"Brent," I gasped, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the table. "James?—"
Brent's fingers on my clit pressed harder, circling faster. "Let go, Marnie. Let us have it. You love being double-fucked because you’re a horny, slutty little girl, so just enjoy it. Climax for us, baby girl. Three…two… one… NOW."
My body obeyed as the spring snapped. My vision whited out, my back bowing as a shuddering, violent release tore through me. A cry was ripped from my throat, raw and unrestrained. My asshole clamped down, convulsing around the smooth, implacable metal inside me, as my pussy burst into a series of violent tremors.
“Ooohhh!” I screamed in the conference room, not caring who heard. “Oh oh oh!”
The pleasure was so sharp it was almost agony, a blinding, all-consuming wave that left me shaking and boneless. My two holes massaged the pens again, hot drips of vaginal juice spattering all over the men’s hands as they fucked me through my orgasm.
“Yes, baby,” Brent rasped, blue eyes glowing. “Fuck yes.”
“Give us everything,” James groaned. “Oh shit shit shit.”
The climax was too much. I collapsed forward, my forehead pressing against the cool, unyielding surface of the conference table, my body twitching through the aftermath, sated and yet totally alive as well. My nipples felt tight, my holes still squeezing the implements within. Oh god, I’m such a slut!
Yet the men loved it. Their eyes ate me up, and they didn't stop either . James worked the pen in my pussy a few more slow, deep strokes, drawing out the spasms until I was whimpering with oversensitivity. Brent too, moved his pen in and out of my asshole, humming with approval before carefully withdrawing the implement. It came out shiny and wet from a combination of ass sweat, lube, and body fluids.
“Fuuuuck,” he moaned, staring at the implement. Then, he took a long lick of the pen and smiled devilishly at me. “I love the taste of your ass on this pen, sweetheart. I can’t wait to get more.”
What? Was this man for real? Did he just lick a dirty pen that had just been in my anal canal? But as I watched, he did it again before thrusting the writing implement into his pocket and winking.
“I want to have this ready for later today,” he chuckled. “I have an important signing, and this is the pen to do it with.”
Brent did the same with his ballpoint, lifting it to his nose for a deep inhale, before depositing it in his pocket.
“I have some documents to sign this afternoon, and I’ll definitely be signing them with this, baby girl. It’ll remind me of you.”
I stared at the two powerful alpha males as they winked at me once more before turning to the door.
"Saturday. Seven o'clock. My place,” Brent rasped while pulling the door open. “Don't be late."
Then, the door shut and I was alone in the conference room once more. What the hell just happened? Did I just get double fucked by two ballpoints while crouched on a mahogany table? Did Brent and James just bring me to climax by double-penetrating me with writing implements that they fully intended to use later today? Oh my god.
Then, I pushed myself off the table in a flash, while simultaneously straightening my blouse, pulling my skirt down, and trying to look decent. The door was no longer locked, and anyone could come in! I ran a hand through my hair, trying to make myself look “normal,” although of course, that’simpossible. My flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, and glowing skin gave it away, but a girl’s got to try. Still, when I finally exited the conference room, a secret smile, private and deeply satisfied, curved my lips because despite the depravity of the situation, I loved it. I loved being with Brent and James, and I adore how filthy and unrelenting the two alpha males are. What will they have in store for me on Saturday?
Because I can’t wait to find out.
8
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 yourskin, 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 thisalive.
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 thebutton, 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.
