9
CHAPTER NINE — DO YOU LIKE SHARPIES?
JAMES
There’s a sound that doesn’t belong in the executive hallway—a little feminine whimper, almost swallowed by the whisper of HVAC and the distant click-clacking of paralegals’ keyboards. I stop in my tracks. Gibson Grant is an open-door kind of place. We say it in every onboarding: transparency, accountability, glass walls and all that shit. But today, Brent’s office door is pulled shut and I know that motherfucker’s up to no good.
I check my watch. What the hell is that asshole up to? Then again, I know how his mind works, especially when it comes to curvy females. Correction: I know how his mind works when it comes to our new curvy paralegal, though at this point, we’re way beyond discussing legal work because Marnie Williams is sheer sex on wheels. She’s innocent, with big blue eyes and golden blonde hair, but don’t think she won’t bite. The sassy woman has a body built for sin, and a mouth that spits challenge even when she’s outnumbered and cornered.
But that’s why we’re both so obsessed. After we fucked Marnie using the pens the other day, I could hardly focus. All I saw wasthe young girl squatting on the conference table as Brent and I worked two ballpoints in and out of her pussy and asshole. Yeah, we did that to an innocent young woman as she cried out with pleasure. Was the door even locked? Who the hell knows? All I know is that Marnie came like a hurricane, crying out our names as she cupped her breasts, her pussy dripping and spasming as her asshole clenched. It was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
But something tells me that my law partner is back at it, like the motherfucker he is. I hover outside the door a full beat, not even pretending to hide. Sure enough, another moan, this one less muffled, and a name half-gasped catches my ears. It’s her. Christ, it’salwaysher these days, and for good reason too. My cock wakes up before the rest of me does, and goddamn, but I’m horny. I need in.
I open the door in a single, smooth motion, careful not to jerk it or draw attention from the secretarial pool. Brent’s office is all bookshelves, heavy beige carpeting, and massive computer monitors. But they’re not working at the moment. Instead, Brent’s got Marnie bent over the edge of his desk, skirt bunched around her waist, blouse gaping wide open as those big tits swing free of the demi-lace cups. He’s behind her, his expression intent—dark, hungry eyes, straight jaw, one hand firm on her thigh while the other cradles the back of her neck. He looks up, just a flicker, as I step in. Doesn’t say a word because that motherfuckerwantsme to watch. What a sick fuck.
I close the door behind me with a click. There’s a lock that I engage with my thumb. I hear the internal latch sink home, and then it’s just us: no outside world, no cases, no rules.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I rasp, leaning against the wall.
Brent doesn’t. Instead, he takes his hand off the curvy girl’s thigh and reaches into a nearby drawer. He produces a Sharpie—double-wide, the kind meant for labeling boxes, posters, and signs. The label’s worn to the plastic, and the cap is gone. He holds it up, eyes locked on me, and then brings it down to trace the length of the curvy girl’s inner thigh.
Marnie shudders. Her hands are flat on the desk, knuckles white, her nails leaving crescent marks on the veneer. She stares straight down, not looking at either of us, but her lips are parted and her chest is heaving, each breath a little hitchy, like she’s on the edge of panic or euphoria and can’t tell which is winning.
“Go on,” I say. “Let’s see if she can take it.”
Brent doesn’t bother with a warning. He slips the thick Sharpie between her legs, brushes the tip against the wet line of her panties, then pushes, slow but relentless. The sound Marnie makes is raw, unfiltered, and it goes straight to my gut.
“Unnnnh!” she moans, head falling back as her pussy’s penetrated. “Ohhhh!”
Brent works the Sharpie inside her, the pace measured and implacable. Marnie’s eyes flutter, and she arches her back. I watch the tension knot her throat, then travel down to her clavicles, her chest. Her tits sway, nipples so hard they resemble diamonds.
Brent glances at me, a quick, dark flicker, then back to her.
“You like this, don’t you, my little fuckslut?” he murmurs in her ear, voice pitched low. “This is your thing.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she lets out a breathless moan, biting her lip.
“Say it,” Brent prompts, pushing the marker in a little deeper.
Marnie closes her eyes and gasps. “Yes, sir. I like it.”
I come closer, so close I can see the tremble in her thighs, the quiver in her hands. I touch her face, thumb under her chin, force her to look at me.
“Tell me why you like it.”
She swallows, mouth dry. “Because it’s dirty. Because I belong to you. Because my pussy is yours to use however you like.”
Brent grunts with approval, then slides the Sharpie out slowly, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. He then pushes it back in with more force. Marnie jolts forward, mouth opening, and I use the opportunity to slip two fingers between her lips. She sucks automatically, greedy, her tongue laving the pads. My cock aches, but I don’t move. Not yet.
Brent draws the pen out again, then—without warning—angles it higher, tracing a cold circle around her tight, puckered asshole.
Marnie’s breath hitches, and she stares at me, wide-eyed.
“Do it,” I growl to Brent, never breaking eye contact with her.
He grins and then with a steady, slow push, he presses the marker against her rosebud, working it until the tip slips just inside. Her whole body tenses, her nails scraping the desk, and she utters a whimper so sharp I think she’ll shatter. But she doesn’t. She holds, then relaxes. Brent growls his approval, circling the tip of the pen to the right, and then to the left.
“You have a beautiful asshole, sweetheart,” he moans, blue eyes fixed to her darkness. “It was made to be fucked and stretched.”
