Upward Ambition

[Author's Note: To be honest, this is the last chapter I have written for this series. I know I don't necessarily wrap everything up with a neat bow, but I guess I've run out of ideas? If you want me to continue, please comment and feel free to give suggestions about what you might like to see! If you think this is a good wrap-up, then I'm happy to move on to another story. Evergreen reminder that what follows is purely fantasy. In real life, consent (and safewords!) are both sexy and non-negotiable.]

I wake up to sunlight streaming through the window. The room is cool, but I'm warm under the sheets. I don't know anything about thread counts, but judging by how they feel on my skin, these sheets must be a hundred times more expensive than the cheap Wal-Mart brand on my bed at home. I shift, and my body immediately reminds me of the turn last night took. My muscles ache, and I'm sore on my back from shoulders to heels. The softness of the sheets can only help so much.

I'm still naked. No surprise there. It's also no surprise that I'm alone—Derek is clearly not the type to cuddle after. After a while of staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying and failing not to think about the night before, I drag myself out of bed and pad across the carpet to the adjoining bathroom. I take care of business, and then I hop into the shower. Despite how tender my skin is under the jet of warm water, I stay in there for at least half an hour, scrubbing myself as thoroughly as I can. Even then, I still don't feel particularly clean.

My clothes, phone, and keys are nowhere to be found. Fortunately there's a white terrycloth robe in the bathroom, so that at least I'm decent when I leave the room and find my way downstairs. Part of me wants to snoop, see if I can find Derek's bedroom, but the thought of being caught brings back my better sense. I wander downstairs, poking my head into various rooms that seem to have no purpose but to look fancy and impress visitors. Even though I've been to the house before, and I'm more of a prisoner than a visitor now, I still can't help but be a little impressed myself. When you're a foster kid who grew up moving from blue-collar family to blue-collar family, whose only constant was too little space and foster parents with too few fucks to give, the trappings of wealth will always hold a certain wonder—regardless of how you feel about the owner of that wealth.

I find Derek in the sunroom, alone at a round glass-top table. He's eating breakfast and reading a newspaper. Even though it's a Saturday morning, he's in a dress shirt and black slacks. He does, at least, have the sleeves rolled up. Christ, is this his idea of loungewear?

"Sit," he tells me, as I approach. He doesn't look up from his paper. There's a place set next to him on the table.

"I really need to get home."

In response, he only kicks the chair out a couple feet, still absorbed in his reading. I bite back a wave of frustration and sit down. It's not like I can go anywhere until he decides to give me my car keys back, and hopefully my clothes and phone as well—but to be honest at this point I'd be happy with just the keys. I catch a whiff of chlorine and notice that his hair is damp. The sunroom has a perfect view of the massive pool, which must be heated judging from the thin blanket of steam hovering over it. Of course he didn't miss his workout his morning. And of course he pays an arm and a leg for a gym membership in the city, despite having a perfectly good pool at home. Maybe since it's not Olympic-sized it doesn't meet his high standards.

While I'm in the middle of my petty ruminations, the butler appears with my breakfast. Poached eggs with farm potatoes, bacon, and toast. He also sets down a small glass of orange juice and a tall glass of water (and you can bet it didn't come from the tap). I stutter my thanks to him as he refills Derek's coffee and drifts away. Any thoughts I might have had of refusing to eat on principal are chased away by my rumbling stomach. This is much better than my usual morning fare of pop-tarts and a can of soda.

I tuck in, too focused on my meal to dwell on the awkwardness of sitting at a breakfast table next to the man who strapped me to a bed and fucked me senseless the night before. Derek finishes his paper and folds it away. He sips his coffee and watches me in silence while I eat. I do my best to ignore him and not wonder what he's thinking about. When my plate is empty, he makes me drain my glass of water and then a second one before he lets the butler clear the dishes. I can't tell if he's concerned about my wellbeing or if he just doesn't want the inconvenience of me passing out from dehydration on his floor.

"Look," I say, trying to sound calm and reasonable. "Thanks for breakfast, but I really need to go home now. Can I have my keys?"

He actually seems to consider it for a moment, but then he shakes his head.

"No." He takes another drink of coffee. "I like you here, where I can keep an eye on you."

"What does that even mean?" I push my chair out and stand up. "It's not as if I'm planning on going out and robbing a bank or visiting a crack den or something. I just want to go home."

He seems amused by my outburst and leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head as he looks up at me.

"Go home and do what?" he asks.

"I—I don't know," I say, flustered by his demeanor even though I should be used to it by now. "Sleep. Watch TV. Relax and enjoy my weekend."

"All things you can do here."

"And if I stay here, are you going to

let

me do any of those things?" I demand.

His smile widens barely.

"Probably not," he says. "But you don't want to leave anyway. Not really."

Hot indignation courses through me at his utter confidence, as if he knows

anything

about me.

"I don't know how you got it into your head that I actually enjoy—"

Being bound and whipped and fucked and humiliated by you

. I can't bring myself to speak the words, and I gesture helplessly. "—any of this. I don't. I hate it, and I hate you, and the moment I'm no longer in danger of being sued, I'm walking away and you're never going to see me again."

I'm feeling quite good about my little speech. It's about time I got it all out in the open. Derek Harrow needs to learn that the world—

my

world especially—does not revolve around him. If he's bothered by my declaration, he doesn't show it. He just calmly drinks the last of his coffee then rises to his feet and steps toward me. I realize too late that I should have put more distance between us when I had the chance, but it's too late now. I back away, but he has me pinned between him and the table. Short of rolling onto it and scrambling off the other side, there's nowhere to go. I haven't entirely dismissed that as an option.

"Don't worry, Jack, I'm well aware of how much you hate me," he says, in a voice smooth as satin. He reaches down, almost idly, and tugs the tie of my robe loose. "That's what makes it so satisfying when I have you on your knees with your mouth on my cock, or tied to a bed while I ream you out, or—best of all—crying and begging me to let you come." He takes the front flaps of the robe and very slowly, without touching me, pushes it off my shoulders, exposing me to the cool air and his cooler gaze. I tell myself to move, to pull it back on, but I'm frozen in place like a deer in headlights.

"And I can promise you this," he continues, leaning his mouth close to my ear, though he still doesn't make skin contact. "No matter how much you hate me and the things I do to you, by the time I'm through, you won't be able to find your pleasure anywhere else. You might make your great escape, but eventually you'll come crawling back, and when that happens, you'll just have to hope I'm feeling generous enough to take you."

I shudder, whether from his words or his breath tickling my ear—I don't know.

"You're wrong," I squeak out.

He looks down and smirks.

"Are you sure about that?"

I follow his gaze and realize I'm rock-hard. He hasn't even touched me.

Well, fuck.

After that, I don't have the wherewithal to protest as he strips off the robe the rest of the way, or even when he produces an honest-to-god leather

collar

and buckles it around my neck. It's snug right beneath my Adam's apple. I can breathe okay, but even one hole tighter and I would be in trouble. This of course means that when he hooks his finger through it pulls me in for a kiss, I choke. He seems to like that a lot, so I'm guessing that asking him to loosen it would be a waste of now-precious breath.

Just as I'm getting used to the idea of being collared, he brings out a leash. Hot embarrassment flushes across my exposed skin—which is all of it. I don't know how I still have any shred of dignity after everything he's put me through, but it seems he's determined to decimate it completely.

"It's a big house," he says, as he attaches the leash. There's a wicked gleam in his eye. "I'd hate for you to get lost. You should thank me for this."

"Thank you, sir," I manage. I know my face must be bright red, and he's loving every second of it.

"Now I have some work to get done." He gives the leash a tug. "Let's go."

I start to follow him, but almost immediately he stops and turns.

"I think that walking like a man is a privilege you have yet to earn," he says smugly.

My heart drops. He's made me crawl before, but never far, and never on the end of a leash like a fucking dog. For some reason, that's the straw that breaks the camel's back. Maybe my full stomach has made me brave—or stupid—because I shake my head.

"No."

"No?" he echoes, almost curiously, like it's a word he's never heard before.

"I'm not crawling," I say, crossing my arms. (Seriously,

where

is my self-preservation?) "I'm not some pet you can drag around on a leash."

Derek loops the leash around his hand and drags me forward—quite easily.

"Is that so?" he asks. He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to keep his gaze. I really wish he weren't so tall.

"I'm not crawling," I say stubbornly.

I expect him to yell at me, but really I should know better by now. That's not his style. His control is always effortless, and yelling is a lot of effort.

"I'm beginning to think you actually enjoy being punished." He wrenches the leash upward a few inches, until I'm standing on my tiptoes, choking and clawing at the collar. He's so close I can feel his breath on my lips. "Is that what it is, Jack? Do you like it when I bend you over and beat you raw?"

"No," I gasp out. "But you're going to find a reason to do it anyway, so you might as well get it over with."

He smiles and lets me drop so suddenly that I almost collapse all the way to the floor. I catch myself on the edge of the table.

"Now that you mention it," he says, as I gulp down air, "perhaps the whippings are getting a little...dull. Let's see if we can come up with something more creative."

And that's how, twenty minutes later, I find myself on my hands and knees in Derek's study, serving as his footstool while he lounges in a big leather armchair, working on his laptop. That's not even the creative part of the punishment. My scrotum is trapped snugly between two halves of a wooden device. The wood is slightly curved to hug the backs of my legs, keeping my ball sac locked in place. It pinches, but the pain isn't too bad, as long as I stay on my knees. If I try to straighten up or stand, my balls are stretched away from my body. I only needed a taste of that pain before I accepted my fate. Derek called it a "humbler" and I must say, it lives up to its name.

Another new addition is the ring gag in my mouth, which I suppose is better than the dildo he'd threatened to shove in there last night. Still, the inability to speak is a unique kind of torture. He has never gagged me before—he likes when I beg, and he likes giving me the opportunity to say the wrong thing so he can punish me more. Now as my jaw aches steadily and drool trickles around the metal ring and onto the rug, I feel more helpless than I ever have in my life.

Every minute or two, Derek presses the toe of his shoe against my exposed balls, amusing himself as I squirm uselessly. My tender parts are so swollen and sensitive that even the lightest brush sets off fireworks in my whole body.

The only other break from the monotony is every half hour on the dot, when he releases me from the humbler long enough for my blood flow to return to normal. I suppose I should be glad that he's careful enough to make sure my balls don't fall off, but it's hard to feel grateful when I have to spend that reprieve with my face in his crotch. My wide-open mouth is a convenient fuckhole for him. Sometimes he pumps slowly in and out, slapping me whenever I have the audacity to gag. Other times he just sheaths himself in my throat and stays there, my nose buried in his pubic hair, my eyes watering as I try to suck in enough breath. In a show of his trademark self-control, he never comes. I can never decide if I'm relieved or not when he locks me back into the humbler for another half-hour of footstool service.

I can't believe that after last night's ordeal, I managed to forget that crossing Derek Harrow is never worth it. Maybe whatever he drugged me with messed with my memory. Or maybe I have extremely early onset dementia. The only other explanation would be that he was right about me enjoying the punishment. That can't be possible because I'm miserable as hell right now.

I suffer several hours' worth of this routine. Derek remains absorbed in his work. (For Christ's sake, does the man never take a break?) My back and shoulder muscles are killing me, and my arms are trembling so hard I think they're going to give out any second. At last, when the clock strikes one, Derek closes his laptop, stands up, and stretches.

I try not to look too eager that my punishment is coming to an end. Wordlessly, he frees me from the humbler, then he crouches down at my head. Instead of removing the gag, he clips the leash back to my collar.

Goddammit.

"After all this practice, you're not going to have any trouble crawling now, are you?" he asks, with a condescending smile.

I whine in a way that I hope sounds repentant enough to convince him to remove the gag. He ignores me and straightens back up. I have no choice but to let him lead me out on the end of the leash. After kneeling in place for so long, it's nice to at least be able to move my arms and legs, but the movement does nothing to ease the ache in my muscles.

We return to the sunroom, where the butler serves Derek lunch. I don't know what it is, because I'm not allowed off my hands and knees. He doesn't let me eat anything, although he does feed his cock down my throat. I have to do all the work this time, pistoning back and forth for the entire length of the meal. I'm a disgusting, drooling mess by this point, but he doesn't seem to mind. Finally, he spurts into my mouth and throat. I have trouble swallowing around the ring gag, so I almost choke on it, but I manage to get most of it down. I guess his cum is supposed to be my lunch.

We move next into the great room. I'm so abjectly tired by now, that I don't have to strength to do anything but exactly what I'm told—which I guess is the whole point. No one could ever accuse Derek Harrow of being incompetent. I wait on my hands and knees in front of the couch, head low, while he disappears for a while. When he returns, he unclips my leash. In its place he has two thick, stiff leather restraints that he buckles in place, strapping my wrists against my thighs. It's better than the humbler but losing the use of my hands, on top of being rendered speechless by the gag, introduces a new level of helplessness. Derek takes advantage of it immediately by pinching and twisting my nipples cruelly. I tug at the restraints, instinctively trying to cover myself, but of course they are tight and secure—not that I would have expected anything less.

Finally, he seems to grow bored of his game. He pours himself a drink and settles down on the couch, preparing to—what else—get some more work done. Before he begins, he does remove my gag, but I only get a few minutes of reprieve before he puts me to work polishing his shoes with my tongue. After half an hour or so of that, he kicks off his shoes and socks, and then I get to do the same thing with his feet.

I try to let my mind go blank as I lap away like a dumb dog. I try to drift away to some other place, some place where I'm not sucking on my boss's toes while he rifles through contracts and completely ignores me. But as hard as I try, it's not a place I can find. As hard as I try, there's no escaping the misery and humiliation of this moment, more debased than I've ever been before and painfully aware that he can—and probably will—do much worse.

I don't even notice when I start to cry, but Derek must feel the tears dropping onto his feet, mingling with my saliva. He sets the contract he's been reviewing to the side and hooks a finger in my collar, pulling me all the way up until I'm straddling his lap.

"I really don't think I've given you anything to cry about," he murmurs, swiping a finger across my wet cheek and then sticking it in his mouth to taste my salty tears. "Yet."

"Please." My throat is tight and aching with emotion. "Please, just let me go home."

"Home?" he echoes, arching his eyebrows at me. "Home to your shitty apartment, so you can eat a shitty frozen meal for dinner and fall asleep on your shitty couch in front of some shitty television show?"

"No," I snap, even though he's absolutely right—except I'd probably spring for a pizza delivery after the day I've had. "And besides, anything would be better than being here, with

you

."

He slides his hands around my hips to brush over the bruised, sensitive skin of my ass. I shiver and hope he doesn't notice. A twitch of his lips tells me he does.

"I don't think you really mean that," he says.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." He leans in and presses his lips against the column of my throat, just above the collar. With exquisitely gentle kisses, he works his way upward to my mouth. I find my lips parting in anticipation of his, but he stops just before our mouths meet. "I know that you're still a glorified secretary while your peers have all moved on to bigger and better things. I know you're probably still in the same crappy apartment you moved into after college, and your bank balance now is even smaller than it was back then. You've been gradually losing touch with friends, rather than letting them bear witness to just how little you've accomplished so far. I'm guessing you were an athlete in college—track, from the look of you—but you haven't touched your running shoes in years because you can't stand to be reminded of who you used to be. Your apartment is a trash heap, not because you're a slob—your cubicle is always spotless—but because you can't convince yourself it's worth cleaning up. You took so long to ask Penny out because you know that she's a smart woman who won't let herself get dragged down by a man who lacks drive and discipline."

With every word he speaks, my lungs shrivel up smaller in my chest, until I'm completely breathless. My pulse is pounding in my head. I'm utterly transfixed by the relentless cadence of his voice, by the hypnotic pull of his gray eyes. I wasn't sure it was possible to hate him more, but in this moment I do. I hate him because he's right. And he's not done yet.

"I know why you've stayed for so long in a menial job where you spend all day being ordered around by men richer and more powerful than you. It's the same reason that part of you is glad that you chose punishment that day in my office, instead of just walking away."