Chapter 4: Touching myself

Mara

I was supposed to be hurt. Clara’s voice was still ringing in my ears, “Your stupid staff doesn’t knock?”

I didn’t move as I was startled at the sight before me while Marcus’ hard cock continued thrusting deep into her slick pussy as she arched her back on his desk.

Her blonde head snapped toward the door, her fiery temperament flaring instantly. “And what the fuck are you still doing here, you worthless bitch?”

And the smart thing, the dignified thing, would have been to sit in this toilet stall and feel exactly that. Hurt. Insulted. Humiliated.

Yeah. I know.

I’d seen it for maybe three seconds before I started backing out but three seconds was apparently enough for my brain to run the whole film on repeat.

“God,” I breathed out through my teeth.

But, the image of Marcus's thick cock plunging into Clara's wet folds refused to fade.

I shouldn't have been turned on, not after being humiliated like that, but my libido surged traitorously, heat pooling between my thighs as I replayed every detail.

I sat on the toilet lid. I figured my pussy was so wet as I brushed my fingers against the damp fabric of my thong. I yanked them down, exposing my swollen pussy.

I need to feel something, anything, to take my mind off what I just saw, maybe my fingers can do the trick. I raised my skirt and bunched it around my waist and slowly slid my hand down my stomach.

I spread my leg wider on the lid with one hand cupping my full breast through my shirt. I pinched my hardened nipple and wiggled my thumb on it as my other finger went into my folds.

I began to rub my clit with my eyes closed in concentration. My clit throbbed under my fingertip as I circled it roughly

“Yeeahhh…this is what I needed,” I started to rub my clit faster with my middle finger as I felt my orgasm building faster.

Wet sounds filling the small room as I plunged two fingers deep inside, fucking myself hard and fast, juices coating my hand while thoughts of his athletic body pounding me away made my hips buck.

I came with a shuddering gasp, while my forehead was against the cool tile wall, my pussy clenching around my fingers in waves of raw ecstasy, hot cum dripping down to the lid as my body convulsed.

My teeth were in my lip so I didn’t make a sound. Then I sat there for a moment, breathing.

For a moment, the world blurred in a haze of release, the jealousy and hurt momentarily drowned in the flood of pleasure.

Panting, I wiped my fingers on toilet paper, cleaned up the mess with shaky hands, and splashed cold water on my face in the sink.

Straightened my clothes, fixed my hair in the mirror, I took a deep breath, masking the vulnerability with a sardonic smile as I stepped back into the hallway.

I was really embarrassed and ashamed of myself and my stupid libido.

I had been since I’d walked into that office and seen them. And the disgrace of that, the specific shape of it, somehow made it worse.

I genuinely could not tell the difference anymore, if I really loved my sexuality or I was becoming a nuisance.

I walked back to my desk looking like a woman who simply needed the bathroom.

I was very, very good at pretending.

Yesterday night before I caught Marcus fucking a girl in his office this morning, I was in my bed with a printed twelve-page contract and a yellow highlighter, finally reading the contract thing properly.

Pages one through eight were exactly what boring legal documents were designed to be…confidentiality obligations, compensation structure spelled out in clean bullet points, termination conditions for both parties, a mutual NDA.

My highlighter moved twice. I was almost lulled into thinking the whole thing was just corporate, just transactional, just a slightly unusual employment amendment.

Then I turned to page nine.

The clause header was Exclusivity and Third-Party Contact Provisions. I read it once. Then I put the highlighter down and read it again.

My body was to remain exclusive to this arrangement. No outside sexual contact, no exceptions.

One exception though.

Scheduled appearances at… and here was where my eyes stopped moving for a second — the Cum Cellar.

Supervised by him.

Consensual third-party contact at his discretion.

I sat with that for a long time.

The thing I kept waiting to feel was outrage. Disgust. Some version of “who does this man thinks he is” that would give me the clean exit I probably should have taken in his office yesterday when he slid the contract across the desk.

Instead what I felt, sitting in my bed at midnight with the highlighter still in my hand, was something I didn’t have a safe name for.

He didn’t just want access to me privately. He wanted to watch me at the club.

He’d written it into the contract.

He’d put it on page nine specifically, after eight pages of boring language designed to make me lower my guard, because he knew — he already knew — that if I found it on page two I might actually think about it rationally.

I was not thinking rationally.

I signed it at 2 a.m. and emailed it back with a subject line that just said “Signed” because I could not think of a single other thing to write.

I put my phone face-down on the nightstand and told myself to sleep.

It buzzed at 2:03 a.m.

Three minutes. He’d replied in three minutes at two in the morning, which meant he had been awake, waiting, already certain enough of the outcome that he’d stayed up for it. I picked the phone up.

Pack for Friday. Dress code attached.

The image loaded — black lingerie, a mask. Heels that made a very specific statement about what kind of evening was being planned.

Below the image, one more line.

“I don’t want anything decent about you on Friday.”

That was hot enough for me to masturbate myself to bed, what I don’t know is that the exclusivity doesn’t affect him.

It affected just me.

And that was very selfish of him!