"Then he tells her he needs an internal measurement. He caps the pen and—and he pushes it inside her. Just slides it in while she's still throbbing from the clitoral stimulation. The pen is smooth and hard and nothing like a cock or a dildo, and that wrongness makes her clench around it."
The pen at my clit disappears. I hear the click of the cap.
Oh fuck. Oh no. He wouldn't?—
"Keep reciting, Scarletta."
But before I can continue, before I can form another word, I feel it—smooth plastic pressing against my opening, teasing for just a heartbeat before it slides inside me. Not just the pen, though. His finger too. One thick digit alongside the hard barrel of the pen, stretching me, filling me in a way that's so utterly wrong it short-circuits my brain.
The dual penetration makes me gasp—the clinical smoothness of the plastic contrasted with the warm, slightlyrough texture of his skin. Two distinctly different sensations occupying the same intimate space.
My eyes slam shut on instinct, my body trying to retreat somewhere inside itself where this isn't happening, where I'm not being penetrated with office supplies while reciting my own filthy fantasies.
But that's cowardice. That's hiding.
I force my eyes back open. Force myself to see the scene in the mirror—my legs spread, his hand between my thighs, his expression of cool clinical interest as he watches my face for every micro-expression of response.
"Scarletta?" His voice is patient but firm. Waiting. The pen and his finger remain perfectly still inside me, a constant presence I can't ignore or forget. "You stopped. Keep reciting."
"Then he pushes the pen up—" The words come out as a strangled squeak because he's moving now, not just moving butfingeringme. Not the gentle exploration I'd expected but actual fucking—his finger and the pen working in tandem, pumping in and out of me with purpose and intensity. Hard. Rough. The kind of rhythm that makes my thighs shake and my breath catch in my throat.
Then… something happens here. Something I wasn't prepared for. Something my body does entirely without my permission.
I'm coming.
Not the gentle build I'm used to when I touch myself alone in my apartment. Not the slow climb toward release that I can control, can edge away from, can decide when to tip over into.
This ishard. Harder than anything I've ever experienced before in my entire life. A detonation that starts where his finger and that goddamn pen are working inside me and radiates outward in concentric waves of sensation so intense my vision actually whites out at the edges.
I can't see. Can't hear anything except the roaring in my ears and the sounds coming out of my own mouth—high, desperate noises I don't recognize, whimpers, and gasps, and something that might be Master or might just be incoherent begging.
Can't function.
My hips are jerking against his hand, chasing more of that unbearable pleasure even as it threatens to shatter me into pieces. My fingers have lost their grip on my thighs entirely, hands scrabbling uselessly at the leather padding beneath me. Everything in my body has narrowed to a single point of overwhelming sensation.
I'm dimly aware that I'm making a spectacle of myself. Coming undone in front of him, on his hand, penetrated by office supplies while mirrors show my degradation from every angle.
But I can't stop it.
Can't control it.
Can't do anything butfeel.
