Page 17 of I'm sorry, Princess

This one? She’s on her knees.

I lean back in the chair, eyes half-lidded, letting the weight of the situation soak in. Her hands shake as she works me over, throat gagging around my cock like she’s trying to find redemption at theback of it. Pathetic.

I grab a fistful of her hair, dark brown, tied too tight, like she thought it would make her look professional this morning. Now it’s a mess. My hand knots in it, pulling harder, forcing her deeper until her nose is buried in me. Her mascara’s running, mixing with spit, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The cameras are still on.

Let them watch.

Let them see exactly the kind of people they hire.

I hope someone’s jerking off to the footage in the security room.

Her nails dig into my thighs like she’s desperate for praise, for validation, like she thinks this earns her a gold star.

It doesn’t.

She’s mediocre at best, sloppy and eager in all the wrong ways. But at least she’s obedient, and today, I’m not in the mood for finesse. Today, I want it messy.

I thrust into her throat harder. Deeper. Faster.

She chokes, drool cascading down her chin, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown.

Good.

The weight in my gut coils tight and I shove her face down, holding her there while I empty into her mouth. She gags, but she keeps swallowing, licking me clean like she’s starving.

No thank you.

No gentle aftercare.

She’s not here for that, and neither am I.

I grab her by the jaw, forcing her to look at me, her lips swollen, her eyes pleading for something, acknowledgment, approval, maybe affection. She’s not getting any of it.

“Tomorrow at the same time?”

Her voice trembles, like she’s asking me on a fucking date instead of booking her next mouthful.

She wipes her lips, her brown hair falling in messy strands over her bare chest. Her nipples are hard, her thighs still slick. She’s soaked, desperate for me to finish what she started. But I don’t give a fuck if she’s aching or humiliated. That’s not my concern.

It’s pathetic, really, seeing her like this. The same woman who strutted into this office all polished and professional, holding her clipboard, ready to dissect my mind, now kneeling on the cold floor like she belongs there. She wanted to fix me. Guess this is what she got instead.

I look her over, slowly, deliberately. Watch her blush as she cups her own tits, needing something more from me. Craving it. She won’t get it. I’m not here to play house.

“Tomorrow’s fine for me.” My lips curl into a smirk as I stand, pulling my pants back up, buttoning them without another glance. I leave her there, scoffing, scrambling to clean herself, wiping the evidence off her face like she can scrub away the shame. She’ll spend the next hour trying to clear the scent of sex from the room. Good fucking luck with that.

I walk back to my cell, bored out of my goddamn mind.

This place is a joke.

Steel bars and brick walls mean shit when you own half the people in charge. The other half are just too stupid to realize they’re already playing by my rules.

At least the tech’s in place. Before they dragged me in here, Andres slipped me the device, a little something special I planted under the main security station last night. It lets him tap into everything: cameras, mics, files. TrojanHorse, that’s what I am right now. The enemy let me in through the front fucking door.

I pull out my phone, yes, my phone.

They patted me down but didn’t find it. That’s because I didn’t let them. Andres delivered it on his last visit, and no one here questions when you’re Lorenzo Moretti.