Chapter 6 #2
Then she reached into the cabinet and withdrew an item that made the blood drain from my face and rush, simultaneously, to the place between my legs.
She pulled out a harness. Black leather, with buckles and adjustable straps, and attached to its front was a phallus—not grotesquely large but substantial, made of some material that looked almost lifelike in the warm light of her office, with a slight upward curve that my body seemed to understand before my mind did.
But it was the other piece—the internal attachment, a shorter, curved protrusion that faced inward, clearly designed to fit inside the wearer—that made me understand what was about to happen with a clarity that robbed me of breath.
She was going to put that inside herself. And then she was going to put the other part inside me.
Penelope stepped into the harness. She adjusted the straps at her hips, tightening them with small, expert tugs, and then…
I watched, mesmerized, horrified, burning, as she reached between her own legs and guided the internal piece into herself.
Her lips parted slightly as it slid home, and I saw her eyes flutter, just for an instant, before the composure reasserted itself.
She settled the harness into place, buckled the final strap, and stood before me in her red garter belt and bra and stockings and pearls, with the phallus jutting from between her thighs like something out of a fever dream I’d never had but had apparently always been waiting to have.
“Turn around,” she said. Her voice had dropped half a register. “Face the wall. Naughty girls don’t get to watch themselves getting fucked.”
I turned around with a whimper of shame.
My vision swam. Black spots danced at the edges, and for a moment I genuinely thought I might pass out—not from pain but from the sheer, overwhelming collision of humiliation and terror and need that was happening inside my body.
My knees shook. My hands gripped the edge of the desk so hard my fingers ached.
I could feel my own arousal running down the inside of my thigh, a slow, damning trickle that proved everything the biometric report had said about me.
I felt her behind me. The warmth of her body, close now, closer than before.
The smooth, firm pressure of the phallus against the back of my thigh, then higher, sliding through the wetness that coated me, finding the entrance to my body with a precision that seemed almost mechanical but felt anything but.
“Breathe,” Penelope said, and her hand found the small of my back again, steadying me, pinning me in place.
The other hand guided the shaft. I felt the tip press against the opening of my desperate sheath.
Penelope didn’t push roughly or suddenly, but with a patient, insistent pressure that gave my body time to understand what was happening, but no time at all to resist it.
She thrust forward.
The sound I made as she entered me started low in my chest and climbed through my throat and out of my mouth in a sustained, breaking note—not pain, though there was a stretching, a fullness that bordered on too much, but something beyond pain, beyond pleasure, beyond any sensation I had language for.
She filled me. She filled the emptiness that had been aching inside me since the conference room, since the white lace panties on the screen, since the first meeting where I’d pressed my knees together and pretended I wasn’t wet.
“Oh,” I said. Just that. Just oh. A syllable that contained everything.
Penelope began to move. Her hips drew back slowly, the phallus sliding partway out of me, and then pressed forward again—deeper this time, the curved tip finding a spot inside me that made white light bloom behind my eyes.
Her rhythm felt unhurried at first, each thrust deliberate and complete, and I could hear—beneath my own ragged breathing, beneath the wet sounds of our bodies meeting—her breath, quickening again, the way it had during the paddling.
The internal attachment was working inside her too.
Each time she thrust into me, she was driving it into herself, and the sounds she made—small, controlled, but increasingly urgent—told me that whatever wall of composure she’d built was beginning to crack.
Her hands found my hips. She gripped them hard—harder than I’d expected, her fingers pressing into the soft flesh, digging in with an intensity that felt like honest need.
The thrusts came faster. The desk rocked beneath me, its legs scraping faintly against the carpet, and I pushed back against her—meeting each stroke with my hips, taking her deeper, wanting her deeper, wanting to be so full of her that there was no room left inside me for shame or confusion or the memory of Kevin’s anxious, inadequate hands.
The wave of pleasure came back. Not gradually this time; it surged, rising from the base of my spine with a speed and force that left no room for thought.
Penelope’s hips drove forward and the curved tip struck that place inside me again and her pelvis ground against my burning, paddled bottom.
The pain and the pleasure fused into a single, blinding sensation that was both and neither and more than both, and I came.
The orgasm tore through me. My back arched so sharply I thought my spine might snap.
My mouth opened in a scream that I couldn’t hear because the blood was roaring in my ears, and every muscle in my body clenched at once—my fingers on the desk, my thighs around hers, the deep internal muscles that gripped the phallus inside me in rhythmic, helpless contractions that went on and on and on, wave after wave after wave, each one pulling me under and releasing me only long enough to gasp before the next one hit.
Behind me, Penelope made a sound like nothing I’d heard from her: a sharp, broken cry, startlingly vulnerable, so different from her measured voice in meetings or her calm instructions.
Her hips stuttered against me, losing their rhythm, and her fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise as her own orgasm overtook her.
I felt her body shake against mine, felt the tremor run through her thighs and into my thighs, felt us connected—joined, locked together in this impossible, terrible, transcendent moment—as we both shattered at once.