The office was dim now, lit only by the city bleeding through the blinds in long, thin stripes of neon and starlight. The hum of the world outside was a distant pulse, a forgotten rhythm. Here, time had slowed to the languid beat of her own heart.

Catherine was sunk low on the couch, her body a long, slim curve against the leather. Her shirt had been the first thing to go, discarded in a heap on the floor.

Her naked upper body was a pale landscape in the gloom, the gentle curves of her ribs leading to small, perfect breasts—pert handfuls with deep rose nipples, thick and erect, pebbled tight in the cool air, begging to be twisted, sucked, bitten until they ached.

Her hair, usually a severe, elegant knot, was down, a dark cascade around her shoulders. She looked younger, softer, like she'd shed her armor along with her clothes.

But her eyes, fixed on the large screen on her wall, were burning.

And her hands were moving.

Her right hand had slid between her thighs, pushing her discarded skirt up to her hips. The neat, dark triangle of her pubic hair was matted damp with sweat and pussy juice, curls glistening like they'd been licked.

Her fingers trailed through it, finding the hot, swollen flesh beneath—her cunt lips plump and puffy, slick with arousal, parted like a ripe fruit begging to be devoured, inner folds pink and glistening, dripping thick nectar down her ass crack.

She spread them wide with her first and second fingers, exposing the tiny, pearlescent pearl of her clit—swollen huge, throbbing visibly, hood peeled back, begging for a tongue, a cock, a rough thumb to grind it merciless.

This wasn't wild pleasure; it was a quiet, searching act, a desperate attempt to soothe an ache that went so much deeper than the physical. It was the ache of loneliness, the profound hunger to be seen and not just observed, to be wanted and not just desired.

She was watching Eros and Dominique.

On screen, Eros's head was buried between Dominique's thighs, tongue lashing her clit like a whip.

Catherine began to mimic the motion she saw, her fingers moving in a frantic, needy rhythm against her own slick, swollen cunt—rubbing her clit in tight, vicious circles, juices squelching loudly, fingers slipping in her own filth. Her left hand roamed over her own breasts, her touch mimicking what she saw.

She pinched a hard nipple—twisting it brutally, pulling until it stretched long, sharp hiss of air escaping her lips, pain blooming into pleasure. Every command Dominique obeyed was a vibration in her own bones.

She felt like whatever he was doing to Dominique was happening directly to her—tongue on her clit, fingers stretching her hole.

Two minutes. That's all it had taken. She'd never seen Dominique, her cool, controlled friend, shatter so completely, so immediately.

It was as if he wasn't a man at all, but a god, and Dominique his only subject, whose only possible response was immediate and total submission—cunt gushing, ass clenching, screaming for more.

The moment he'd freed his own cock, Catherine had gasped. The sleek silicone toy she'd been planning to use tonight lay discarded on her coffee table. It suddenly looked like a child's crayon next to a master's paintbrush.

What could possibly substitute that monster beautiful cock?

Nothing. There was nothing—thick as her wrist, veins bulging like ropes, head flared purple, precum dripping in long strings, balls heavy and swollen, slapping against Dominique's thighs as he pounded her.

"Oh, god..." A low, breathy moan escaped her lips, her middle finger now circling her clit faster, her eyes glued to the screen as Eros began to use a paddle on Dominique.

Her imagination exploded. It wasn't Dominique she saw bent over, receiving the stinging smacks.

It was her. She pictured the cool wood of the desk under her belly, the sharp, shocking heat blooming across her own ass—cheeks jiggling, red welts rising, pussy clenching empty.

Her fingers plunged deeper, sinking into the hot, tight channel of her inner sanctum—cunt walls velvet-rippled, sucking at her digits like a hungry mouth, greedy, wet sucking sound echoing softly in the quiet office, farting out air and juice with every thrust.

She was so wet, her juicy cunt waters flowing freely, coating her fingers and her inner thighs in a slick, glistening sheen, puddling on the leather beneath her ass, scent of musky pussy filling the room.

She moved them in and out, her wrist flexing, fucking herself with a desperate, punishing rhythm—three fingers now stretching her hole, knuckles grinding against her g-spot, curling to milk it hard, squirt threatening to gush out.

Her thumb pressed hard against her clit, mimicking the way she imagined his thumb would feel—rough, unforgiving, rubbing it raw. "Ah! Ah! Ah!" Sharp, frantic little cries, hips bucking off the couch, tits jiggling.

Her fingers were coated now, a thick, creamy white cunt slime gathering at their base as she pumped them faster, chasing a release she desperately needed, pussy farting loudly, juices splashing her palm.

She wanted more.

She wanted Eros to look at her the way he looked at Dominique—eyes dark with possession, hunger that stripped her bare.

She wanted to be the one tied to that frame, wrists raw from rope, feeling the deep thud of the flogger blooming across her ass, stinging welts rising like fire brands, pussy clenching empty and dripping.

She wanted to be praised for being a "good girl"—voice low, soothing—and degraded for being a "needy little slut" in the same breath, words dripping like hot wax on her skin.

She wanted to beg for permission to cum until she was a mindless, sobbing wreck, tears streaming, cunt spasming uselessly, begging for mercy.

She wanted all of it.

She wanted everything he could give her, and then some—cock, pain, praise, humiliation, until she broke and rebuilt his.

Her hand on her breast became rough, pinching her own nipple hard—nail digging into the thick rose bud, twisting until it throbbed purple, the way he had done to Dominique, pain a sweet, electric counterpoint to the pleasure building between her legs, tits heaving with every gasp.

"Please... yes... Master..." she whispered to the empty room, the words a prayer to the man on the screen, a confession of her own total capitulation, voice cracking wet.

Her hips lifted off the couch, grinding against her own hand, her fingers now a blur, the whiteness coating them completely—thick, creamy cunt butter frothing at the base, stringy webs stretching between her digits as she pistoned them in and out of her greedy fuckhole.

Her pussy was a filthy beautiful masterpiece—lips swollen obscenely, dark pink and glazed, inner folds prolapsed slightly from the abuse, clit a fat, throbbing nub pulsing like a second heartbeat, hole gaping open with every withdrawal, winking hungrily, rimmed in frothy white slime, juices bubbling out in thick rivulets, running down her taint to soak her asshole, puckered and twitching.

She spread wider, knees hooked over the couch arms, cunt splayed like a blooming flower in heat, scent heavy—musky, tangy, pure sex—filling the room.

She could feel the pressure building, the tight coil in her belly, a deep, desperate fire raging in her womb, g-spot swelling huge under her curling fingers, milking it mercilessly.

On the screen, Dominique was speaking, her mouth forming the words Catherine felt in her own soul.

"Please, Master... use your cock... and make me yours completely."

The image, the secret, shared fantasy, was the final push.

Catherine's orgasm wasn't a wild explosion; it was a slow, devastating crest.

A deep, shuddering moan was torn from her as the pleasure washed over her, not in sharp waves, but in a slow, drowning tide—pussy convulsing in violent spasms, walls rippling like a fist, squirting clear streams of girl-cum arcing onto the couch, soaking her hand, her thighs, the leather in a puddle of hot filth.

It rolled through her, toes curling, back arching, tits thrust skyward, nipples leaking tiny beads of sweat, and her pussy clenched hard, a fresh gush of thick, sticky cunt honey flooding out, evidence of her solitary desire, coating her fingers in a sheath of pearlescent cream, dripping in long strings to the floor.

For a few fleeting seconds, the ache was gone.

But when the waves receded, the ache was worse. The loneliness, a cavernous void, returned with a vengeance.

She slowly pulled her fingers from her core—with a wet, obscene pop, hole gaping open momentarily, inner walls fluttering visible, begging to be filled—looking down at the obscene, beautiful mess: her pussy ruined, lips gaping red and puffy, clit still twitching, hole oozing cream in slow pulses, juices glistening everywhere, the creamy white coating her skin thick as cum, fingers webbed in filthy strings of her own arousal, proof of how deeply she'd fucked herself raw.

She watched as Dominique, was finally, blessedly taken—cock slamming home, balls slapping clit. And Catherine, alone in the dark, wanted to be in her place.

No.

That wasn't right.

Catherine, alone in the dark, wanted to be on her knees, too.

Begging for her own turn, mouth open, tongue out, cunt dripping, ready to swallow every inch of that god-cock until she choked.

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