C5 CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

HERE for an interview. An interview for Christ’s sake. What the hell is he talking about? He’s calling me a slut and talking about me like I’m a toy. And what, is he thinking he’s hiring me, as like his personal sex assistant or something—

But shit, that feels good. He’s started nibbling with teasing bites at my ear while he’s still massaging my breasts. God, how long has it been since I’ve felt this? I haven’t been touched in so long. I can’t even remember the last time.

It’s not just hot between my legs, it’s fucking pulsing down there. I need— I mean, God, I need—holy shit—can I come from just this alone? Someone playing with my breasts?

But he’s not just playing. I mean, every guy I’ve known has just been a mauler. They get all excited about my big boobs and just start yanking on them. But this guy is like a virtuoso. I bet sex with him would be insane. Because that’s what he wants, right? That’s where this is leading? He wants a Personal Assistant he can fuck when he wants? Hell just keep me here beside his office or in it, push a button probably ,and I'll also come in and blow him good

OR he’ll fuck me or something? I’d said I’d never get this low, degrade myself,… but if it could feel like this?

I can’t help the high-pitched whine that comes out of my throat. Fuck. I’m almost there. And it’s been so long. So long…

I can’t think. Oh God, if he would just touch me there. Maybe I could touch me there. He’d find that hot, right? And that’s what this is about? Sex? What would it feel like if he was sucking on my nipple instead of just playing with his fingers? His face is so smooth-shaven, but even the thought of his tongue—

Another whine comes out of me, and he sucks and bites at the back of my neck.

Holy shit, that’s hot.

I’m so close. So fucking close. He’s gotta know. But he’s not doing anything about it. Fuck it. I put my hand down the front of my pants. A girl’s gotta get it done sometimes.

“That’s right, my dirty girl,” he hisses in my ear. “Make yourself a little whore for me.”

His words should disgust me. They should not be turning me on even more as my fingers find my clit.

“Show me how bad you want this job. Make yourself come.” His voice lowers, but the words are intense.

His grip on my breasts continues the same massaging pressure, but he’s twisted my body slightly sideways so he can see my face. We’re looking eye to eye and all traces of the nice guy fall away as he sneers, “Dirty bitch, I want to see your cum face, you trashy fucking bimbo whore.”

The breath is knocked out of me at the nastiness of his words. And in the same instance, I come harder than I ever have before in my life.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at 8:30 sharp.”

Those were his parting words to me as I stumbled out of his office half an hour ago. My mind still feels like it’s in a haze as I ride the light rail back to my apartment south of San Jose.

Did that just all really happen? Maybe I fell asleep in the lobby and had some crazy sex dream?

Or not. Because when I reach in my pocket, the short-term security pass I was issued is still there.

Which means… holy shit. All that really just happened. I exposed myself in front of Bryan Stirling, CEO and billionaire, and he just hired me on to be his—what? Am I just there for sex or will I actually be doing any work? Did I just accept a job as a sex worker? As a prostitute? Because isn’t that what accepting money for sex is? Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.It’s getting close to five o’ clock and the train is packed. I’m holding onto one of the poles and sweating through my cheap suit. I feel sick. This is what I’ve fought against my whole life. To be an object to be used by men. To be their whore. I remember his words right at the end. Dirty bitch. Trashy fucking bimbo whore.

It makes other words echo in my ears: Tell anyone and you’ll be sorry. No one will believe a whore like you, and I’ll get your daddy fired from the bank. Besides, you’re just a little slut like always, begging for it.

I squeeze my eyes shut in fury at the humiliation and degradation of those words. I always swore I’d never be what Mr. Macintyre exclaimed all those times when he came into my room. My parents invited dad’s boss over twice a month for dinner where they got as drunk as skunks and never noticed Mr. Macintyre didn’t leave as soon as they stumbled up to their room. He started touching me when I was sixteen and threatened that he’d get my dad fired if I ever told anyone. It lasted until I left for Stanford at nineteen.

I hated him. Hated what he did to me.

So how could I come after Bryan said such similar things?

I swallow hard even as tears bite at my eyes. Dammit. Im almost at my stop... I press angry palms at my eyes for a second to get myself under control. Okay. No way am I breaking my record of not crying for a year and a half, not over this.

Then