We stay on the line for another minute, just breathing together, and I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the wetness on my wrist.
Eliza says, “You’ll be okay, Marnie. No matter what. You’re amazing, girlfriend, and there are no wrong answers. Just decisions, and you know it.”
“Thanks,” I mumble tearily. “I appreciate you, Eliza. I really do.”
Then, I hang up and slide down the cabinet to the floor. I’m not sure how long I sit there, but the clock is past midnight when I finally crawl to bed.
Sleep doesn’t come for hours. When it does, my dreams are thick and hot and full of large, masculine hands that twist me this way and that; deep, throaty growls; and the feel of James and Brent with me, cradling my curvy form close while whispering in my ear.
I don’t remember fallingasleep, but I do remember the dream. It starts with the smell: not just cologne, but forest and whiskey and the musky scent of an aroused male animal. There’s a senseof being watched, but it isn’t menacing—just a heat at the back of my neck, a gravity pulling me deeper.
I’m at the firm, but it’s different. The walls are glass, but they shimmer like the surface of a lake at midnight. The city outside is on fire, lights burning in every window. I’m nude except for my heels and the necklace I wore to my dad’s funeral, the gold chain glinting like a warning. My breasts bounce, and to my shame, my pussy’s already slick and slippery, ready to be taken.
Brent appears behind me, huge and immutable, his arms wrapping my body from collarbone to hip. His hand clamps my jaw, tilting my head back until my throat stretches tight as a violin string. The press of him is so real it’s almost painful. His stubble rasps my neck. His mouth is at my ear, the voice a low hum that vibrates all the way down my spine.
“You want this, sweetheart,” he growls. “You want to be ruined.”
Before I can answer, James is in front of me, eyes bright as blue ice, hands on my hips, sliding up to cup my giant tits. His fingers are cold, then hot, then electric as they squeeze and tug at my nipples, making me moan. His lips crash into mine, brutal and perfect, tongue forcing me open. Four hands grip and squeeze and knead, mapping every contour of my skin until I’m nothing but raw nerve endings.
Somewhere in the dream, the floor disappears. I’m floating, or falling, or both at once. The world is just bodies and voices and the hot, wet ache between my thighs. Brent bends me over, ass in the air, legs wide. He leans over my back, pinning me in place with one palm while the other hand fists in my hair.
“You want this,” he rasps, a repeat of what James said earlier. “This is the real you, Marnie.”
James kneels next to me, mouth at my breast, tongue swirling my nipple until it goes diamond-hard, then biting down and making me gasp. He pulls away and strokes himself, then angles his cock at my mouth, slapping it against my lips until I open up and let him in.
There’s no preamble, no slow buildup—just the immediate, desperate press of a massive cock inside me, one at my mouth, one at my pussy. My body takes both, greedy and bottomless. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a moan, half-choked by the thickness stretching my two holes.
“Unnh!” I moan, half in panic, half in ecstasy. “Ohhhh!”
The world shatters into a million shards of pleasure. There is no time, no space, just the collision of sensation: teeth in my shoulder, fingers bruising my waist, the burn of my pussy as Brent fucks me slow and deep, the sting and then the stretched, pulsing fullness as James shoves his veiny cock down my throat. I can’t breathe, but I don’t care.
The two of them sync, a rhythm as old as hunger. Each thrust feeds the other, one cock driving me forward, the other dragging me back. My whole body tenses, then shakes, then explodes—orgasm after orgasm, each one louder and sharper than the last. They don’t stop. The two men fuck me through my release, over and over, until I’m limp, drooling, weeping with relief and need.
When I wake, it’s 3:17 AM. My sheets are twisted and damp, my body shaking with the aftershocks. I gasp for air, hands already between my legs, slick with sweat and arousal. My cunt is throbbing, desperate. I rub fast and hard, hips bucking up into my palm, the pressure building to a scream.
“Unnh!” I gasp. “James! Brent! Ohhhhhh!”
I come so fast and so violently I bite through the inside of my cheek. The pain just makes it sweeter. I arch off the bed, knees locked, jaw clenched as my holes clamp violently, desperate to be filled. For a minute, there’s nothing but the white noise of release, the pleasure so intense it almost hurts.
After, I curl up around the pillow and breathe slow, waiting for my heart to remember what it’s supposed to do. My thighs are sticky, my lips bitten red, my whole self buzzing and electric. I close my eyes, but the dream won’t leave. The two men hover behind my eyelids, their huge forms a deliciously dirty promise to make me trulyfeel.
I don’t sleep again that night. Not really, because I need James and Brent. And now, I know what I need to do.
Dawn splitsmy apartment into zones of pale gold and shadow. I stand at the foot of my bed, nude and lush, letting the light trace my ivory curves. The ache in my muscles is real, even if the hands that left it were not. I flex my fingers, ball them into fists, and open them again. I want to feel powerful. I want to feel new, and yet used at once. I need to be with these men in order to live my fantasies to the fullest.
I choose my armor with care: a blouse of pale silk that’s almost transparent in the sun, a charcoal pencil skirt that emphasizes the sway of my wide hips, and heels that add three inches to my height and sharpen every stride. My reflection in the bathroom mirror is half-finished—makeup on one eye, lipstick only sketched in—but the mouth is set, the eyes bright and glittery.
I practice what I’ll say to them. “I’m in. I want the files.” No, that’s too eager. “I accept. But it’s on my terms.” Too hostile. I try a dozen lines, but none of them sound like me until I finally look at myself and whisper, “I want to know the truth.” That lands, real and final.
The city outside my window is still blue with dawn when I leave, the air cold enough to sting the back of my throat. I walk the blocks to the firm on autopilot, dodging puddles, ignoring the sidewalk philosophers and the dogs straining at leashes. The lobby is empty except for the cleaning crew and the single, silent security guy behind the glass. My heels echo on the marble, each step a countdown to the moment I stop being afraid.
Upstairs, I stride past Ms. Jenkins’s desk—she’s already working, tapping at her tablet, face frozen into its usual rictus. I stop, just to savor the surprise when I say, “I need a private meeting. With both partners. Now.”
She blinks once, and it’s the most human thing I’ve seen her do.
“I’m not sure if Mr. Gibson and Mr. Grant are here yet,” she minces. “It’s early still.”
I stare at her, blue eyes pointed.
