Chapter 3: Kitchen Confessions

Kunal stood from the armchair abruptly. His hand wrapped around Aloma's wrist before she could process what was happening. He pulled her up from the sofa where she'd been lying boneless and spent.

"I need water," he said.

She stumbled to her feet. Her legs barely worked. Everything below her waist was numb and shaky at the same time. His come was already leaking down her inner thighs. She could feel it trickling slowly toward her knees.

He didn't let go of her wrist. Instead he started walking toward the kitchen, dragging her behind him like she weighed nothing. Like she was just an object he'd decided to bring along.

"Wait," she said. Her voice came out hoarse. "I can't—my legs—"

He ignored her. Just kept walking at the same steady pace across the marble floor. She had to half-jog to keep up, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone. Her thong was still on but it had ridden up between her ass cheeks and wasn't covering anything anymore.

The penthouse looked different now. Emptier somehow. Earlier it had been full of her coworkers drinking and laughing. Now it was just the two of them in this massive space. All this luxury that belonged to his family. To his wife and kids who were thousands of miles away right now.

Her knees buckled. She grabbed onto his arm to stay upright. He didn't slow down or acknowledge that she was struggling. Just kept moving forward with her stumbling along beside him.

They passed through the living room. Past the sofa where he'd just fucked her. Past the armchair where this had all started. Past the coffee table with its water rings and empty glasses. The whole space smelled like sex and sweat and whiskey.

The kitchen was at the far end of the penthouse. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the city. The counter was marble. White with gray veining. Expensive looking. The kind of thing his wife probably picked out herself.

Aloma's vision blurred. She blinked hard to try to clear it but everything stayed fuzzy around the edges. How much had she drunk tonight? Too much probably. Way too much to be making decisions like this.

Kunal finally released her wrist when they reached the counter. She immediately grabbed onto the edge to keep herself steady. Her palms pressed flat against the cold marble. It helped ground her a little. Helped remind her that this was actually happening and not some fucked up dream.

He walked past her to the sink. Filled a glass with water. Drank it in three long gulps. Then filled it again.

She watched him. Tried to make sense of what she was doing here. What she'd already done. What she was about to let him do again.

This wasn't who she was supposed to be. She wrote social media posts about consent and bodily autonomy. She shared articles about toxic masculinity. She'd given presentations at work about creating safe spaces for women.

And now she was standing in her boss's kitchen with his come running down her legs. Waiting for him to fuck her again.

Kunal set the glass down. He turned to look at her. His eyes traveled slowly down her body. Taking in her small breasts with their hard nipples. Her flat stomach. The white thong that wasn't covering anything. The mess between her thighs.

"Turn around," he said.

She didn't move.

"I said turn around."

Slowly she turned her back to him. Faced the counter. The marble was clean and polished. She could see her reflection in it. Distorted but recognizable. Her makeup was completely destroyed. Black streaks ran down her cheeks from crying. Her lipstick was smeared across her chin.

She looked exactly like what she was. A slut who'd been thoroughly used.

His hands landed on her shoulders. He pushed down hard. Bending her forward over the counter. The cold marble pressed against her cheek. Against her small breasts. The temperature shock made her gasp.

He kicked her feet apart. Widened her stance until she was completely spread and vulnerable. Her ass was in the air. Her thighs were trembling.

"This is where my family eats breakfast," he said. His voice was casual. Conversational. "My wife sits right here every morning with her coffee. My daughter does her homework on this counter."

Aloma's stomach clenched. She tried to push herself up but his hand came down between her shoulder blades. Held her in place.

"Don't move," he said.

She heard him spit. Then his fingers were between her legs. Rubbing his saliva mixed with his own come back inside her. Preparing her for round two.

"Please," she whispered. Though she wasn't sure what she was begging for anymore.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her thong. Yanked it down to her knees in one quick motion. The fabric stretched and pulled but didn't tear.

She was completely exposed now. Face down on his family's kitchen counter. Spread open and waiting.

His cock pressed against her entrance. Still hard. Still ready. He didn't ease in this time either. Just pushed inside with one brutal thrust that made her cry out.

The marble was freezing against her face. Against her nipples. The contrast with the heat of him inside her was overwhelming. Too much sensation all at once.

He started fucking her hard. Deliberate thrusts that pushed her body forward across the counter with each one. Her hands scrambled for purchase but the marble was too smooth. She couldn't find anything to hold onto.

"Tell me," he said. His voice was slightly breathless but still controlled. "Tell me what you've fantasized about."

She shook her head. Or tried to. The movement was limited with her face pressed flat.

His hand tangled in her hair. Pulled her head back at a painful angle. Her spine arched involuntarily.

"I'm not asking," he said. "I'm telling you. Tell me what you've imagined during our office meetings."

She clenched her jaw. Tried to stay silent. But he slammed into her particularly hard and she gasped.

"Tell me or I stop right now and send you home like this," he said.

The threat of being denied was somehow worse than the humiliation of confessing. She hated that about herself. Hated that she needed this more than she needed her dignity.

"I've imagined you bending me over your desk," she said. The words came out muffled against the marble. "During lunch breaks when everyone else is gone."

"Keep going."

"Making me suck your cock during video conferences. Fucking me in the office bathroom between meetings."

His grip on her hair tightened. Pulled harder. The pain shot through her scalp and down her spine.

"More specific," he demanded. "When exactly do you touch yourself thinking about this? What time of day?"

Her face burned. This was worse than anything physical he was doing to her. This was exposing the truth she'd buried deep inside. The truth that contradicted everything she claimed to stand for.

"Late at night," she admitted. "After I get home from work. I go to bed and I can't sleep because I keep thinking about you."

He slapped her ass hard. Right on the spot he'd spanked earlier. The sting made her yelp.

"What position are you in when you touch yourself?"

"On my back usually. Sometimes on my stomach humping my pillow."

Another slap. Harder this time.

"What specific degrading acts do you fantasize about?"

"You making me worship your cock. Making me beg to suck it. Slapping me if I don't do it right."

He was fucking her harder now. Each thrust punished and rewarded at the same time. Her body was confused. Pain and pleasure mixing until she couldn't separate them.

"What names do you imagine me calling you?" he asked.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tried to pretend she was somewhere else. Someone else. But his cock was too deep inside her. Too present. Too real.

"Slut. Whore. Feminist cunt. Hypocrite."

"And does it make you wet? Imagining me degrading you like that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Louder."

"Yes. It makes me wet."

"Have you come thinking about being my office slut?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

She didn't want to answer that. Didn't want to admit how often she'd gotten herself off to these exact scenarios. How many nights she'd spent with her hand between her legs imagining him using her.

He pulled her hair harder. Her neck was bent back so far it hurt.

"How many times?" he repeated.

"I don't know. Dozens. Maybe more."

He released her hair suddenly. Her face dropped back against the marble. The impact made her vision blur.

"I've known," he said. His voice was matter-of-fact. Like he was discussing quarterly reports. "I've known about your attraction for months."

She tried to process that. Tried to understand what he meant. But thinking was getting harder with his cock still moving inside her.

"I've caught you staring at me during meetings," he continued. "Board presentations. Client calls. You think you're subtle but you're not."

His hand came down on her ass again. She was losing count of how many times he'd hit her. Everything was blending together.

"I've seen how you get flustered when I stand too close to you at your desk," he said. "How your breath catches. How you cross your legs and squeeze your thighs together."

She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him he was wrong. But they both knew he wasn't.

"I've noticed your nipples getting hard through your shirts when I criticize your work," he said. "When I tell you your social media posts are naive bullshit. When I argue with you about your politics."

His thrusts were getting more erratic. Less controlled. He was getting close again.

"I've been waiting for the right opportunity," he said. "Planning this exact scenario. Knowing my wife and kids would be out of town. Knowing I could have you alone in this space."

The words hit her harder than his hand had. He'd planned this. Orchestrated it. She hadn't just fallen into this situation. He'd engineered it specifically to break her down.

"I wanted to fuck you in every room they occupy," he said. "Mark my territory. Make you understand that you belong to me now."

Something cracked inside her. The combination of his confession and the relentless physical sensation was too much. Her brain couldn't handle it anymore.

She started crying. Actually sobbing while he fucked her against his family's kitchen counter. Tears streamed down her face and mixed with the smeared makeup already there.

But her body was doing something else entirely. Building toward another orgasm even while her mind was breaking. The cognitive dissonance was unbearable.

She was a feminist. She believed in equality and respect and consent. She wrote posts about women's empowerment. She spoke at rallies about bodily autonomy.

And here she was getting off on being degraded by a misogynist who thought women were inferior. Who voted for politicians she despised. Who represented everything she claimed to hate.

The orgasm hit her without warning. Her whole body convulsed. She screamed into the marble. Her vision went white. Everything disappeared except the overwhelming sensation.

She was still coming when she heard the phone ring. The sound cut through the haze. She tried to focus but couldn't make sense of it at first.

Then she saw the screen light up. Right there on the counter. Inches from her tear-streaked face.

The display showed a contact photo. A family picture. Kunal with a beautiful woman and two kids. They were at a beach somewhere. Everyone was smiling. They looked happy.

The wife's name appeared above the photo. Priya.

Aloma's stomach dropped. The orgasm was still rolling through her but suddenly it was mixed with horror. She was being fucked on this woman's kitchen counter while looking at a picture of her family.

The phone kept ringing. Kunal didn't slow down. Didn't pull out. Just reached across her body and grabbed the phone with one hand.

He answered it.

"Hey baby," he said. His voice was completely different. Warm and affectionate. The voice of a loving husband. "How's the trip going?"

Aloma's eyes went wide. She tried to move but his other hand pressed down on the back of her neck. Held her in place against the marble.

He kept fucking her. Kept thrusting in and out while talking to his wife. His rhythm didn't change at all.

"That's great," he said into the phone. "I'm glad you're having fun. Yeah, the party went well. Everyone left about an hour ago. I'm just cleaning up now."

His hand slid from her neck to her mouth. Covered it completely. His palm pressed hard against her lips to keep any sound from escaping.

She could hear a woman's voice through the phone. Tinny and distant but clearly happy. Clearly trusting. Clearly having no idea what her husband was doing right now.

Kunal's cock hit something deep inside her. She couldn't help it. She moaned against his hand.

He pressed harder. His fingers dug into her cheeks. The pressure was almost painful but it kept her quiet.

"What was that?" his wife asked through the phone. "Did you say something?"

"Just the TV," Kunal said smoothly. "I left it on in the living room. Hang on, let me turn it down."

He didn't turn anything down. Just kept fucking Aloma harder. Faster. His hand stayed clamped over her mouth.

She could barely breathe. Could barely think. This was so much worse than anything that had come before. This was a violation of someone who wasn't even here. Someone who had nothing to do with Aloma's fucked up desires.

"That's better," his wife said. "So tell me about the party. Who showed up?"

Kunal talked about the party like nothing else was happening. Listed off names of coworkers who'd attended. Mentioned funny moments and conversations. His voice stayed casual and relaxed the entire time.

Meanwhile his cock was buried deep inside Aloma. His hand was covering her mouth. His come from earlier was still leaking out around his shaft and dripping onto the marble floor.

She started crying again. Harder this time. The tears ran down her face and pooled under his palm. Her whole body shook with sobs that she couldn't let out.

This was who she was. This was what she'd become. A woman who helped married men cheat. Who got fucked while they talked to their wives. Who got off on the degradation and wrongness of it all.

Kunal's thrusts were getting more urgent. More desperate. He was close again. She could tell from the way his breathing changed even though his voice stayed steady.

"The kids want to say hi," his wife said.

"Put them on," Kunal said.

A child's voice came through the phone. High-pitched and excited. Talking about Disneyland and all the rides they'd been on.

Aloma wanted to die. Wanted to disappear. Wanted to stop existing entirely.

But her body was still responding. Still building toward something despite how horrified her mind was. She was going to come again while Kunal talked to his daughter.

His hand tightened over her mouth. He must have sensed it. Must have known she was about to lose control.

"That sounds amazing," he said to his daughter. His voice was full of fatherly pride and warmth. "I can't wait to hear all about it when you get home."

He slammed into Aloma particularly hard. Once. Twice. Three times.

She came. Her whole body went rigid against the counter. Her scream was completely muffled by his hand. The orgasm tore through her while his daughter talked about meeting Mickey Mouse.