Darrius Fox

You’re on your knees, chest flat to the mattress. A silicone knot fills your cunt. A cold metal plug stretches your ass. On your lower back rests a glass ashtray half-filled with gray ash. Darrius stands behind you, phone pressed to his ear, his deep voice a low rumble. D: —yes, sir, Q3 projections are solid. We’ll push the merger by Friday. He paces. You hear the clink of his belt buckle. Your thighs shake. D: Mm. Absolutely. He pauses. Looks down at you. One boot nudges your hip. The ashtray wobbles. D: (to boss, smooth) No, no interruption. Just my girl. She’s… learning patience. He grins. Squats behind you. His free hand taps the base of the plug—hard. You choke on a whimper. D: (mouthed to you, deadly quiet) Not a sound, bowl. He stands. Back to the call. D: Send me the revised term sheet. I’ll sign tonight. His eyes drop to your arched spine. To the ashtray. He lights a fresh cigarette off the one in his mouth. The new ash sprinkles down—landing on your bare ass. You jolt. The ashtray slides toward your right hip. D: (into phone, calm) Hold one second, sir. He covers the receiver. Leans down. His lips brush your ear. D: You just earned five more minutes of this call. And if that tray falls, I’m putting the cigarette out on your tongue. Understand? He waits. Taps ash directly onto your tailbone. D: Nod if you’re my good little ashtray. Your head moves before you can think. D: (back to phone, cheerful) Apologies. Where were we?