The Plum in McDonald’s part two
sted open with a sharp, decisive snap. It was a thick hair grease, infused with aloe vera and lime, designed to soothe scalp irritation but repurposed here for a much more visceral task. She didn't say a word as she approached him, the scent of citrus and medicinal herbs cutting through the heavy aroma of sweat and leather.
She dipped two fingers deep into the jar, scooping out a generous dollop of the translucent cream. As she smeared the grease across his raw, purple skin, Elijah let out a long, shuddering moan. The initial contact was a shock—a biting, clinical cold that made his muscles jump—but as she began to rub the aloe in circular motions, the searing fire began to dim. The lime-scented grease acted as a cooling veil, pulling the heat out of the welts and replacing the stinging agony with a heavy, soothing numbness.
"Does that feel good, baby?" she asked, her voice humming with a low, playful vibration.
Elijah let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his forehead pressed hard against the navy blue desk.
"Yes... it feels so good. Please, don't stop," he whimpered, the request sounding desperate even to his own ears. Liakádas let out a short, sharp laugh at his plea, the sound echoing off the pink sandstone walls.
"Don't you worry, honey. I won't."
She continued to work the aloe grease into his skin, her movements methodical and thorough, until the jar was scraped completely clean. She left nothing but a thin, glistening film of lime-scented residue over the purpled flesh of his rear. With a final, loud pat on his bottom, she stepped back.
"There we go."
Liakádas gave his bottom one final, sharp pat that echoed through the small office. She reached down and hoisted him up from the desk with a surprising amount of strength, her grip firm on his arms. As Elijah steadied himself on the pink sandstone tiles, his legs felt like lead and his head swam with a dizzying rush of blood.
"You've been stagnant for too long, Elijah. Lying across my lap and draped over a desk is fine for the punishment, but your circulation is probably shot," Liakádas said, her voice returning to that commanding, manager-like tone. She stepped back and sank into one of the swivel chairs, crossing her legs and leaning back with an expression of pure, leisurely authority. "We can't have you fainting from a drop in blood pressure. You need to get the blood flowing back into your limbs, and that means some light exercise."
She pointed to a spot on the pink sandstone tiles exactly three feet in front of her seat. "Over there. Now."
Elijah moved with a stiff, mechanical gait, each step a reminder of the trauma inflicted on his backside. Even with the cooling aloe grease acting as a buffer, the friction of his glutes rubbing together felt like sandpaper on a raw wound. He winced with every stride, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches as he reached the designated spot. He stood there, naked and exposed, the sterile fluorescent light highlighting every tremor in his thighs.
"Jumping jacks," Liakádas commanded, her voice a smooth blade of authority.
"Keep going till I say stop. And I want to see a full extension on every rep."
As Elijah began the first jump, the motion was agonizing. Despite the cooling veil of the aloe grease, the sudden expansion and contraction of his glute muscles pulled at the purpled welts, sending fresh spikes of heat through his nerves. He winced with every landing, his breath hitching in his throat, his body trembling under the weight of the lingering trauma. The 30-year-old also blushed, a sudden, jarring vulnerability as his penis and testicles flopped loosely between his thighs with every jarring impact. There was no fabric to hold them, no barrier to hide the awkward, rhythmic swing of his genitals, and the sheer lack of modesty made him feel like a child caught in a lie. The smirk on Vivilia’s face did nothing to decrease his embarrassment.
"One. Two. Three," she counted, her voice a rhythmic metronome. By the sixtieth rep, Elijah was gasping, his skin slick with sweat and the scent of lime and salt. He collapsed forward for a minute of recovery, his chest heaving, his muscles vibrating from the sudden exertion.
"Now," she commanded, her voice cutting through his recovery, "run in place. Knees up to the waist. Now!" For another sixty seconds, he bobbed up and down, his legs feeling like lead pipes, the friction of his thighs against the raw, bruised skin of his rear making him whimper. When she finally signaled him to stop, he practically collapsed onto the pink sandstone floor, lying flat on his stomach with a sigh of pure, exhausted relief.
"Stand up," she ordered after a minute of silence. "Curl-ups. Bring those knees all the way up to your chin. Hold each one for five seconds before switching." Elijah hesitated, glancing at the hard tile.
“ I would let you lie on your back on the floor to do them," Liakádas added with a cruel little smile, "but if you do, your backside hits the floor. That would be agony, wouldn't it?" He gritted his teeth and stood straight, muscles screaming as he labored through the slow, agonizing holds, his body trembling under the strain.
Once the final curl-up was complete, she commanded, “Lie over my lap. This time, put your upper half there while your lower half lays on and hangs off the other chair.”
Elijah obeyed, his muscles twitching as he draped himself across the gap between the chairs. For sixty seconds, Liakádas used the heels of her palms to knead his bruised glutes. She worked the flesh with a deep, rhythmic pressure, massaging the lime-scented grease further into the purpled skin. The sensation was a confusing blur of agony and relief, the pressure forcing the blood back into the damaged tissue while the friction sent fresh sparks of heat through his nerves.
Suddenly, she gripped his waist with surprising strength and hoisted him upright.
"Balance," she commanded, pointing to the second black swivel chair next to her green one.
“Move it to the center of the room and stand on top of it. Now."
Elijah shuffled the chair into the open space, his bare feet slapping against the sandstone. He stepped up, feeling precarious and exposed as he balanced on the leather seat. Liakádas slid her green swivel chair back behind the desk, creating a wide berth. She began to circle him, her movements slow and predatory, her turquoise eyes acting like a scanner. She paused to inspect the lean muscle of his calves, then moved upward to the curve of his waist and the flush of his chest, her gaze lingering on every vulnerability he had left. Being stripped bare under her clinical scrutiny made the air feel colder, and he felt a hot wave of embarrassment crash over him as he realized he was nothing more than a specimen under her lens.
"Down," she instructed after the seventh set of 60 seconds had passed. The word was a sharp snap that broke his concentration. As soon as his feet hit the tile, Liakádas stepped forward and guided him down, not to the chair, but flat onto the pink sandstone floor. The surface was cool and unyielding, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his bruised rear.
"You've pushed your body to the limit, Elijah," she murmured, her voice softening into a velvet purr.
"Those muscles are screaming. It’s time we look after them." She knelt beside him, her movements fluid and graceful. She started at the base of his skull, her thumbs digging into the tight knots of his neck with a precision that made him shudder. Her hands moved like waves, rolling over his shoulders and down the length of his arms, kneading the tension out of his triceps and forearms with a firm, rhythmic pressure that felt like a benediction after the storm.
Elijah let out a long, ragged moan, his eyes fluttering shut as the sheer relief flooded his system. "Does this feel good, baby?" she whispered, her fingertips tracing the line of his spine.
"Yes... oh god, yes... please don't stop," he whimpered, his voice thick with a mixture of exhaustion and desire. Liakádas let out a small, knowing giggle, her breath warm against his skin.
"Don't worry, honey. We still have two more minutes of this—not counting this little pause,” she teased before plunging her palms back into his muscle, drawing another strangled sound of pleasure from his lips.
Once the three minutes evaporated, Liakádas stood and pointed toward the navy blue manager’s desk.
"Final exercise. Get on top and walk back and forth. Cover every inch of that surface, and for heaven's sake, don't slip."
Elijah scrambled up, his bruised rear glistening with lime grease, and paced the length of the desk for sixty agonizing seconds. When she finally signaled him down, he descended with extreme caution, dropping to his knees and sliding off the edge like a piece of wet soap to avoid a catastrophic impact on his tailbone.
"Endurance is one thing," Liakádas murmured, her eyes darkening.
"But let's see how you handle a different kind of pressure."
She informed him she drove a yellow Durango and vanished briefly, returning not only with his bundled clothes but with a roll of heavy-duty duct tape scavenged from the storage closet. She layered his clothing into a makeshift cushion on the pink sandstone floor and ordered him atop it. With efficient, ruthless movements, she bound his wrists together and slapped a strip of tape across his mouth, muffling his protests into low, vibrating hums.
Liakadas spread his legs wide, her gaze locking onto his groin with a predatory hunger.
"Time to see how that Frankfurt sausage tastes," she whispered. Without another word, she lunged forward, engulfing him in one greedy, seamless gulp. Elijah let out a muffled scream behind the tape, his body convulsing as she began a ruthless assault. She sucked with a vacuum-like intensity, her cheeks hollowing out with loud, wet slurping noises as she lashed her tongue against him and scraped her teeth across his skin.
As she worked her way down, the long, dark curtain of her raven hair fell forward, brushing against his testicles, well, her fingernail scratched his inner thighs. The coarse strands acted like a thousand tiny needles, irritating the sensitive skin while she focused her attention on the crown and the meatus. She attacked his frenulum with surgical precision, her tongue flickering like a snake, creating a frantic, electric friction. Elijah looked down, meeting her turquoise gaze; she looked back with a sadistic glint, her eyes wide and hungry. He gritted his teeth, fighting the surge of pleasure, refusing to give her the satisfaction of an easy victory.
But the more he resisted, the more insistent her ministrations became. She increased the vacuum pressure, her throat tightening as she swallowed him deeper. After a minute of this relentless suction, the dam broke.
Elijah’s body arched off the makeshift cushion, a muffled, guttural roar vibrating against the duct tape. He tried to clench his muscles and fight the tide, but Liakádas sensed the struggle and leaned into it, increasing the suction until the vacuum pressure became an irresistible force. The tension snapped. He surrendered with a violent shudder, his hips jerking upward as the first hot burst of semen collided with the back of her throat.
Liakádas didn’t pull away or bob her head; she remained locked in place, her lips sealed tight around him to ensure every drop was captured. She let out a low, vibrating moan of triumph, feeling the rhythmic pulses of his orgasm splatter against her palate. Her turquoise eyes remained wide and fixed on him, watching his face contort in an expression of sheer, helpless ecstasy. Even after his orgasm ended, and it persisted for a full minute, she didn’t stop. Vivilia continued fellating him with a slow, methodical suction, draining the last lingering drops of heat until his penis went completely limp and heavy inside her mouth.
Still wanting more, she shifted her position, sliding her mouth lower to cradle the underside of his shaft. She wrapped her hand around the base of his groin, squeezing the flesh with a firm, calculated pressure that pushed the remaining fluids forward. Her fingers worked in tandem with her tongue, sliding up the length of him in rhythmic pulses. One by one, she coaxed out five more translucent spirits of semen, each burst a small, shuddering surrender that she swallowed with a loud, appreciative gulp. When she tried for a sixth and felt nothing but a faint, exhausted twitch, she finally pulled back with a wet, popping sound.
Liakádas reached into the desk drawer and retrieved a pair of heavy-duty office scissors. She leaned over him, the scent of the lime-grease and salt still thick in the air, and snipped the duct tape binding his wrists with a sharp, metallic *snick*. She peeled the adhesive from his skin with agonizing slowness, letting him feel the slight sting of the pull before she moved to his face. The tape ripped away from his lips with a sudden, jarring snap, freeing his mouth.
"Recover for a few minutes, then dress yourself and head out," she murmured, her voice now a soft, lingering caress.
Vivilias reached into his discarded khakis, sliding out his phone with a practiced flick of the wrist. Her thumbs danced across the screen, navigating to his notes app to type a string of digits and a residential address. After giving the phone back to him, she added, “Call me if you want to feast on my reproductive area, my breasts, or shoot your seed into my other two holes.”
Elijah stared up at her, his jaw dropping in a mix of shock and lingering sensory overload. Liakádas just laughed, the sound rich and knowing.
“You need to taste how delicious you are Elijah,”
She leaned down, her movement slow and deliberate, and pressed her lips firmly against his. It wasn't a tentative kiss; it was a claim. She tasted of salt and the faint, metallic tang of his own release, her lips soft but commanding. She lingered there for a few heartbeats, breathing his air, before pulling away with a sharp, lingering pop. A small, silver thread of saliva connected them for a second before it snapped, leaving him breathless and dazed on the makeshift cushion of his clothes.
Liakádas straightened her black pants and smoothed her hair with a clinical sort of elegance, as if the last hour of intensity had been nothing more than a brief morning meeting. She walked toward the door, her boots clicking with a newfound lightness. As she reached the threshold, she paused and turned back to him. She pressed two fingers to her lips and blew him a slow, theatrical kiss—a playful, mocking gesture that acknowledged his total defeat. Then, she stepped out and closed the door with a definitive thud.
Elijah lay there for four minutes, staring at the pink sandstone ceiling. The silence of the office felt heavy, vibrating with the ghost of the screams and the wet, rhythmic sounds of her hunger. His mind was a fragmented mess; he felt raw, emptied, and strangely anchored to the floor. He eventually rolled over, his bruised backside protesting with a sharp, searing heat that made him gasp. With trembling fingers, he gathered his scattered clothes. He slid into the cotton underwear, the fabric clinging to his sensitized skin, and pulled the green khakis over his legs with a series of winces.
Just as he was buttoning his shirt, the lock clicked. Liakádas stepped back inside, her expression neutral but her eyes dancing with a lingering mischief.
"Forgot something," she said simply. In her hand was a heavy, industrial screwdriver. Without looking at him, she grabbed the green swivel chair and dragged it across the tiles toward the wall. She climbed onto the seat, reaching high into the corner where the AC vent met the ceiling. With a series of metallic screeches, she loosened the screws and pried the vent cover away, reaching deep into the dark cavity of the wall.
She withdrew a small, blinking black lens—a hidden security camera, tucked away and forgotten by the corporate installers.
“This isn't monitored actively by the front office or the regional manager," she explained, sliding the device into her pocket.
"But it records on a local loop. If someone did a random audit or a tech check, they'd find a very interesting movie of a customer service rep and a manager playing house in the office. I’d be fired before the shift ended."
She held up the tiny lens, a predatory smile curling her lips, "I can relive every shudder, every muffled scream, and every drop you gave me. Do you want a copy, Elijah? I could send you the highlights."
Elijah felt a heat crawl up his neck that had nothing to do with his bruised backside.
"I... I'll get back to you on that," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. Rasin turned around and began back away tiwards the door, worried if he turned his back on her, she might try to pinch or deliver another slap to his butt.
"Smart boy," she teased, her voice dripping with a playful, mocking sweetness as he finally stepped out into the dining area.
Elijah scanned the room, his eyes darting from the teenagers laughing over fries to the exhausted father staring blankly into a coffee cup. Every face looked utterly normal, oblivious and undisturbed. A wave of relief washed over him; the world hadn't ended, and the screams he’d let out hadn't triggered a corporate lockdown. He hurried toward the exit, the fabric of his khakis rubbing against his bruised glutes with every step, a searing reminder of the woman who had just dismantled his dignity.
Outside, the bright midday sun hit the polished curves of his red Ferrari, the car gleaming like a trophy in the asphalt lot. He was barely two steps from the driver's side door when Liakádas emerged from the restaurant, her stride confident and predatory. She stopped a few feet away, gesturing back toward the thick mahogany door and the heavy black weatherstripping of her office. She explained that the exterior concrete block walls and thick white paint had rendered the room virtually soundproof, ensuring their private theater of pain had remained a secret from the dining room.
“Wait right here,” Liakádas commanded, her eyes dropping to the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She noticed the cautious, gingerly wince as he leaned toward the car door, the fabric of his khakis tightening over the swollen, purpled flesh beneath. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
"You’re not going to make it through a ten-minute commute on that raw backside. You’ll be screaming before you hit the first red light. I'll get you a pillow."
Elijah stood frozen, his mind looping the image of the hidden camera and the feeling of the belt. He stared at her, half-convinced he had hallucinated the entire ordeal—the aloe grease, the vacuum suction, the clinical violence. He watched, bewildered, as she turned on her heel and marched toward a nearby bedroom store across the parking lot.
She dipped two fingers deep into the jar, scooping out a generous dollop of the translucent cream. As she smeared the grease across his raw, purple skin, Elijah let out a long, shuddering moan. The initial contact was a shock—a biting, clinical cold that made his muscles jump—but as she began to rub the aloe in circular motions, the searing fire began to dim. The lime-scented grease acted as a cooling veil, pulling the heat out of the welts and replacing the stinging agony with a heavy, soothing numbness.
"Does that feel good, baby?" she asked, her voice humming with a low, playful vibration.
Elijah let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his forehead pressed hard against the navy blue desk.
"Yes... it feels so good. Please, don't stop," he whimpered, the request sounding desperate even to his own ears. Liakádas let out a short, sharp laugh at his plea, the sound echoing off the pink sandstone walls.
"Don't you worry, honey. I won't."
She continued to work the aloe grease into his skin, her movements methodical and thorough, until the jar was scraped completely clean. She left nothing but a thin, glistening film of lime-scented residue over the purpled flesh of his rear. With a final, loud pat on his bottom, she stepped back.
"There we go."
Liakádas gave his bottom one final, sharp pat that echoed through the small office. She reached down and hoisted him up from the desk with a surprising amount of strength, her grip firm on his arms. As Elijah steadied himself on the pink sandstone tiles, his legs felt like lead and his head swam with a dizzying rush of blood.
"You've been stagnant for too long, Elijah. Lying across my lap and draped over a desk is fine for the punishment, but your circulation is probably shot," Liakádas said, her voice returning to that commanding, manager-like tone. She stepped back and sank into one of the swivel chairs, crossing her legs and leaning back with an expression of pure, leisurely authority. "We can't have you fainting from a drop in blood pressure. You need to get the blood flowing back into your limbs, and that means some light exercise."
She pointed to a spot on the pink sandstone tiles exactly three feet in front of her seat. "Over there. Now."
Elijah moved with a stiff, mechanical gait, each step a reminder of the trauma inflicted on his backside. Even with the cooling aloe grease acting as a buffer, the friction of his glutes rubbing together felt like sandpaper on a raw wound. He winced with every stride, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches as he reached the designated spot. He stood there, naked and exposed, the sterile fluorescent light highlighting every tremor in his thighs.
"Jumping jacks," Liakádas commanded, her voice a smooth blade of authority.
"Keep going till I say stop. And I want to see a full extension on every rep."
As Elijah began the first jump, the motion was agonizing. Despite the cooling veil of the aloe grease, the sudden expansion and contraction of his glute muscles pulled at the purpled welts, sending fresh spikes of heat through his nerves. He winced with every landing, his breath hitching in his throat, his body trembling under the weight of the lingering trauma. The 30-year-old also blushed, a sudden, jarring vulnerability as his penis and testicles flopped loosely between his thighs with every jarring impact. There was no fabric to hold them, no barrier to hide the awkward, rhythmic swing of his genitals, and the sheer lack of modesty made him feel like a child caught in a lie. The smirk on Vivilia’s face did nothing to decrease his embarrassment.
"One. Two. Three," she counted, her voice a rhythmic metronome. By the sixtieth rep, Elijah was gasping, his skin slick with sweat and the scent of lime and salt. He collapsed forward for a minute of recovery, his chest heaving, his muscles vibrating from the sudden exertion.
"Now," she commanded, her voice cutting through his recovery, "run in place. Knees up to the waist. Now!" For another sixty seconds, he bobbed up and down, his legs feeling like lead pipes, the friction of his thighs against the raw, bruised skin of his rear making him whimper. When she finally signaled him to stop, he practically collapsed onto the pink sandstone floor, lying flat on his stomach with a sigh of pure, exhausted relief.
"Stand up," she ordered after a minute of silence. "Curl-ups. Bring those knees all the way up to your chin. Hold each one for five seconds before switching." Elijah hesitated, glancing at the hard tile.
“ I would let you lie on your back on the floor to do them," Liakádas added with a cruel little smile, "but if you do, your backside hits the floor. That would be agony, wouldn't it?" He gritted his teeth and stood straight, muscles screaming as he labored through the slow, agonizing holds, his body trembling under the strain.
Once the final curl-up was complete, she commanded, “Lie over my lap. This time, put your upper half there while your lower half lays on and hangs off the other chair.”
Elijah obeyed, his muscles twitching as he draped himself across the gap between the chairs. For sixty seconds, Liakádas used the heels of her palms to knead his bruised glutes. She worked the flesh with a deep, rhythmic pressure, massaging the lime-scented grease further into the purpled skin. The sensation was a confusing blur of agony and relief, the pressure forcing the blood back into the damaged tissue while the friction sent fresh sparks of heat through his nerves.
Suddenly, she gripped his waist with surprising strength and hoisted him upright.
"Balance," she commanded, pointing to the second black swivel chair next to her green one.
“Move it to the center of the room and stand on top of it. Now."
Elijah shuffled the chair into the open space, his bare feet slapping against the sandstone. He stepped up, feeling precarious and exposed as he balanced on the leather seat. Liakádas slid her green swivel chair back behind the desk, creating a wide berth. She began to circle him, her movements slow and predatory, her turquoise eyes acting like a scanner. She paused to inspect the lean muscle of his calves, then moved upward to the curve of his waist and the flush of his chest, her gaze lingering on every vulnerability he had left. Being stripped bare under her clinical scrutiny made the air feel colder, and he felt a hot wave of embarrassment crash over him as he realized he was nothing more than a specimen under her lens.
"Down," she instructed after the seventh set of 60 seconds had passed. The word was a sharp snap that broke his concentration. As soon as his feet hit the tile, Liakádas stepped forward and guided him down, not to the chair, but flat onto the pink sandstone floor. The surface was cool and unyielding, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his bruised rear.
"You've pushed your body to the limit, Elijah," she murmured, her voice softening into a velvet purr.
"Those muscles are screaming. It’s time we look after them." She knelt beside him, her movements fluid and graceful. She started at the base of his skull, her thumbs digging into the tight knots of his neck with a precision that made him shudder. Her hands moved like waves, rolling over his shoulders and down the length of his arms, kneading the tension out of his triceps and forearms with a firm, rhythmic pressure that felt like a benediction after the storm.
Elijah let out a long, ragged moan, his eyes fluttering shut as the sheer relief flooded his system. "Does this feel good, baby?" she whispered, her fingertips tracing the line of his spine.
"Yes... oh god, yes... please don't stop," he whimpered, his voice thick with a mixture of exhaustion and desire. Liakádas let out a small, knowing giggle, her breath warm against his skin.
"Don't worry, honey. We still have two more minutes of this—not counting this little pause,” she teased before plunging her palms back into his muscle, drawing another strangled sound of pleasure from his lips.
Once the three minutes evaporated, Liakádas stood and pointed toward the navy blue manager’s desk.
"Final exercise. Get on top and walk back and forth. Cover every inch of that surface, and for heaven's sake, don't slip."
Elijah scrambled up, his bruised rear glistening with lime grease, and paced the length of the desk for sixty agonizing seconds. When she finally signaled him down, he descended with extreme caution, dropping to his knees and sliding off the edge like a piece of wet soap to avoid a catastrophic impact on his tailbone.
"Endurance is one thing," Liakádas murmured, her eyes darkening.
"But let's see how you handle a different kind of pressure."
She informed him she drove a yellow Durango and vanished briefly, returning not only with his bundled clothes but with a roll of heavy-duty duct tape scavenged from the storage closet. She layered his clothing into a makeshift cushion on the pink sandstone floor and ordered him atop it. With efficient, ruthless movements, she bound his wrists together and slapped a strip of tape across his mouth, muffling his protests into low, vibrating hums.
Liakadas spread his legs wide, her gaze locking onto his groin with a predatory hunger.
"Time to see how that Frankfurt sausage tastes," she whispered. Without another word, she lunged forward, engulfing him in one greedy, seamless gulp. Elijah let out a muffled scream behind the tape, his body convulsing as she began a ruthless assault. She sucked with a vacuum-like intensity, her cheeks hollowing out with loud, wet slurping noises as she lashed her tongue against him and scraped her teeth across his skin.
As she worked her way down, the long, dark curtain of her raven hair fell forward, brushing against his testicles, well, her fingernail scratched his inner thighs. The coarse strands acted like a thousand tiny needles, irritating the sensitive skin while she focused her attention on the crown and the meatus. She attacked his frenulum with surgical precision, her tongue flickering like a snake, creating a frantic, electric friction. Elijah looked down, meeting her turquoise gaze; she looked back with a sadistic glint, her eyes wide and hungry. He gritted his teeth, fighting the surge of pleasure, refusing to give her the satisfaction of an easy victory.
But the more he resisted, the more insistent her ministrations became. She increased the vacuum pressure, her throat tightening as she swallowed him deeper. After a minute of this relentless suction, the dam broke.
Elijah’s body arched off the makeshift cushion, a muffled, guttural roar vibrating against the duct tape. He tried to clench his muscles and fight the tide, but Liakádas sensed the struggle and leaned into it, increasing the suction until the vacuum pressure became an irresistible force. The tension snapped. He surrendered with a violent shudder, his hips jerking upward as the first hot burst of semen collided with the back of her throat.
Liakádas didn’t pull away or bob her head; she remained locked in place, her lips sealed tight around him to ensure every drop was captured. She let out a low, vibrating moan of triumph, feeling the rhythmic pulses of his orgasm splatter against her palate. Her turquoise eyes remained wide and fixed on him, watching his face contort in an expression of sheer, helpless ecstasy. Even after his orgasm ended, and it persisted for a full minute, she didn’t stop. Vivilia continued fellating him with a slow, methodical suction, draining the last lingering drops of heat until his penis went completely limp and heavy inside her mouth.
Still wanting more, she shifted her position, sliding her mouth lower to cradle the underside of his shaft. She wrapped her hand around the base of his groin, squeezing the flesh with a firm, calculated pressure that pushed the remaining fluids forward. Her fingers worked in tandem with her tongue, sliding up the length of him in rhythmic pulses. One by one, she coaxed out five more translucent spirits of semen, each burst a small, shuddering surrender that she swallowed with a loud, appreciative gulp. When she tried for a sixth and felt nothing but a faint, exhausted twitch, she finally pulled back with a wet, popping sound.
Liakádas reached into the desk drawer and retrieved a pair of heavy-duty office scissors. She leaned over him, the scent of the lime-grease and salt still thick in the air, and snipped the duct tape binding his wrists with a sharp, metallic *snick*. She peeled the adhesive from his skin with agonizing slowness, letting him feel the slight sting of the pull before she moved to his face. The tape ripped away from his lips with a sudden, jarring snap, freeing his mouth.
"Recover for a few minutes, then dress yourself and head out," she murmured, her voice now a soft, lingering caress.
Vivilias reached into his discarded khakis, sliding out his phone with a practiced flick of the wrist. Her thumbs danced across the screen, navigating to his notes app to type a string of digits and a residential address. After giving the phone back to him, she added, “Call me if you want to feast on my reproductive area, my breasts, or shoot your seed into my other two holes.”
Elijah stared up at her, his jaw dropping in a mix of shock and lingering sensory overload. Liakádas just laughed, the sound rich and knowing.
“You need to taste how delicious you are Elijah,”
She leaned down, her movement slow and deliberate, and pressed her lips firmly against his. It wasn't a tentative kiss; it was a claim. She tasted of salt and the faint, metallic tang of his own release, her lips soft but commanding. She lingered there for a few heartbeats, breathing his air, before pulling away with a sharp, lingering pop. A small, silver thread of saliva connected them for a second before it snapped, leaving him breathless and dazed on the makeshift cushion of his clothes.
Liakádas straightened her black pants and smoothed her hair with a clinical sort of elegance, as if the last hour of intensity had been nothing more than a brief morning meeting. She walked toward the door, her boots clicking with a newfound lightness. As she reached the threshold, she paused and turned back to him. She pressed two fingers to her lips and blew him a slow, theatrical kiss—a playful, mocking gesture that acknowledged his total defeat. Then, she stepped out and closed the door with a definitive thud.
Elijah lay there for four minutes, staring at the pink sandstone ceiling. The silence of the office felt heavy, vibrating with the ghost of the screams and the wet, rhythmic sounds of her hunger. His mind was a fragmented mess; he felt raw, emptied, and strangely anchored to the floor. He eventually rolled over, his bruised backside protesting with a sharp, searing heat that made him gasp. With trembling fingers, he gathered his scattered clothes. He slid into the cotton underwear, the fabric clinging to his sensitized skin, and pulled the green khakis over his legs with a series of winces.
Just as he was buttoning his shirt, the lock clicked. Liakádas stepped back inside, her expression neutral but her eyes dancing with a lingering mischief.
"Forgot something," she said simply. In her hand was a heavy, industrial screwdriver. Without looking at him, she grabbed the green swivel chair and dragged it across the tiles toward the wall. She climbed onto the seat, reaching high into the corner where the AC vent met the ceiling. With a series of metallic screeches, she loosened the screws and pried the vent cover away, reaching deep into the dark cavity of the wall.
She withdrew a small, blinking black lens—a hidden security camera, tucked away and forgotten by the corporate installers.
“This isn't monitored actively by the front office or the regional manager," she explained, sliding the device into her pocket.
"But it records on a local loop. If someone did a random audit or a tech check, they'd find a very interesting movie of a customer service rep and a manager playing house in the office. I’d be fired before the shift ended."
She held up the tiny lens, a predatory smile curling her lips, "I can relive every shudder, every muffled scream, and every drop you gave me. Do you want a copy, Elijah? I could send you the highlights."
Elijah felt a heat crawl up his neck that had nothing to do with his bruised backside.
"I... I'll get back to you on that," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. Rasin turned around and began back away tiwards the door, worried if he turned his back on her, she might try to pinch or deliver another slap to his butt.
"Smart boy," she teased, her voice dripping with a playful, mocking sweetness as he finally stepped out into the dining area.
Elijah scanned the room, his eyes darting from the teenagers laughing over fries to the exhausted father staring blankly into a coffee cup. Every face looked utterly normal, oblivious and undisturbed. A wave of relief washed over him; the world hadn't ended, and the screams he’d let out hadn't triggered a corporate lockdown. He hurried toward the exit, the fabric of his khakis rubbing against his bruised glutes with every step, a searing reminder of the woman who had just dismantled his dignity.
Outside, the bright midday sun hit the polished curves of his red Ferrari, the car gleaming like a trophy in the asphalt lot. He was barely two steps from the driver's side door when Liakádas emerged from the restaurant, her stride confident and predatory. She stopped a few feet away, gesturing back toward the thick mahogany door and the heavy black weatherstripping of her office. She explained that the exterior concrete block walls and thick white paint had rendered the room virtually soundproof, ensuring their private theater of pain had remained a secret from the dining room.
“Wait right here,” Liakádas commanded, her eyes dropping to the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She noticed the cautious, gingerly wince as he leaned toward the car door, the fabric of his khakis tightening over the swollen, purpled flesh beneath. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
"You’re not going to make it through a ten-minute commute on that raw backside. You’ll be screaming before you hit the first red light. I'll get you a pillow."
Elijah stood frozen, his mind looping the image of the hidden camera and the feeling of the belt. He stared at her, half-convinced he had hallucinated the entire ordeal—the aloe grease, the vacuum suction, the clinical violence. He watched, bewildered, as she turned on her heel and marched toward a nearby bedroom store across the parking lot.
31-35, M