When I opened the door to Waterhouse’s office, his assistant was waiting patiently outside even though it was past the close of business. I simply nodded to her, my tongue too swollen and tired to even speak. My shoulders ached from my arms touching Waterhouse’s chest for so long, and my knees were bruised. She smiled in a friendly sort of fashion and I hurried away before she could talk. I hoped she didn’t go into his office anytime soon. By the time I had left he was nearly comatose on the couch, a line of drool hanging from his lips and his entire stomach painted in dried semen.
I felt painted in dried semen, even though I’d been careful not to let a drop of it in my hair or on my clothes. I’d gotten some on my lips, and even swallowed a little by accident during my ordeal. In his throes of pleasure he liked pushing my head down harder against his cock to increase the pressure. Still, I’d managed to avoid him actually slipping it inside my mouth, despite a few subtle attempts on his part to guide it in there. That his attempts were subtle told me that Ballard had been good to his word – he’d laid the ground rules out ahead of time.