Upward Ambition Ch. 09

(Author's note: Sorry about the long wait. I've got a lot going on so I can't guarantee the next chapter will come any faster, but I am still determined to finish this story. Also, this chapter feels a little less robust than usual, but I promise the next chapters will come back hot and heavy. Hope you enjoy anyway. And you know the drill--all that follows is strictly fantasy. In real life, consent is nonnegotiable.)

#

I awaken to the sound of someone clearing his throat. I squint in the bright daylight streaming through the curtains and find Groves standing over me, holding a breakfast tray. I struggle to sit up in bed, careful to keep the sheet over my lap. I don't know why I bother. It's not like the black thong from the night before did much to protect my modesty, when Groves was leading me to this room on the end of a leash.

"Good morning," I mumble through a dry mouth, eyeing the big glass of water on the tray.

Groves drops the tray unceremoniously on my lap. The way he is glaring daggers at me is very un-butler-like. I decide to ignore him and focus instead on the delicious-smelling eggs benedict in front of me. I take a big gulp of water then pick up the fork and dig in. Yesterday at lunch was the last time I ate, thanks to Derek barging in and hijacking my pizza dinner.

Groves keeps glaring at me while I eat, which is more than a little unnerving.

"You're not good enough for him, you know," the butler says. His tone is vicious enough that I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth.

"What?" I ask.

"You're cheap trash," he hisses. His wrinkly jowls are quivering. "You aren't worthy of stepping foot in this house, much less sleeping in his bed."

I gape at him for a second.

"You think I want to be here?" I demand incredulously.

"I don't see you trying to leave." He sneers at me.

"Maybe I would, if I had my fucking clothes." I decide not to get into the fact that it isn't lack of clothes, but the threat of a multi-million dollar lawsuit that keeps me under Derek Harrow's thumb. And I'm definitely not going to get into the fact that even if the lawsuit was off the table, I'm not one hundred percent sure I'd leave now anyway, even covered as I am with ugly red burns from the night before. I'm pretty sure there's even some dried wax left on my scrotum. It's too painful to even think about picking at it right now. Yet here I sit, devouring breakfast in the bed of the man who had spent half the night tormenting me.

Groves looks like he wants to say more, but Derek walks in. He is barefoot and wearing tight black swim trunks under an open terrycloth robe. He brings the scent of chlorine into the room with him, and his hair is still wet. Of course he wouldn't skip his morning laps in the pool, even with only a few hours of sleep. The man is a machine.

Groves shoots another glare my way but keeps any further rude comments to himself. Instead he turns to Derek, his expression melting into obsequious servility.

"Will that be all, sir?"

Derek waves him off without a second glance and disappears into his massive closet. Groves' shoulders stiffen, probably with irritation at the rudeness. I wonder why he is so protective--in a way that is borderline creepy--of his boss. I know from experience that Derek is not exactly a joy to work for. Maybe Groves has fatherly feelings for him. Derek said that he had been working for the family since Derek was a kid.

Groves gives me a nasty parting glance but leaves without another word. I shovel more food into my mouth and chase it down with the rest of the water.

Derek's voice issues from the closet.

"If you're done lazing around, then get your ass in the shower. We're already late."

"Late for what?" I ask, then it occurs to me. "For work? Are you serious?"

I can't believe he spent all night torturing me and now expects me to go into the office like nothing happened. Scratch that--I can absolutely believe it. But that doesn't make it any less infuriating. I wonder how many other guests from the sex-fueled charity fundraiser last night will be going into work today, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Rich people really are a bunch of psychopaths.

"If I have to tell you again, you're going over my knee," Derek says mildly.

I slide the tray off my lap and scramble out from the under the sheets. Derek hasn't left the closet, so I take the opportunity to walk instead of crawl into the bathroom. My whole body aches--inside and out--from the exploits of the last few days. The water from the shower is going to sting like hell on the wax burns, but at least it will be soothing on my sore muscles. I hope.

I use the facilities, then fiddle with the faucet in the fancy spa shower until the rain-head flows at the perfect temperature. There's a pile of neatly folded towels and washcloths on an artfully placed wooden stool. I grab a washcloth and step inside the shower, but before I can slide the door shut, I feel a familiar, commanding presence at my back. Silly me to think that I could look forward to a quiet, relaxing shower by myself. Derek brushes past me, and the brief skin-on-skin contact thrills across my whole body.

Derek sprawls onto the stone bench protruding from the wall, entirely at his leisure. His cock protrudes from his bush of black pubic hair, already half-hard. Jesus fucking Christ, does he have Viagra running through his veins?

"Clean yourself up," he says, nodding toward the alcove in the wall next to me, where there are some bottles of overpriced products.

Conscious of his lustful gaze trailing over me, I squirt some body wash onto the cloth and lather it up. I swipe it across my chest, letting out a hiss of pain. I don't think the burns are very serious, but that doesn't mean they don't hurt. Unsurprisingly, my discomfort doesn't bother Derek in the least. In fact, he is stroking his dick slowly like he's watching his own private porno.

I avoid my own crotch as I clean myself. I know better than to think that Derek will let me have a nice little wank to start my morning, and I'm not interested in fueling my own frustration. Despite my best intentions, my cock is stirring under the heat of Derek's gaze.

Once I finish scrubbing all the parts of my body that I can reach, minus my crotch, Derek stands up. The shower is stupidly large, probably big enough for three or four people to stand comfortably, but I still feel suddenly claustrophobic as he looms over me. Wordlessly, he gestures for me to hand him the cloth, and I comply. My heart is beating so fast that it's like I was the one swimming laps this morning.

Derek suds up the washcloth again then turns me around to face the other direction. He's so close that the fall of water is soaking us both equally now, and we are wrapped in a blanket of steam. He washes my back with a gentle circular motion that would be calming, if I weren't so stricken by the nearness of his perfectly sculpted naked body. Every few seconds I feel something silken but hard press up against my lower back that is definitely not the washcloth. Despite the heat of the water, I shiver--equal parts frightened and aroused.

It's the uncertainty that drives me insane, never knowing if I am about to get the carrot or the stick. Is he going to pull me into a seductive kiss or throw me against the wall and fuck me dry until I beg for mercy? There's no way to know with him, and so I'm perpetually on edge. I guess that's the whole point.

He slides the cloth around my hip and starts circling my groin with narrower and narrower strokes. Finding that my dick is already at full mast, he gives a little hum of approval, barely audible over the water rushing down over my ears. He grips it tightly with the washcloth and gives it a good, thorough cleaning that also happens to make me curl my toes and clench my fists at my sides.

I'm terrified that he's going to force me to completion again so that I earn myself another punishment, but he abandons it before I reach that point. My chest heaves as he turns his attention to my poor ball sac, which is as excruciatingly tender as I feared. The washcloth, which felt wonderful on my back, is like sandpaper on my scrotum as he scrubs away the remaining bits of dried wax. I whimper and squirm, but he just clamps his left hand over my stomach, locking me against him.

His boner is nestled between my ass cheeks now, and he starts rutting against me in a slow rhythm while he works. I'm in such an embattled state of pain and pleasure that I'm certain if he let me go right now, my knees would give out and I'd collapse to the shower floor. Unsurprisingly, my treacherous prick responds equally to the pain and pleasure. Even with the cruel scraping of the cloth, my balls feel tight and full to bursting. I half want Derek to take me in hand again, desperate for the stimulation even though I know it will only make my aching need that much more torturous. If he notices my precarious arousal (and he always does), he ignores it.

When he drops the washcloth to the floor, I think maybe we're done, but he doesn't step away. Instead he reaches around me for the shower gel again and squirts more onto the fingers of his right hand. I guess his intentions only seconds before he plunges those fingers deep into my sore hole. I try not to clench, but I can't help it. My channel is so raw that every centimeter of his fingers is agony.

He doesn't seem to mind.

"God, how are you still so fucking tight?" he murmurs, then takes my earlobe between his teeth. I groan softly as he bites down, but he's not trying to hurt me--not yet. He rotates his fingers, driving them in and out, although there's no way he's reaching as deep as his cock does.

He continues for a couple minutes, during which he nudges my prostate more than once, which has my cock weeping pre-cum. It won't be much longer before the water pressure alone will be enough to get me off.

Derek removes his fingers and reaches around me to unhook a spray handle attachment from the wall.

"Bend over the bench," he says, giving me a slap on the ass when I don't move right away.

I sidle around him and assume the position. He pushes me down until I'm pitched perilously far forward with my chest against the smooth seat. I'm grateful for the no-slip tiles on the floor as he kicks my legs further apart. If I have to go to the emergency room with a broken hip, they're going to want me to explain my other injuries, and that would get awkward fast.

I've guessed the point of this humiliating position and reach back to spread my cheeks before he has to give the order.

"Good boy," he says, and I hate how my other cheeks flare with the praise.

I bite down hard on my lip right as the powerful jet pumps me full of water, sluicing out what must be a gallon of dried cum by now and god knows what else. The more I think about it, the harder I bite my lip, trying to fight against the embarrassment. I keep my eyes squeezed shut while he cleans me out like I'm a dirty toy that just needs a good hosing off. I guess that's accurate enough.

When he's finally done, I feel raw in a whole new way. My legs are trembling as Derek tugs me back under the shower head. He pushes the washcloth back into my hands and squirts more gel on it. His gaze is like liquid fire pouring over me. I can't bring myself to meet his eyes as I lather the cloth across his chest, a little dizzy with the intimacy of it. I've had him naked on top of me plenty of times, but I've never had the chance to examine him so closely, with only the thin cloth between my hands and the hard planes of his muscles. I'm pleased to note that his breathing is heavier now, his cock straining against his belly.

I ignore it for now, focusing on covering every inch of his arms and shoulders. I move around to his back, and I'm a little startled to find a litany of scars there, faded but unmistakable. Gifts from his father, no doubt. His shoulders tense as I swipe the cloth over them, though they are too old to hurt him still, at least physically. I don't linger and move on to his taut buttocks, though I'm very careful not to stray near the danger zone. I've no desire to learn what the punishment would be for that.

I drop to my knees and work my way around his legs. It's a little unfair, how defined his muscles are. I suppose there must be a weight room somewhere in this mansion--probably a whole fucking commercial-sized gym. I scrub his feet, which is a favor to myself considering how much he enjoys making me clean them with my own mouth.

At last, I've reached the final stretch and only his genitals remain. I glance up and meet his heated, expectant gaze, but with the water splattering into my face I have to look down quickly, blinking to clear my vision. Something tells me the washcloth isn't what he's waiting for.

His fingers slide through my hair, gripping at the back of my head. I spread my lips, eyes locked on the bulbous head, waiting for him to force me forward.

"You want my cock, slut?" His voice is low and guttural. He drags my face toward his pelvis, close enough for my lips to brush the shaft. I try to lick, but he tugs me back an inch, so that I'm left with my tongue hanging out, catching nothing but water. "Answer me."

I shift uncomfortably on my knees, which I'm surprised aren't permanently bruised at this point. How long have we been in here anyway? He's rich enough that he probably has unlimited hot water.

"Yes," I manage with a swallow.

He jerks me sharply, and I wince.

"Yes what?"

"Yes sir, I want your cock."

I expect him to make me beg like he did last night, but maybe for once his endless patience is in short supply because he rams into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat roughly enough that I gag, which hasn't happened in a while. I struggle to keep the reflex under control, determined not to lose the breakfast that was so hard earned.

Derek either doesn't notice or doesn't care to notice my difficulties as he feeds the rest of his member down my throat. He pumps a couple times with a groan then pulls back and removes his hands from my head. I recognize my cue to take over. My cheeks hollow as I work hard on the first few inches in hopes of avoiding another gag reflex.

Steam coats my nostrils as I breathe, along with the occasional splash of hot water. Some droplets of soap land on the shaft and on my nose. I catch a whiff of a familiar fresh, woodsy scent. I peer upwards, blinking rapidly, and see that Derek is shampooing his hair.

I suck harder, grimacing a bit at the chemical taste of the shampoo. It definitely smells better than it tastes. After a bit, Derek's fingers fan across my scalp, massaging the suds into my hair. Fuck, it feels so good, I forget what I'm doing for a few seconds. His strong but gentle touch is so unbearably soothing, such a whiplash from the night before, that my eyes fill with inexplicable tears. I hope that they won't be visible with the water pelting my face.

He smooths my hair back, rinsing out the last of the shampoo. A tiny, involuntary moan escapes me at the loss of his touch. I don't have a chance to complain before he has a new death grip on my hair and wrenches my head back. All earlier traces of gentleness are gone.

I sputter a little as the water assaults my face.

"Unimpressive," he says. I'm not sure if he means the blowjob or me in general.

Before I can figure out if he's expecting an apology, he feeds his cock between my lips again. I do my best to swallow it down, but my efforts are irrelevant because he's clearly not interested in my help as he shoves deeper and deeper. It's not long before he is fully seated in my mouth, my nose pressed against his pelvis, not that I would be able to breathe anyway, with my airway so efficiently crushed by his huge penis. Tears spring to my eyes again.

I've gotten pretty practiced at holding my breath over the past few weeks, but as the seconds tick by, I start getting antsy. I brace myself with my hands on his thighs, his muscles flexing beneath my fingertips. He doesn't loosen his grasp. If anything, he holds me tighter.

We must be over a minute now. It feels like an hour. My lungs are burning, and my throat spasms as my body screams for air. Determined as I always am to not give Derek the satisfaction, my survival instinct overrides my pride, and I try to pull off.

He doesn't budge. I whimper and choke and struggle against his iron grip. My fingernails dig into his skin, but he doesn't flinch.

"If you wanted to breathe, maybe you should've gotten me off faster." There's no mistaking the dark amusement in his tone, even with the water and my own panicked heartbeat thundering in my ears.

Shadows cling at the edges of my vision. I've lost all sense of time and body. The world is too faraway for me to focus on anything.

Derek pulls back until just the tip remains in my mouth. I manage to gulp down two watery breaths before he shoves back to the hilt. The reprieve wasn't nearly enough. My lungs are shriveled and useless. Tears are streaming down my face. Another interminable minute crawls by. My vision slides to black for a moment before he pulls off again, this time just long enough for one breath before ramming home once more.

Oh god, he's going to kill me. I can't believe this is how I die.

My head is still trapped in Derek's hands. His thumbs swipe slowly across my temples, but the gentleness just feels like a mockery now.

"This is where you belong, isn't it?" he murmurs. "On your knees, chocking on my cock."

I can't answer, obviously. I can't even hold myself upright anymore. My muscles have gone limp, starved of oxygen. Derek's grip is the only reason I haven't fallen to the floor.

My vision sways again. He lets me have one more breath. He plugs my throat again.

I lose track of how many times we cycle through. I can no longer tell if I'm on the verge of passing out or if it's already happened. My whole universe has narrowed down to one man's cock. Derek has never owned me more than he does in this moment. For weeks now he has controlled my every pain and pleasure. Why not my life too?

"--hungry little cockslut." His voice fades into my consciousness. "Are you ready for the rest of your breakfast?"

I don't have any strength left in me to attempt a nod or a sound. I can't even open my eyes.

I'm jolted back into awareness as he starts to face-fuck me, his thumbs squeezing my cheeks painfully, his balls slapping against my chin. After so much foreplay, he doesn't last long, and before I know it, warm cum is shooting down my throat. He draws back so that the last of it hits my tongue, leaving me with the salty, too-familiar taste before releasing me.

I'm not ready for the sudden loss of his hands and I hit the floor with a painful smack. I don't even try to sit back up. I just lay there and breathe. And cry.

The water shuts off. Derek steps over me and out of the shower. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin.

I still can't bring myself to move. I've never felt so dirty right after a shower before.

Derek throws a folded towel at me.

"Hurry up," he says, in tone that is entirely uninterested and entirely unlike someone who has just been choking a subordinate on his cock for the past ten minutes. "We need to get to the office. I'm firing Kevin Grant today."