Upward Ambition Ch 06

Author's note: This chapter is a bit shorter and lighter than the others; mostly because I just wanted to get something up for you guys to let you know I'm going to continue this story, thanks to your kind words of encouragement. I think I'll be able to wrap it up properly in another three or four chapters. Thanks for reading, and as always, remember that everything I write is pure fantasy, and in real life, enthusiastic consent and communication is absolutely non-negotiable.

When I wake up Sunday morning, I'm once again alone in the guest bedroom. I suppose I should be grateful that Derek saw fit to unbind my arms at some point. I sit up slowly, taking stock of my abused and aching body. A glass of water on the bedside table catches my eye. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a tube of cream with a name and directions in fancy French script. I study the ingredients for a while, wracking my brain for remnants of high school chemistry before I finally decide it's (hopefully) for the welts that have formed on my ass and legs. I'm pleased at the almost immediate soothing effect, and when my skin doesn't turn green or erupt into boils, I rub it all over myself, including my nipples, cock, and scrotum, which are still sore and sensitive from the clamps.

I down some pills with the water, assuming Derek wouldn't bother to drug me a second time, considering I'm already a prisoner in his house. More likely the butler left the medication at some point while I slept. From the way Derek talked last night, guests in need of pain relief weren't a rare occurrence in the Harrow mansion.

To my shock, I find my clothes folded neatly on the bench at the foot of the bed, with my shoes tucked underneath. On top are my phone, wallet, and—

thank fuck

—my car keys.

I get dressed quickly, half-afraid that Derek is going to change his mind at any moment and come in here for a morning fuck session. The thought of that stirs some interest in my nether regions—a fact I determinedly ignore.

I creep downstairs, expecting to find Derek having breakfast in the sunroom or maybe doing laps in the pool, but I don't see him anywhere. I'm not sure why I'm even looking for him. I should be tearing out of here like a bat out of hell. The butler—I can't remember his name; it started with a G...Glover or Granville or something—materializes out of nowhere. His expression is eerily vacant, as if just yesterday he hadn't seen me crawling around naked at the end of a dog leash. I wonder if he wore that same blank look when Mike Harrow was beating his child with a cane all those years ago.

"I'll show you out, sir," he says in a crisp tone, gesturing in the direction of the front door. I want to laugh at the irony of the "sir," but manage to keep a straight face.

"Where's Der—Mr. Harrow?" I ask.

"Mr. Harrow has asked me to show you out, sir." Gromley or Grim or whatever his name is puts a firm hand on my back and propels me down the hall.

The fact that I'm being kicked out of the house like a shameful one-night stand shouldn't surprise me, but it does. When it comes to my boss, I've no illusions of affection, but even so, I couldn't help but feel that we had turned some sort of corner last night.

Something

had changed. But maybe that's all in my head. God, I really am pathetic. Begging for scraps of decency from a fucking sociopath.

I climb into my car, determined not to give Harrow mansion even a backward glance, but I can't stop myself from looking, just once, in the rearview mirror, as if maybe Derek will be gazing out a window, watching me go. Of course, the house returns only a blank face of closed curtains and doors.

* * * * *

I recover (mostly) from my walk of shame by Monday. Derek's schedule is packed with back-to-back meetings, the majority related to the purchase of Bright Coral that he negotiated on his trip to London. I sit in on a few of them to take notes, but Derek never spares a glance in my direction. The only indication that he even remembers my existence is during his fifteen-minute lunch break, when he calls me into his office and orders me to suck him off. He finishes quickly and I've barely swallowed his cum before he's back to work on his computer. He kicks me out without another word.

I brush my teeth in the restroom—I learned pretty fast to start keeping toothpaste and wet wipes in my desk and some mints in my pocket at all times—and head to the accounting department to deliver some signed forms to be notarized. After some hesitation, I decide to drop by Penny's cubicle. I'm going to cancel the second date we'd planned. I'll tell her that Friday night was fun, but it's probably best if we keep our relationship strictly professional. She'll no doubt be confused, given how determinedly I've flirted with her over the past couple years, but it's not like it would have worked out anyway. Derek was right about Penny being too smart to yoke herself to a perpetual secretary whose biggest career goal is obtaining an ergonomic desk chair.

We've barely exchanged pleasantries, though, when I sense a familiar stare heating up my face. The cubicle walls are short with a glass partition around the top half, so I have a clear view a few desks down, where Derek is leaned against a wall, listening to some number-cruncher droning on about dividends. His marmoreal face is expressionless, but his eyes are daggers in my direction.

I'm not sure why, but my sense of self-preservation yet again deserts me, and I sit on the edge of Penny's desk and paste on a warm smile. We discuss how much fun Friday night was. Then I tell her a funny story I heard from one of the IT guys, and she laughs in delight. I feel a little guilty about sort of leading her on, but not enough to stop. I very purposefully don't look at Derek again, even though I can feel his glare on me the whole time. I know I'm digging my own grave, but in a perverse way it makes me feel powerful. I've forced the great Derek Harrow to take notice of me, quite against his will, and it's a heady rush of adrenaline and danger.

By the time I head back to my desk, I feel as if I've just jumped out of an airplane. Whether or not I have a working parachute remains to be seen.

I spend the rest of the day on pins and needles, waiting for Derek's retribution. Once my head clears a little, I'm less cavalier about the whole thing—after all, I'm still nursing the wounds from my last punishment at his hands—but I can't make myself regret it. I might just be a fucktoy to him, but if he thinks I'm just going to sit meekly on the shelf until he's ready to use me, he has another thing coming. And as long as I don't accept any food or beverages from him, I'll at least be able to face whatever's next head on.

The problem is, nothing happens. The hours pass in monotony, with Derek plowing through one meeting after another. Every time my phone rings, I expect it to be him summoning me into his office. Every time a text message arrives, I expect it to be from a blocked number, warning me about the punishment that's coming my way. When the end of the day rolls around, Derek actually leaves on time, for once. He locks his office and passes by my desk without a word or a glance. I'm utterly confused, and—if I'm being honest with myself—a little bereft.

I try not to think too hard about that, and instead focus on getting home so I can at least take advantage of Derek's absence to relax. I order pizza and change into my flannel pajama pants, then collapse on the couch with a beer to watch a rerun of an old cop drama that I've seen at least twice before. When the doorbell rings, I assume it's the pizza guy and don't even check the peep hole before opening the door. It takes my brain several seconds to register that it's Derek standing there. He's completely out of place in the dingy corridor, still in his crisp Brioni suit from the office. He hasn't even loosened his tie.

I'm in no state to protest as he brushes past me into the apartment. I briefly considering running away but seeing as I'm barefoot and wearing only pajama bottoms, I reluctantly give up the idea and shut the door, sealing myself inside with my boss. I still haven't managed to formulate any words. The contrast between Derek's understated but nonetheless opulent appearance and the shabby disarray of my apartment would be comical, if it weren't so humiliating. The kitchen, dining, and living space are open concept, so from his vantage point Derek has the full view of my sloven existence. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes, the counter is littered with empty takeout boxes and beer cans, and the cheap card table that serves as my dining room furniture is piled high with laundry that I had every intention of folding last week. I can't help but envision the pristine luxury of the mansion, where not even a speck of dust would dare settle.

Derek's cool, clinical gaze sweeps across the space, but as usual his expression is unreadable.

"Well?" he says at last, crossing his arms and resting his eyes on me.

"Well, what?" I ask.

"You were obviously desperate for my attention today, and now you have it." He eyes the ancient, hideous couch for a few seconds, as if he's contemplating sitting down. He remains standing.

"I wasn't—I didn't—" I can't manage to cough out even the weakest of denials. Instead I draw myself up and try a different tack. "I'm busy right now."

The corner of his mouth twitches with the tiniest hint of amusement, which never bodes well for me. There's precious little that bodes well for me, where Derek Harrow is concerned.

"Get undressed," he says in his characteristic detached tone. "Kneel by the couch while I decide what to do with you."

I gape at him for a few seconds, my mind unwilling to accept that he's standing here issuing orders so coolly in

my

home, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"I—I don't want to," I say lamely. I don't even know why. I'm just making things worse for myself. Isn't this what I wanted, when I purposefully baited him in the office? So why am I digging in my heels now? My own motivations are a tangled mess in my head, impossible to resolve into anything resembling sanity.

"Is that so?" There's a definite smile curling his lips now, but it's not a pleasant one. "Do you want me to leave then?"

Yes. Yes yes yes. Say yes.

Of course I want him to leave. I want to lock the door behind him and fall back onto the couch and pass the rest of the night alone, gorging myself on pizza and getting progressively more drunk until finally I stumble to bed in a groggy stupor.

That's

what I want.

Isn't it?

Derek seems utterly unbothered by the notion that he came all the way here just to be kicked out. He doesn't even look prepared to argue or threaten or rip my clothes off me. He looks, as always, perfectly and smugly at ease.

Motherfucker. It would be too easy, wouldn't it? If he were to overpower me (which he no doubt could with little trouble) and beat me and ravish me then I could comfort myself with the knowledge that I didn't want any of it, even as he was dangling me on the edge of orgasm. It's like he said on Saturday, while I was straddling his lap in the great room, naked and weeping: I need him to be in control because it absolves me of all responsibility for my shitty life choices.

Except now he isn't playing

fair

. He's going to make me ask for it. Make me admit that I want him to stay, that I want him to do all those horrible things to me, that I am indeed desperate for his attention, however excruciating it may be. It's probably the worst punishment he could have concocted.

Fucking asshole.

I glare at him but receive no response, no hint of mercy. My fingers itch to grab the door handle, to yank it open and send him on his way. But that was never really an option, was it?

Setting my jaw in a vain attempt to preserve the dignity that has long since been obliterated, I yank off my pants and underwear together, then kneel next to the couch. There's an old potato chip crunched into the ancient carpet beneath my knee, and I catch sight of a cockroach scuttling out of sight beneath the TV stand. I don't know how it's possible, but I feel even shittier than I did before.

Before either of us can speak, the doorbell rings again. For a second, I'm terrified that Derek is going to make me answer it stark naked, but he saunters to the door and opens it. The way the couch is angled, I'm safe from the visitor's view—assuming that Derek doesn't swing the door wide open, which isn't necessarily a given.

This time it is the pizza delivery. I recognize the voice as the cute girl who usually works on weeknights. Sometimes I order pizza just because she's always so nice and after a long day at work with Derek Harrow, I crave a friendly face. I know that's kind of pathetic, but it's not like it's the most pathetic thing I've ever done, considering my current position.

"You're the not the usual guy," says the delivery girl. For a second, I'm flattered that she remembers me, and then I'm embarrassed because now Derek knows how often I order pizza.

"I'm a friend," he replies, with the smoothness of a practiced liar. The girl doesn't say anything, and I wonder if she finds it hard to believe that I have any friends. Or maybe she's confused about why a man like him is in a shithole like this. I know most people can't tell a fifty-dollar suit from a five-thousand-dollar one (neither could I until I started working for a multi-millionaire), but Derek radiates wealth and privilege. It practically oozes from his pores. He pulls out his wallet. "How much?"

"Oh, he paid online," she says, handing him the box and tapping the receipt on top. "I just need a signature."

She digs around in her pocket for a pen and gives it to him. He says something I can't quite make out, but judging by the way she giggles, it was something flirtatious. Derek can be devastatingly charming when he wants to be. But then again, so could Ted Bundy.

I glare at the back of his head while he converses easily with a girl who I've never gotten more than a few friendly but bland words from. And the whole time I can't do anything but kneel there naked in my own filthy living room, yet again waiting for my boss to remember I exist. I'm tempted to get up, get dressed, and go lock myself in my room, like a teenager throwing a tantrum. But, of course, I don't. I wait in silence like I'm supposed to.

"Christ, does he always tip this badly?" Derek asks, as he hands back the pen. She giggles again as he fishes a bill out of his wallet and hands it to her. I'm not sure, but it looks an awful lot like a fifty, which is three times the cost of the food. I'm a little miffed, because I always tip twenty percent or more, but I guess when you're accustomed to restaurant bills in the hundreds, a five-dollar tip seems paltry. Or maybe he's enjoying humiliating me even further, just because he can.

My anger is ringing in my ears, so I can't make out what she says in reply. Derek shuts the door and drops the pizza box on the coffee table, which I'm just realizing still has an old pizza box from last week sitting on it.

Wonderful.

I notice a string of numbers scrawled across the box in loopy handwriting along with the name "Bekah."

"Did she really give you her number?" I ask in disbelief. "Just like that?" I don't even think he asked for it.

Derek glances at the box as he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of one of the metal folding chairs by the dining table.

"I guess she did," he says, unconcerned, as if that sort of thing happens all the time. I guess for him it probably does. "Why, are you jealous?"

He smirks at me. I'm not sure if he means jealous of him or of her—either way, it's clearly a dig.

"You're an asshole," I mutter.

"You know," he says, loosening his tie and stepping around me to sit on the couch, "I was going to let you eat dinner, but if you're that eager for punishment, then I'm happy to oblige."

I open my mouth automatically to apologize, but he's already grabbing me by the hair and pulling me onto the couch. His grip is steel that I know better than to try to break, so I scramble into position over his lap. The action is familiar enough by now that I slide instinctively into the proper place, my back arched slightly, my cock dangling between his thighs, my ass angled at the perfect height for him to smack.

With his left hand, he grips the back of my neck, and with his right he gently rubs the globes of both my cheeks, sparking sensation in the welts that had just begun to heal. I can't help but squirm the slightest bit, and he immediately gives me a vicious pinch. I yelp and force myself to still.

"You're going to thank me after every stroke," he says softly, dipping his fingers between my legs just far enough to graze my ball sac with a tantalizing touch and then pulling away. "When I feel that you really mean it, I'll stop."

The first spank isn't so bad, sending a heady rush of warmth through my body and stirring a familiar interest in my groin.

"Thank you, sir," I say, trying to sound sincere, not that I think there's any chance in hell he will stop after only one.

Smack.

"Thank you, sir."

Smack.

"Thank you, sir."

Smack.

"Thank you, sir."

As the number climbs, sweat starts to rise on my feverish skin. Each blow feels like a series of firecrackers as every welt on my ass and thighs ignites in pain. I'm digging my fingers into the couch cushion and trying not to kick my feet as my whole body recoils. My dignified tone is breaking up and humiliating little grunts and groans begin to escape me.

Smack.

"Unh. Thank you, sir."

Smack.

"Unh! Thank you, sir."

Smack.

"Unnhh," I moan, and force the words out between gasps before he can decide we need to start over. "Thank...you...sir."

I intended to keep count in my head, but I lose focus somewhere around thirty. My ass feels like it's on fire, and I'm biting my lip to keep from screaming. All I need is for a concerned neighbor to call the cops. I have no doubt Derek would delight in making me explain to the officers that I enjoy being spanked, and I'm a naughty slut who deserves it.

As horrifying as that prospect is, my cock—which has been at half-mast during this whole ordeal—stirs in interest. I'm wondering if it's possible Derek hasn't noticed, when he suddenly roughly spreads my legs wider.

"I don't know why I bother punishing you," he says, his voice edged with his own arousal as he reaches between us to fondle my balls and cock. "You're such a little pain whore; it's more like a reward."

"No," I whine, even as I grind my pelvis against his hand.

"Liar." He yanks my balls down and back, between my legs, and slaps them. Hard.

My vision explodes with sparks, and I shriek into the couch cushion. He smacks them again, and even as I cry out in pain, my toes are curling and my cock is surging with blood.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" he asks coolly.

"Thank you, sir," I manage to sob.

He starts to alternate between my scrotum and my ass, until I'm little more than a blubbering, quivering heap of raw nerves and sensation. My cock is dripping pre-cum, which Derek does not fail to notice and mock me for. When at last he pushes me to the floor, my head is so fucked I can't tell if I'm deliriously horny or in agonizing pain. Surely it can't be both.

When Derek's voice penetrates my haze, I almost can't believe my ears.

"Would you like to come?"

Oh god, yes.

"Please," I beg, kneeling up and swiping my arm across my wet face. "Please, sir."

I'm prepared to open his trousers and wrap my lips around his cock to earn it, but instead he shakes his head.