myself.
By the time I reach my desk, I’ve got my mask back on: professional, precise, not even a whisper of what just happened behind the closed conference-room door. I log in, queue up a new memo, and start typing with steady hands.
But every now and then, when I lean back in my chair, I let myself daydream: about what I’d say if either man summoned me again.
About what it would feel like to have them both, for real, this time, not just as a punishment but as a promise.
About Saturday night, and how the hours between now and then will crawl by with exquisite, unbearable slowness.
I cross my legs under the desk, knees tight together, and allow myself one small, secret smile.
Let them watch, I think. Let them try to see what I’m really made of.
I can’t wait for the curtain to rise again.
The café across from the firm is packed, as usual, with men who look like they work as hedge fund managers and women who look like they moonlight as trophy wives.
There’s a line out the door, the baristas are doing espresso shots between orders, and the music is pitched so loud you can barely hear your own voice unless you lean in close and shout.
We—me, Eliza, and Jade, another paralegal—snag the corner table by the front window, which is both prime real estate and a stage for every assistant, secretary, and baby lawyer who wants to make a scene.
I set my tray down and immediately start unwrapping a sandwich, not because I’m hungry, but because it gives my hands something to do while my brain preps for the confession I’m about to make.
Jade is the first to notice I’m in a weird mood.
She’s new too, but unbelievably gorgeous in that way that’s intimidating, and yet the woman is effortlessly nice.
“You look like you robbed a bank and got away with it,” she says slyly, fanning herself with a napkin.
“Tell me everything, Marnie. I know you’re hiding something. ”
Eliza gives me a look over the rim of her cold brew. “Yeah, Marn. Spill.”
I let the pause stretch, enjoying it for once. I look at the table: half-eaten sandwiches, two empty oat-milk lattes, a phone screen smudged with fingerprints. It’s as if, by keeping our eyes down, we might avoid the truth for another few seconds.
When I finally speak, it comes out in a rush. “I did something crazy.”
Eliza just arches an eyebrow, the universal sign for “try me, bitch.”
“I made a deal with the partners,” I blurt, then lower my voice. “Like, an actual deal. For information. And sex.”
Jade’s eyes go so round I think her contacts might pop out. “Wait, what?”
I can’t help it—I start laughing, the kind that bubbles up and won’t stop. “I’m serious! Brent and James. Both. At once. There’s a… thing, this weekend.”
For a second, no one says anything. Jade is frozen mid-sip, and Eliza’s fingers go white around her cup.
Then Jade exhales a little too loud. “Holy shit,” she says, and her voice is half awe, half pure terror. “Is that even allowed? Like, in the HR handbook? We’re talking Brent Gibson and James Grant, right? Like the co-heads of our firm?”
I nod as Eliza leans in, all her concern suddenly out on the table. “Are you sure you can handle both of them? Emotionally, I mean. Not physically.” She flicks her gaze at my boobs, which I don’t blame her for.
I shrug.
“It’s not about emotional connection. Brent and James aren’t going to buy me dinner and write me poetry.
Even I’m not so silly as to believe that.
It’s just a transaction because they want my body, and I want theirs.
And,” I add, just to clarify, “I need information about my father’s case.
Except I don’t even know who’s getting the better end of the deal. ”
Jade is the first to recover, her cheeks pink with excitement. “Oh my god, this is so hot. I mean, it’s kind of insane, but also kind of empowering, right? Like, you’re using them as much as they’re using you.”
I nod, tracing a ring around my coffee cup. “That’s how I see it. Brent and James are gods at the firm, but at the end of the day, they’re still men. Hot, powerful, infuriating alpha males, but still.”
Eliza looks thoughtful, pursing her lips. “Do you want it, though? Or is it just the file?”
I meet her eyes. “I want it. I’m not proud, but have you seen our bosses? They’re magnetic. You get close and you can’t think straight. It’s like…” I search for the word, then give up. “It’s like nothing else.”
Jade, emboldened by my honesty, leans in conspiratorially. “So, are you, like, nervous? Or just horny all the time?”
I snort again, then cover my mouth. This girl is hysterical and obviously doesn’t hold back. “Both. Sometimes I can’t even walk down the hall without practically orgasming right then and there.”
Both women giggle with scandalized mirth, but then Eliza sobers. “If you need an out, you tell me. I’ll fake an HR complaint or light the place on fire if I have to.”
“I appreciate it,” I say. “But honestly? I’m good. I just want to get through Saturday night in one piece, and to really savor it. Plus, maybe I’ll get some answers.”
Jade’s eyes go wide again. “So you have a liaison with Brent and James Saturday night?”
I finish my sandwich, dust my fingers off, and smile like a cat that got in the cream. “Already RSVP’d.”
There’s a long pause, then Jade says, “You have to tell us every detail. Like, every single one.”
“Absolutely,” I say, and I mean it.
We finish lunch with the kind of laughter that only happens in girl gangs, each of us a little lighter for having said the thing out loud. When I head back to the office, my cheeks are still flushed, but this time it’s not from shame.
It’s from anticipation.
Cachet is the kind of boutique that looks like it was designed by a billionaire’s mistress: all gold fixtures, plush velvet benches, and racks of lingerie that seem engineered to both seduce and destroy.
Even the mannequins look predatory, all sharp cheekbones and jutting hips, posed mid-pounce in the window.
Eliza and I step inside together, and for a moment, the hush of the place is intimidating.
It’s nothing like the chaos of the café.
Here, every movement feels amplified. The saleswoman behind the counter is wearing a suit so sharp it could open a vein, and she gives us the up-down with practiced subtlety before smiling just enough to bare her perfect teeth.
Eliza heads straight for the lace racks, plucking pieces off like she’s grocery shopping. “You want to go slutty or classic?” she stage-whispers, holding up a red mesh bodysuit with panels cut out of the hips.
I blink. “Um, I’m not sure. Both?”
She laughs. “That’s the spirit.” She rifles through the next rack, unearths a bra that’s nothing but underwire and a scrap of tulle, then a garter belt with matching thigh-highs that actually have tiny crystal bows sewn at the back.
“This,” she says, “will melt their brains. But you need something to wear over it, or you’ll have a wardrobe malfunction at the elevator. ”
I stare at the pile of barely-there options gathering on her arm. “Do people actually buy this stuff?”
Eliza gives me a sidelong glance. “People? Maybe not. But you’re not people anymore, remember? You’re a saucy woman who’s about to please not one, but two handsome male animals.”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse is skipping.
We keep going, picking up increasingly absurd, daring things: a bralette so sheer it’s basically two Band-Aids; panties with a slit right where you’d never admit you wanted one; a robe made entirely of black mesh and feathers.
I protest a little, but Eliza just says, “If you’re doing this, do it all the way. ”
The saleswoman appears out of nowhere, tape measure draped like a snake over her shoulders. “Would you like a fitting?” she asks, eyes laser-focused on my chest.
“I think we’re okay,” Eliza answers for me, but the woman is already sizing me up, pulling the tape snug around my ribs and then across my bust. She writes down a number and hands me a key for the dressing room, her lips curling ever so slightly at our selections.
In the little gold-lit stall, I hang the options on the hook and undress, then try the first set: a lacy demi-cup bra and matching thong that leaves nothing to the imagination.
I stand in front of the mirror, not even sure where to look.
The woman staring back is a stranger, but also somehow more real than any version of me I’ve seen.
I’m about to take it off when Eliza knocks. “Can I see?”
“Fine, but don’t laugh.”
She bursts in and stops dead. “Holy shit, Marn. Brent and James aren’t going to survive. You won’t be wearing these items for more than two seconds.”
I try on the next set: the black garter, the thigh-highs, the mesh robe. I add the ridiculous little feather-trimmed slippers for good measure. I look dangerous. Not like prey at all. Like a woman who could make two ruthless attorneys forget their own names.
Eliza grins, then suddenly gets serious. “You feel okay about this?”
I nod, surprised by how much I mean it. “I want them to lose control. Just once.”
She hugs me from behind, careful not to mess up the feathers. “You will. Promise.”
By the time we check out, the pile on the counter is a monument to overkill: two sets of crotchless panties, three bras, the garter, the robe, and a little satin choker with a gold ring at the throat.
The saleswoman rings it all up without comment, though she does raise an eyebrow as she folds the robe.
Eliza nudges me. “No turning back now.”
I swipe my card, heart pounding. The bag is heavier than it should be, like a promise I’m carrying home.
Outside, the sky is dark and the wind is cold. I pull my coat tight and clutch the bag, feeling the buzz all the way down to my toes.
I picture Saturday night: the penthouse, the eyes on me, the moment before the curtain rises. And for the first time, I’m not afraid.
I’m ready.