OBEYE

07

04.28.23

•Ciauna•

Mr. Obeye's hand continued to roam, moving lower until his fingers brushed against the dampness between my legs.

I bit my bottom lip to keep from crying out, my eyes squeezed shut.

The feeling was alien, a violation of my personal space that I never thought I'd permit.

Yet here I was, bent over his desk, my honor shredded like the fabric of my underwear at my feet.

Just as his fingertips were about to breach the sanctity of my folds, a knock on the door pierced the heavy silence.

It was like God had finally heard my silent screams, the prayers I hadn't even dared to voice aloud.

But Mr. Obeye didn't flinch.

He ignored the knock, his eyes never leaving my face in the reflection of the window as his fingers found their way into my clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make me gasp.

I bit down on my lip, hard enough to draw blood, as a low wail of pleasure escaped my throat, the sound muffled by the sudden pressure of his hand.

His eyes continued to watch me in the reflection of the window, his grip on my hair tightening as his fingers began to explore me in a way that no man ever had.

The knock grew more insistent, the person on the other side growing impatient.

"Mr. Obeye, your father is here. He's in the lobby," a deadened voice called from the other side of the door.

His eyes narrowed, and he removed his hand from my body, his grip on my hair loosening slightly. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

The relief was momentary, though, as he grabbed my chin and turned my face to look at him.

"This isn't over," he growled, his eyes a tempest of desire and anger. "You will be here when I get back, and you will be ready for me, Understood?"

I nodded, my voice trapped in my throat as I watched him adjust his pants and stride over to the door.

He opened it just enough to peer out, his body blocking the view of what had just transpired in the office.

Rachel's voice was faint in the hallway, the sound of her heels retreating down the stairs.

Mr. Obeye stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.

The moment he was gone, I crumpled to the floor, my knees buckling beneath me.

My trembling hands covered my face, dimming the sob that tried to claw its way out of my chest.

I was disgusted with myself, my body betraying me in the worst possible way.

As I lay there, my bare ass cheeks cold against the hardwood floor, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of something... pleasurable.

My body had responded to his touch, my nipples hardening and my pussy clenching despite my mental protests.

The realization filled me with self-loathing, and I curled into a tight ball, trying to force the feeling away.

But it was like trying to hold back a flood with a paper dam.

I was better than this, I knew it in the marrow of my bones. 

I was not going to be here when he got back waiting like a good little servant to be used again.

The thought repeated in my head like a mantra as I scrambled to pull my clothes back on.

My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely manage the buttons on my shirt, but I didn't care.

I had to get out of there before he came back.

Before I did something I would never be able to take back.

I grabbed my apron and shoved it into the pocket of my pants, not bothering to tie it back on.

My heart hammered in my chest as I rushed down the stairs, my legs feeling like they were made of jelly.

The kitchen was a blur of movement as I stormed through, dodging servers and chefs who threw curious glances my way.

The back door of the restaurant loomed ahead, a beacon of escape from the hell that had become my workplace.

I pushed through it, the cool night air slapping me in the face like a wet towel.

My trembling fingers flew over the screen of my phone, typing out a message to Sky.

"I quit my job. Please come get me," I wrote, my hands shaking more than the screen.

I didn't dare explain further.

I couldn't.

The words wouldn't form in my mouth, let alone my brain.

As I waited for her response, I stumbled out into the alley behind the restaurant, the stench of garbage and grease hitting me like a wall.

But even that was preferable to the stifling air of Mr. Obeye's office.

My breath came in short, panicked gasps as I leaned against the brick wall, trying to compose myself.

The coldness of the bricks seeped through my shirt, grounding me in reality.

My phone buzzed in my hand, a message from Sky. "On my way."

Her response was swift, the three simple words a lifeline in the chaos.

As I waited, I made a silent vow: I would never show my face at this place again.

The deal was off, whether Mr. Obeye knew it or not.

The thought of going back in there, of being under his control, was as appealing as swimming in a pool of acid.

I felt like a dirty whore, my body tainted by the touch of a man who saw me as nothing more than a commodity to be bought and sold.

The heaviness of his hands on me was a stain that no amount of scrubbing could remove.

My mother had worked tirelessly to give me a better life, to teach me that my worth wasn't tied to my body.

And here I was, letting someone like him reduce me to something so base.

The very thought of it made me want to retch.

The sound of tires screeching against the asphalt brought me out of my thoughts, and I looked up to see Sky's car pulling into the alley.

I hurried over, the cold air slapping my bare legs as I climbed into the passenger seat.

She took one look at my face and didn't ask questions, just handed me a bottle of water and turned the ac up.

"Thanks," I murmured, taking a long drink, the cool liquid soothing my dry throat.

As we drove away from the restaurant, the tears I'd been fighting back spilled over, tracing hot paths down my cheeks.

I couldn't look at her.

The city lights blurred into streaks of color outside the window, a visual representation of the chaos within me.

How could I have enjoyed any part of that vile encounter?

His hands had been vicious, commanding, and yet... something within me had responded.

It was a betrayal of everything I thought I knew about myself, a secret I was afraid to even acknowledge.