The Supple Nail
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Aug 9, 2014
When Nero pulled Trinity's mouth off his balls she panted to catch her breath, her lips parting instinctively as the tip of his cock hoovered in front of her eyes, pointed at her face. Her eyelids fluttered half closed and then squeezed shut reflexively as the first hot, gooey jet of cum hit her. She jerked back for a moment but forced herself to stay there, stationary as he painted her face. It dripped down over her nose and off her chin, she could feel fat drops falling onto the heaving slopes of her breasts. It filled her mouth as well, one jet landing along her tongue and another squirting up onto the roof of her mouth. She closed her mouth and the last dollop fell across her lips.
She was almost too disoriented to hear Nero as he gave her his curt instructions, tucked himself away into his slacks, and left without a backward glance. It wasn't the parting of lovers, or even sexual equals. It was a man who had made use of an appliance and then, finished, left without further thought. His casual dismissal of her hit her harder and deeper than anything he'd put her through in the interview. It was like she wasn't even worth his notice.
As she thought that her fingers crept along her thigh. When they brushed the lips of her pussy she couldn't hold herself back any longer. She fell forward, supporting herself on one arm while the fingers of her other hand rubbed furiously at her clit. She tried to stifle her moans but couldn't, convulsing and and dripping as she came there on the floor. The instant she finished a wave of shame washed over her. Who was watching? Did she have no control over herself? She felt humiliated by her own weakness and pushed herself unsteadily to her feet.
She cleaned up in the washroom and pushed her hair back into some semblance of order, looking herself levelly in the eye and steeling herself before marching out. She ignored the receptionist but felt her smirking at her back.
She must think I'm such a slut. Oh god, is she right?
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The packet was in the mail the next day. The scariest thing about it was its brevity. It wasn't a long legal document, pages and pages detailing what would happen to her, what would be allowed and what would not be allowed, what she could expect to happen to her. It was simply a short legal waiver that stripped her of her autonomous rights as an individual, a guarantee that she would not be harmed in any permanent way during her stay, and a notice of lien to the tune of $500,000, held for her at a reputable bank and released to her at the end of three months.
There was no cancellation clause. There was no partial compensation. There was no way to back out before the period was over.
Almost without realizing it Trinity's fingers slid up under the hem of her skirt as she went down initialing each clause.
--------------
Seven days later she stood outside a nondescript hangar at the local private airport. She had brought exactly what the instructions had told her to: nothing at all. She had on the same business suit that she had worn to the interview (vigorously dry cleaned with the last of her cash) and that was it. No phone. No ID. Just the contract in a manila envelope.
Her heart in her throat, she reached up and knocked on the hangar door.
She was almost too disoriented to hear Nero as he gave her his curt instructions, tucked himself away into his slacks, and left without a backward glance. It wasn't the parting of lovers, or even sexual equals. It was a man who had made use of an appliance and then, finished, left without further thought. His casual dismissal of her hit her harder and deeper than anything he'd put her through in the interview. It was like she wasn't even worth his notice.
As she thought that her fingers crept along her thigh. When they brushed the lips of her pussy she couldn't hold herself back any longer. She fell forward, supporting herself on one arm while the fingers of her other hand rubbed furiously at her clit. She tried to stifle her moans but couldn't, convulsing and and dripping as she came there on the floor. The instant she finished a wave of shame washed over her. Who was watching? Did she have no control over herself? She felt humiliated by her own weakness and pushed herself unsteadily to her feet.
She cleaned up in the washroom and pushed her hair back into some semblance of order, looking herself levelly in the eye and steeling herself before marching out. She ignored the receptionist but felt her smirking at her back.
She must think I'm such a slut. Oh god, is she right?
-------------
The packet was in the mail the next day. The scariest thing about it was its brevity. It wasn't a long legal document, pages and pages detailing what would happen to her, what would be allowed and what would not be allowed, what she could expect to happen to her. It was simply a short legal waiver that stripped her of her autonomous rights as an individual, a guarantee that she would not be harmed in any permanent way during her stay, and a notice of lien to the tune of $500,000, held for her at a reputable bank and released to her at the end of three months.
There was no cancellation clause. There was no partial compensation. There was no way to back out before the period was over.
Almost without realizing it Trinity's fingers slid up under the hem of her skirt as she went down initialing each clause.
--------------
Seven days later she stood outside a nondescript hangar at the local private airport. She had brought exactly what the instructions had told her to: nothing at all. She had on the same business suit that she had worn to the interview (vigorously dry cleaned with the last of her cash) and that was it. No phone. No ID. Just the contract in a manila envelope.
Her heart in her throat, she reached up and knocked on the hangar door.