The Negotiation

I am a fan of JDSeal's work and I wanted to explore the characters of his comic series "Debt" in a way that only a novella could. This story is an expansion of the first three pages of “Debt: Chapter 1”. I include more history, internal conflict, and decision-making of its main characters, Maggie and Nikos.

For those not familiar with the original comic, the story revolves around a woman put into debt because of her husband's financial mismanagement. Her entire self-concept and her family's social status are put at risk. Her only way to covertly regain a financial foothold is funding from her estranged but business-savvy son, who of course has very specific compensation requirements.

This version is a bit darker than JDSeal's original, but hopefully still just as erotic. Think psychosexual thriller. I'd appreciate any feedback! And please read JD's original comic if you haven't!

…

The office looked more like a bunker than a place of business.

Concrete walls, deliberately unadorned. A steel-framed desk flanked by a single leather chair and one low, cream ottoman placed across from it like an afterthought. No accolades, no photos, no art. Just a single vertical window filtering in a smear of dull morning light. The air smelled like paper and metal. Cold. Hollow.

“You kept your room just like this when you were in high school. Except there were more girlie posters back then.”

Maggie Argyris stood in the doorway, surveying the barren room and the young man inside it. Her head swiveled left over her shoulder to face him as she leaned back against the jamb, arms folded, with one foot pulled up under her and resting against the frame. The pose may have exuded effervescence in a younger woman, but the way Maggie held it conveyed a composure that her 44 years had earned.

Maggie had dressed to intimidate: a fitted pink turtleneck and brown capris hugged her statuesque outline while her matching stilettos enhanced her already tall frame. She had tied her chestnut brown hair into a low bun, an old swimmer’s habit repurposed for boardrooms, to complete the look.

“No diplomas, Nikos? No awards?” she asked. Maggie stepped inside and stopped just short of the ottoman. She didn’t sit, and he didn’t rise.

“Credentials are for people who need to justify their status. I don’t.” The man replied with a confidence incongruous with his age. Nikos was dressed for control the way a young man freshly minted from college would—black fitted jeans, charcoal shirt, sleeves casually pushed up, and wristwatch perfectly centered. His expression was unreadable, but the way his hands rested on the desk, almost too still, spoke of something.

His eyes flicked upward, just briefly, as if checking her reaction. Maggie noticed. She always did. Ever since he was a teenager, watching her, measuring.

“Hm,” she mused. “Your father used to say the same thing.”

Nikos’s eyes narrowed. A muscle pulled near his jaw. Then a small grin appeared.

“Well,” he said, “look where that got him.”

“Exactly.”

She let the silence stretch. He didn’t respond.

The ottoman loomed beneath her, uninviting. A trap disguised as a courtesy. She walked past it with two clicks of her heels. Heels that Maggie liked because they lengthened her powerful legs and lifted her full and feminine ass. Once all lean angles, her swimmer’s frame had softened with motherhood. The taut muscle remained, but was now wrapped in a fuller silhouette: strong hips, narrow waist, and commanding breasts. She’d grown used to the way men looked at her now—longer, more carefully, as if age had made her more dangerous.

Nothing she needed to worry about for this negotiation, of course.

“You know why I’m here,” Maggie said.

Nikos lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve got a guess.”

“Then say it.”

“You need money. Not just for you—for Giorgos. I heard they cancelled the country club membership. Car gone. The business accounts are frozen.” Nikos’s tone remained even, but each word was a slow tightening of the rope. “But you’re not here as my mother. You’re here as his wife.”

The words hit harder than she expected. Her jaw flexed, her breath caught—but she said nothing. Because what could she say? That she had seen this coming? That she'd ignored the signs when they were small enough to fix?

“Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t go to him first.”

Nikos knew exactly why she hadn’t. But saying it still made her flinch.

“I need a man who is capable,” Maggie said. “At the moment, Giorgos is not. You are.”

A pause. The faintest upward crease tugged the corner of Nikos’s mouth. His chest, already carved clean with strength, swelled and threatened to pop the buttons of his body-tight tailored shirt. “We both know that Dad has not been able to…execute your vision for a while now.”

“And I think you’re smart enough to know this isn’t about him anymore.”

Nikos stood. Not abruptly. But slowly, deliberately. And as he did, he reached behind his neck and pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, folding it once and setting it on the chair. Broad shoulders topping a long, to tapering torso shone under the light; a genetic gift from Maggie that had propelled him to many swimming championships.

“Is this how you greet all of your clients?” Maggie asked, her voice incredulous but subdued with practiced control.

“It’s warm in here. You always kept the house too cold.”

Maggie said nothing, but her eyes lingered on the shirt. It was neatly folded, deliberately placed. This wasn’t impulse. It was theater.

She took a breath, then looked down at the ottoman again. It still sat between them, soft and humiliating, its purpose obvious: make the opponent small, literally beneath you. She’d taught Giorgos that trick herself. And Nikos, apparently, had learned it as well.

“You’re running the script, aren’t you?” she said.

He was showing his teeth. And damn it, it was working. Beneath her eye roll, a flicker of admiration stirred. The boy was learning how to hold a room. Like Giorgos used to.

“All those negotiation books you started hoarding when you were nineteen. Posture equals dominance. Minimize the competition’s vertical height. Strip down to show control. Eye contact to assert frame.” She gave a tiny shrug. “You’re using them on me, if a little bit overzealously. That’s cute.”

A faint twitch near his eyebrow betrayed him.

“They’re effective,” he said, “if the other party is sentimental.”

“Oh, I’m not sentimental, Nikos. I'm just here for business.”

She stayed standing a moment longer, just to let it sting. But she could feel her calves beginning to burn, and her heels were cutting into her arches. And she also knew that sitting was a better option than removing her stilettos and exposing her feet, which would feel oddly intimate with Nikos. So yes, she could handle the seat without surrendering to this boy. To this man.

She sighed audibly, then stepped forward. Sat. Slowly.

The ottoman gave beneath her in that deliberate, too-soft way. She crossed her legs. Back straight. Her midriff showed slightly beneath her pink turtleneck as she tried to maintain height, dignity.

Nikos didn’t move. But Maggie noticed it, for the first time—something off in his stillness. Not calm. Staged. Too practiced. His breathing was shallow, his chest slightly elevated. Muscles flexed under control. Even his smirk looked sculpted.

She tilted her head. She seized the chance to act the role of disappointed teacher.

“How many times did you rehearse this?”

His eyes flicked to her, and for the first time, there was no comeback. Just a quiet beat, long enough for her to feel a shift in the room.

“You don’t know what to do with me now that I’m playing along,” she added. Her smirk broadened into a smile.

“Well, if we’re playing, then let me come on over.”

Nikos stood, unhurried, and stepped out from behind the desk with quiet precision, as though removing the barrier between them was simply the next logical move. He settled easily against the table, facing Maggie.

She saw it then — as he leaned back, a flick of tension in his jaw. And when her eyes dropped — casually, as if scanning the desk — she saw the slight swell at his lap. Not full. But thickening. A bulge she could no longer unsee.

For a moment, her pulse ticked faster. But then she collected herself, taking an easy breath. In her high school days, Maggie had dealt with enough hot-blooded men eager to prove themselves to understand what this was. It was so sophomoric that, frankly, she was disappointed with Nikos.

Maggie decided to charge directly into his feint. She dropped her eyes downward to his lap, deliberately this time, before sliding her gaze slowly up his chiseled abdomen to meet his stare.

“Hmm,” she said, voice light and sharp as a knife through silk. “Your trousers seem to have a… structural issue.”

He didn’t speak. He simply stood there, in front of her, chest bare and posture easy — or pretending to be. The desk no longer between them. His hands at his sides. The soft sound of their breath was the only movement in the room.

Maggie sat back further, spine taut and heels dug into the floor. She wasn’t leaning back in retreat. Not exactly. But she was pulling herself away from the heat of his body. From the shape looming so obviously at the center of his pants.

His cock was hard now.

What the hell was going on here? He was not just swelling. Not just hinting. Fully erect beneath the stretch of his black jeans, the shape was undeniable and obscene. The fabric curved with it, lifting outward from his body like a threat she hadn’t asked to meet.

Something twisted inside her. Somewhere low in her stomach. Not with desire. With that same complex, rising sickness one feels at the moment just before impact, when time thins and the body prepares for a collision.

She didn’t look away, but she did speak.

“Well,” she murmured, lips dry. “That explains the posture. You weren’t trying to intimidate me. You were just… adjusting.”

That made him smirk. Barely. But it was there — and with it, a twitch. Below.

“Mom,” he said smoothly, “you’re the one who barged into my office asking for money.” This time he glanced downward, just once, as though referencing the swollen shape in his jeans as part of the offer. “I’m just giving you options.”

Maggie’s body didn’t move, but her eyes cut swiftly between his face and his crotch like a blade. He just wants to get a reaction, she thought. To throw me off.

This has nothing to do with sex, she told herself. It’s a game. A negotiation.

But she couldn’t stop looking. And neither could he.

He unbuttoned his jeans slowly, deliberately—each metallic pop like a countdown. The sound was quiet, but in the stark, echoing office, it seemed to fill the space. He didn’t break eye contact. He didn’t ask for permission.

Maggie’s breath caught as the fabric peeled away.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t obscene. It was worse than that—measured. The reveal of a man who had thought about this moment. Who had planned for it. Who knew the effect he would have.

The base of his cock emerged first, thick and rigid. It looked powerfully anchored to the base of his muscled torso. Inch by inch it rose, freed from its prison, until it sprang up with a shocking elasticity and slapped heavily against his abdomen. The sound, like a meat hammer pounding steak, snapped her body into tension. She clenched her legs together before she realized she’d moved at all.

Maggie was shocked at the display, but also the control behind it. Nikos commanded the tempo of the moment like a seasoned negotiator. No panic. No hesitation. Only calculation. A style like her own.

He didn’t say a word. But his eyes watched her—drank in her reaction, catalogued it, lived off it.

She tried to sneer. Tried to summon some expression of disdain. But her hands were gripping the edge of the ottoman now, and her chest had gone tight, the breath shallow and hard in her throat.

That cock. His—its—implicit demands were crystal clear.

God help her, it wasn’t just what Giorgos’s might’ve looked like twenty years ago. It was more than that—larger, darker, more alert. It looked... hungry. The shaft throbbed with veined urgency that Giorgos never had, even in his prime. There was a heat coming off it. A demand.

And something inside her tightened in response. Not desire—not that. Something lower, more animal. A thrum of arousal she hadn’t invited.

She hated it. Hated him for forcing her to notice. Hated her body for not recoiling fast enough.

“You’re disgusting,” she managed, her voice sharp but brittle.

And yet her body was betraying her.

She could feel it—moisture beginning to gather between her thighs. Not dramatic. Just enough to make her aware of the seam of her panties pressing against her, clinging tighter. She shifted slightly on the ottoman, feigning discomfort, but she knew better. It wasn’t posture—it was panic. It was the body responding to a threat it couldn’t reason through.

The lewd, audacious display was bad enough. But what scared her more was that it was affecting her. Not just morally. Physically. In ways Giorgos never had. Not even on their honeymoon.

The longing clench inside her boiled into a hot indignation. She clutched at her chest, as if to press it all back in. But once the anger welled and subsided, she caught herself absently tracing a finger across her sternum.

She stopped just short of the curve of her breast.

“Well, Mom?” Nikos was practically drooling. “Are we ready to make this deal happen?”

His voice snapped Maggie back to the present. Her negotiating instincts switched back on. She forced herself to stop examining her own arousal and focused on his.

Nikos’s cock stood there proud and pulsing, yes, but the flushed tip twitched slightly from the tension of restraint. Maggie saw his fingers gripping the desk, the pulse in his neck. She saw the reddened skin where the shaft had been pressed too long against denim. The slight tremble in his thighs.

She knew that kind of pressure. She had seen it before. In lovers younger than her. In Giorgos, once. On their wedding night.

Her stomach twisted and disgust surged again, thick and hot in her throat—but beneath it, her eyes saw through Nikos’s facade. He was unraveling in front of her, and he didn’t even know it. Maggie, still seated and still silent, began to weigh her first move.

She tilted her head slowly. Her voice dropped. “Oh,” she said, tone mock-thoughtful. “So that’s what all this was about.”

Nikos blinked.

“Trying to prove you can keep it together,” she went on. But look. It’s twitching like it’s on a timer,” she added, voice airy now, almost amused.

And then her bemused smile flattened into a line of steely resolve.

“So no, I’d never do something like this,” she said, her voice cold and razor-thin. “Especially not for someone who looks like he’s about to cum just from being told no.”

Nikos flinched. Not dramatically. Just enough. Suddenly, Nikos grimaced as his cock lurched upward and the clear drop beading at his tip thickened into something heavier and hotter. He pulsed once and a single creamy globule escaped, dripping with a soft smack onto the floor. It was a subtle surrender that he couldn’t take back. Without ceremony, Nikos clamped the base of his shaft with a vicious grip that made veins bulge with restraint. His cock obeyed, but barely. Maggie had turned the very thing he had tried to weaponize into his vulnerability—into something raw, wanting, and beyond his control.

“You think that’s funny?” he muttered, gasping slightly. “You think you’ve won something because I feel this?”

He tried to recover, lifting one hand to count, but the motion was jerky.

“You say no to me,” he said, tapping a finger, “and you give up the house.”

Then another tap. “The car.” And another.

“And every little tailored outfit you’ve ever worn to remind men you’re unattainable.” His line cut Maggie with its specificity. And truth.

Then Nikos leaned in. Not aggressively. Just close enough that she could feel his breath ghosting against her check.

“And what will you tell your church friends?” he whispered. “The ones who pretend not to notice how tight your skirts are... but always save you a seat?”

Maggie’s eyes dropped from his cruel smile to his straining cock. It was now close enough for her to feel its hungry heat. As if her gaze was the trigger, it lurched once more, the tip swelling like a ripe plum. She saw Nikos buck his hips, almost imperceptively, as though desperate enough to try the fuck the air around her.

He needed release, and she needed money. It was a true stalemate. No amount of clever verbal flanking would change their circumstances. He was the only one who could help her—and, apparently, only she could help him.

Her mind whirled. Disgust, yes. But desperation louder.

You can't go back to that life, she told herself, nearly aloud. You clawed your way out riding the bus, out of drafty apartments, out of counting quarters for milk.

To escape from her history, she had sold herself as a woman who belonged in moneyed rooms—who wore cashmere like a second skin and didn’t flinch when the bill came.

Now she was hanging by a thread. No accounts. No cars. No cushion. Just a son standing in front of her with a cock like a loaded gun and a smug smile daring her to say no.

Her thighs pressed together, involuntary, reacting to the heat in the room—or maybe the weight of being watched. The air felt too thick, her blouse too tight. The smell of his arousal and hers seemed to curl around her like a noose.

How did we get here? she thought. Nikos was once the small boy swimming laps in a pool too cold, trying to impress her with his strokes. Now he was bigger, harder. A man cut from the bones of a boy who once wanted her approval.

Maggie’s eyes lifted to his once more. For a moment, she swore she saw something other than arrogance— a flicker of hunger not just for her body, but for her surrender. Something needy in his dominance.

She exhaled, long and slow. Her voice, when it came, was controlled. Cold. But low, with just a hint of something else curled beneath the words.

“I can give you what you want,” she said, steady, “as long as my underwear stays on.”

Nikos’s lips twitched upward. Not a smirk. A reward.

“Fine by me,” he said, the tip of his cock giving a small throb as he spoke. “Restriction breeds creativity.”

Her stomach turned, but her chin lifted. Let him believe he had won. She wouldn’t break. Not here. Not yet.

Maggie could not look him in the eye. Instead, she half-turned away from him, but reached out with her right hand and pressed against his chest. She was not sure if she meant to keep Nikos at bay, or if she wanted—no, needed—any kind of human connection in this purely transactional moment.

As though her touch was an invitation, he reached his hand out and deliberately, carefully cupped Maggie’s right breast over her shirt. As though he had practiced for this. Hundreds of times.

She froze but allowed the contact. His grip was firm, almost possessive. But he was not rough, and his eyes were - almost reverent. Over her shoulder, Maggie could see that his cock was now drooping at‑rest, though it had lost none of its girth. She wondered if something drove Nikos other than pure lust. That thought was even more frightening.

Nikos closed the distance between them by a half-step, his arm still snaked around her torso, hand clasping her breast. Maggie could feel the warmth radiating from Nikos’ bare chest on her back. She remembered how Giorgos used to come home from work, slipping behind her at the kitchen counter while she stirred dinner, arms around her waist. This wasn't a coincidence. Nikos touched her now like a boy fulfilling an old, forbidden blueprint. One he’d studied from across the kitchen long ago.