The Breaking

I'm going to come in front of Victor, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. "Amelia, talk to me." His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes, and the concern there—raw and genuine—nearly undoes me more than the relentless vibrations between my thighs. "Are you sick? Is it the wine?" "Yes." I latch onto the excuse like a lifeline. "The wine. I'm just—dizzy." But my body betrays me. Another pulse rocks through my core, stronger than before, and my knees give out completely. Victor catches me, his arm sliding around my waist, pulling me against his chest to keep me upright. The contact is devastating. His body is solid, warm, and the pressure of being held against him while the toy works inside me creates a feedback loop of sensation I can't control. My hands clutch his shirt, nails digging into expensive fabric, and I bury my face against his shoulder to muffle the sounds threatening to escape. "Easy," he murmurs, his breath warm against my temple. "I've got you. Just breathe." But breathing is impossible. Every inhale fills my lungs with his scent—cedar and something darker, more intoxicating. Every exhale comes out shaky and desperate. The vibrator cycles through patterns, each one more intense than the last, and I'm teetering on the edge of release with Victor's arms around me. This can't be happening. This can't— "You're trembling." His hand moves to my back, steadying me, and the gentleness of the gesture is somehow more erotic than anything V has done to me. "How much did you drink?" "I don't—I can't—" Words dissolve into a whimper as the vibrations spike again. I'm so close, pressure coiling tight in my core, my thighs clenching around nothing as I fight against the inevitable. Victor shifts, adjusting his hold, and his thigh presses between mine for balance. The contact—firm and inadvertent—sends pleasure spiking through me so sharp I gasp. "Christ, you're burning up." His hand moves to my forehead, then down to check my pulse at my throat, fingers brushing the pearls. "Your heart is racing. I think you might be having a reaction to—" The elevator lurches. The lights flicker back on. The soft jazz resumes. And the doors begin to slide open with agonizing slowness. I see my escape and take it. The moment there's enough space, I wrench myself from Victor's arms and stumble into the hallway, my heels clicking frantically against marble as I run. Behind me, I hear him call my name, but I don't stop. Can't stop. My room. I just need to get to my room before— I fumble with the keycard, hands shaking so violently it takes three tries. The door finally gives, and I practically fall inside, slamming it shut and collapsing against it. The vibrator is still going. Still pulsing. Still driving me toward the edge I've been fighting for the past five minutes. I slide down the door to the floor, my gown pooling around me, and finally—finally—I let myself feel it. Let the pleasure crash over me in waves that steal my breath and make my vision white out. My back arches off the door, hands scrabbling for purchase on smooth wood, and I come apart completely. The orgasm tears through me with brutal intensity—not just from the toy, but from everything. Victor's arms around me. His concern. His scent still clinging to my skin. The memory of his thigh pressed between mine, his hands on my face, his voice in my ear saying I've got you. I bite my lip until I taste blood, muffling the cries threatening to escape, and ride out the climax in shuddering waves that seem to last forever. When it finally subsides, I'm left gasping and boneless on the floor, the vibrator still buzzing inside me in gentler pulses now, like an afterthought. Like mockery. Shame floods through me, hot and suffocating. I just came. On the floor of my hotel room. Still wearing V's pearls. After nearly falling apart in Victor's arms in a trapped elevator while he thought I was sick. What is wrong with me? I reach between my thighs with trembling hands and remove the toy, which finally—mercifully—goes silent. It's slick with my arousal, evidence of my complete loss of control, and I toss it aside like it's burned me. My phone buzzes from where it fell out of my clutch. V: “Did you like the surprise I set off?” Rage flares through my post-orgasmic haze. He promised. He swore he wouldn't activate it during dinner, and instead he waited until the worst possible moment—trapped in an elevator with my boss, vulnerable and exposed and completely at his mercy. Another message arrives. V: Answer me, Amelia. I turn my phone face-down and leave it on the floor. I can't. I can't deal with V right now, can't process what just happened, can't face the reality that I got off while Victor held me and thought I was having a medical emergency. Using the door for support, I drag myself upright and stumble to the bed. I don't bother removing the gown or the pearls. I just collapse onto the mattress, still trembling, still aching, still utterly destroyed by what I've become. My phone keeps buzzing. Message after message from V that I don't read. Instead, I bury my face in the pillow and let the tears come—hot, ashamed tears for the woman I used to be, the one who had dignity and self-control and didn't nearly orgasm in her boss's arms. That woman is gone. V has taken her apart piece by piece, and I've let him. Worse—I've begged him to. I cry until exhaustion drags me under, the pearls pressing into my throat like a reminder that I'm owned now, even in sleep. My last conscious thought is of Victor's face when the elevator doors opened—confusion, concern, and something else. Something that looked almost like hunger. But that's impossible.