Contractual Obligations Pt. 02

Butting her hips forward, silently begging those fingers to wrap, finally, firmly, around her root, Arsa throws out an urgent, manic cry.

As quickly they came, Grace's fingers retreat. Plainly, she says, "Then I'm waiting."

Arsa tussles her head back and forth, spilling strips of damp hair in front of her face. The narrow tip of tail spikes against the air in violent stabs, erect with power. With jaw clenched, she begins again.

"I..." Crack! "I am..." Crack! "...very..." Crack! "Expensive!" Arsa's arms tremble at the elbows, past the point of collapse. "There, I said it!"

Even through the exhausted shaking of her limbs and the pained, tremulous panting that wrenches her body downwards with each huffing breath, Arsa refuses to give so much as a wince as Grace applies a yet another tender pinch to one of her flaming-red cheeks. "Now, was that so hard?" Grace asks.

Tenuously, Arsa nods, almost stumbling forward into the desk when the motion seems to lurch the room on its axis.

Grace's lips spread in a capricious grin. "Would you believe it was harder on me than it was on you?"

Arsa firmly shakes her head.

"Yeah, I never bought that bullshit either." Grace gives an airy laugh. She releases Arsa's wrist. "Still hungry?"

Shifting her hips this way and that against the air, Arsa phrases her reply in the form of an unending, insatiate growl.

"Good," Grace says, "Open the drawer, the one on your left."

Two hands against the desk are hardly enough to keep her standing, let alone one, but somehow Arsa makes it work. Her fingers slip against the brass handle of the drawer, beyond clumsy beneath the potency of Grace's desire fusing with hers through the open air. She grips numbly around the handle and pulls, the drawer slotting into place with a kachunk. Inside are various sundries, tissues, pens, and the like. Grace indicates a small jar of ointment or unguent. "Put that on the desk."

The plastic jar thumps against the shredded blotter.

A smile spreads across Grace's lips. "Open it."

Arsa's quaking fingers tremble to unscrew the cap, almost scattering the whole thing to the floor in the process. The thick, creamy stuff inside almost glistens beneath the office lights.

Grace opens her palm. "Here."

Arsa scoops her fingers into the jar and deposits a hefty dollop in Grace's hand, watching as the woman works the slippery lubricant against two of her long fingers. Her head still buzzes from Grace's mistreatment, but her breathing has calmed. She almost feels like she can stand up straight again. "It doesn't sting that bad, it can wait," Arsa says, bracing against the faint aura of pain radiating from her ass. "Please, I'm so hungry."

"Oh, Arsa." Grace's voice is soft, almost congenial. The tenderness of it is as much responsible for the shudder that spills through Arsa as her measured, immaculately careful fingers, gliding through Arsa's tensing cleft and spreading their slippery payload across the crinkled, worried perimeter of her entrance. "This doesn't go on the outside."

Arsa reels, gasping in tender surprise as Grace's fingers enter her body. She falls forward, bracing her elbows against the desk, instinctively seeking meager distance from the dull pinch of Grace's advance. Her cock leaps, suddenly, shockingly erect. Tail looping circles around itself, she cries out.

Grace's free hand drags charged lines down Arsa's back, the sensation a welcome distraction from the gradual, insistent pressure of her fingers. "Why did you let me do that to you?" She asks. "Why did you accept your punishment?"

A raw whimper rolls through Arsa's throat, the perilous cry of her need. "Because I'm hungry, Ms. Gallant."

"Wrong." Grace's weight falls across Arsa's back, taking the Skint's arms out from under her, pinning her from cheek to stomach against the desk. Though Arsa's the one with the fangs, it's Grace's teeth that dig into tender earlobe. "Try again."

Arsa's toes tug and squeeze at the hardwood floor. Her throat is absolutely cloyed with the tinge of Grace's arousal-cinnamon and coriander, it makes her heart stab against her chest. "B-because I'm intimidated by you."

So close like this, adrift in their shared arousal, Arsa can hardly tell where her body ends and Grace's begins. She hardly hears Grace speak, lost in the lustful advance of Grace's fingers, and the heavy, domineering weight of those large breasts compressed against her back. "You're Arsa, Seven Hundred and Sixth of Her Line. You're a Skint. Why the hell would you be intimidated by me?"

Arsa wails in trepidation, confusion, and heat, bashing the flats of her fists against the desk, anything to distract herself from the implacable advance of Grace's fingers inside her, and the viperous words that spill across the woman's lips. "I don't know. I don't know!"

"You didn't take it because you're intimidated, you took it because you're a shark, and sharks do what they need to get what they want." Grace's fingers twist inside Skint, stopping abruptly. "What do you want, Arsa?"

Arsa struggles to acclimate to this unbelievable fullness inside of her. For a moment, the room is quiet, but for Arsa's wheezing breaths. Her cheek swipes against the blotter beneath it, leather made sticky by the sweat pouring out of her. "I-I... I want a glamor."

Grace's fingers begin a cautious rock, pulling back then stabbing forward again, sinking ever deeper inside of her. "Why?" Grace asks.

Arsa's hips unconsciously rock, sending quasi-orgasmic shudders through her body each time the engorged head of her cock so much as graces against the lip of the desk. "Because I..." Her eyes ratchet nearly shut, focusing on the singular bead of sweat that trembles against the curve of her pert nose. Visions of Marie's soft, smiling lips trace behind her clenched eyelids. "I can't go outside u-until..."

Grace's lips turn upwards in a smirk. "Until what?"

"Until I..." Fingers curl downwards against Arsa's tender inner button. Arsa's hips surge hungrily backwards, rutting the splayed rim of her entrance against Grace's questing knuckles. A static tension bursts through her cock in response to this further, crucial fullness she inflicts upon herself. "Until I prove I'm a shark."

Grace grunts with approval. "Do you know what sharks do?"

Arsa throws her head from side to side. Grace roughly demonstrates her claim, slick fingers delving into that passionate, clenching tunnel, yanking a timid sound of discomfort from the Skint.

Grace thumps her free hand down upon the desk in front of Arsa's eyes, twisting her wrist to show the Skint the face of her watch. "Time's almost up, so I'll give you freebie. Sharks take, Arsa." The meat of Grace's thumb spreads Arsa's moistened lips, furrowing against her clenching teeth just as forcibly as the Skint thrusts her hips backwards against Grace's invading fingers. "They bite."

The smell of fragrant blood spills through Arsa's nose as she clamps down, laving her tongue against the puncture wounds, seeking any vector by which to consume Grace's bracing essence. The taste of heady abandon mixes boundlessly with the dizzying aura of their paired arousal, consuming every hint of oxygen in the room like wildfire. And Grace never flinches, not even for an instant, cramming her thumb further into Arsa's clutching fangs, her fingers reaching their ultimate limit inside the demon's aching sheathe, spearing her towards this necessary climax.

The thunderhead inside Arsa finally breaks into storm, her pulsing cock ruts ceaselessly against the desk, pattering out paltry ribbons of spunk that stick or hang in pendulous globs for hardly a moment before spilling to the floor below. The fetter's gem blazes with radiant color, mirroring the intensity of Arsa's silent, inward scream as orgasm overcomes her in full, leaving her a trembling, limp chassis upon the desk, hardly able to do anything more than suckle her lips in clumsy embrace around Grace's wounded digit.

They rest like that, for a while, wheezing against each other, in the long seconds before Grace's gradual withdrawal-though not gradual enough for Arsa's taste, a piteous groan trembling over her lips with the vacuum of Grace's fingers extracting themselves from her well-worn body. Arsa attempts to stand, only to have her knees buckle, throwing her backwards and sending them both tumbling down. The desk chair squeaks its complaint under the weight of its newfound occupants.

"Wait!" Grace shoves her hands outwards in defense of her once-immaculate suit. "This is Givenchy-"

The dizzied Arsa understands the tenor of Grace's voice, if not the meaning of her words. She moans with disappointment, bracing her shaking legs against the floor.

Thankfully, strong arms tie around Arsa's small body before she can stand. "It's fine." Grace takes in the dark shadow of Arsa's sweat dampening the front of her blouse with a sigh. "After this, I was going to have to get it dry cleaned anyway." Though her nose does wrinkle when Arsa shifts her hips and plants her sticky, well-fucked rump directly atop her couture pants. "It's coming out of your paycheck, though."

Dazed, Arsa only nods.

Grace busies herself pulling Arsa's short, tousled tresses into some semblance of order. When she rocks her hand against the Skint's back, Arsa responds by lacing her arms around Grace's neck, pulling herself as closer than the lawyer usually tolerates.

Grace lifts her watch. Past noon already.

She glances from her watch to thumb and shakes out her hand-the bite marks are deeper than she intended, but whatever works. Leaning forward to her desk, she's careful not to dislodge Arsa, though the Skint still moans her disapproval and makes her objection known by nestling her cheek further against the lapels of Grace's blazer. Grace plucks a couple tissues from the drawer as she jabs the intercom. "Rick?" She asks.

"Yes Ms. Gallant?"

"Reschedule my lunch with Beliat."

"Should I give him a reason?" Rick asks.

"Tell him..." Grace looks over Arsa's lean body, still dappled with cooling sweat, to the curve of her hips, where her pert cock still slowly softens, spilling the last of her climax against her pale thigh. "Just tell him something came up." Grace flinches as she wads the tissue against her hand, the pain of the deep wounds making itself evident now that the passion of the moment has passed. "Oh, and Rick? Can you ask Dr. Sridhar to bring a first aid kit up here when he has a moment?"

Unhurried, impeccably professional, Rick asks, "Is everything all right?"

"Full," Arsa drones, her feline eyes cloudy and bemused, but still etched with a tender, distant contentment.

Grace rolls her eyes. "Can it with the 'I'm so sleepy' bit. Lunch break's over, you're going back to work as soon as you clean up your mess." Depressing the intercom again, Grace says, "All good here Rick, just a scratch; occupational hazards."

"I understand," Rick says. "I'll have him to come up right away."

Arsa's toes curl against the legs of the chair. She shifts dreamily against Grace's warmth, oblivious to the world around her. Supporting the Skint with one hand, Grace nurses the tissues against her thumb and ponders the rest of her day. Marie usually just grabs a salad from downstairs, she's probably back in her office by now. They've got enough time to get four or five good goes at it this afternoon, provided Marie and Arsa can get started on the first one without her direction, since she still has to get her finger bandaged up and change out of this ruined-extremely expensive-suit.

Glancing up at the ceiling, Grace sighs. She places her heels against the floor, carefully turns the chair to bring herself closer to the desk, takes a beleaguered look at her ruined blotter-a gift from Ms. Harris-and buzzes the intercom one last time.

"Yes Ms. Gallant?" Rick asks.

Grace rests her injured hand between Arsa's shoulder blades and directs the Skint's dead weight into a more comfortable position against her. "Tell Dr. Sridhar to give us fifteen minutes."