Page 3 of Fatal Sloth

It's evident from our last encounter she isn’t a virgin, and the sex was fine, but it's clear I’m not the only one she’s coming on to. Just the other night, I saw one of the bartenders bending her over a crate of domestic beer. But I don’t care about that. In fact, good for him. The last thing I want, let alone need, is for someone like her to get so comfortable around me that they’d actively seek me out. Stephanie did just that, so after she swallows my load, I’m not going to give her the time of day. Hell, she’ll be lucky to keep this job.

My balls start to tighten, tingles spreading at the base of my spine as her tongue traces circles around the head of my cock. With one hard thrust, I find my release, shooting ropes of cum down her throat.

“That’s it, Stephanie, swallow it down. Be a good little slut and suck me clean now.”

I release my grip, letting her suck me dry while she continues playing with her pussy, chasing her own release. When she finally pops off, I tuck away my softening cock and draw the zipper up my slacks and fasten my belt. I kick the scrap of fabric she calls a dress in her direction as I step around my desk, taking a seat in the leather chair.

“Leave.”

“What?” Her mouth hangs open in surprise as she presses to her feet.

“Get out of my office.” I do little to hide the annoyance in my voice as she quickly dresses.

The slutty heels clip across the tile floor, and when she reaches for the door handle, I call out for her.

“Yes?” she chirps, hope lacing her eyes as she swivels her head to meet my gaze.

“Don’t you ever come into my fucking office again, got it?”

Her features fall, shoulders sagging in dejection as she twists the handle and pulls the door open.

With a pained look on her face, she bows her head. “Yes, Sir,” she says softly before stepping into the hall, the door snapping shut behind her.

3

Mia

Returning home, the absence of Dad and Karen at the airport speaks volumes. Their getaway, seemingly too crucial to greet or welcome me home, leaves me alone in the house—save for the watchful eyes of my guards. They keep vigil, a constant reminder of the lack of privacy and freedom in my life. It should be no surprise when they couldn't even make it to my final dance—a moment that held high significance to me.

I should take in the final moments of peace and quiet before they return. Unpacking won't be such a strenuous task without them breathing down my neck.

On Monday, I’ll return to the women’s shelter and ask about volunteering again. What began as a high school requirement for volunteer hours turned into a commitment that continued beyond the obligation. Despite living what most would call a privileged life, I don't take any of it for granted, and I want to contribute where I can. I take pleasure in these small acts of kindness as a means to carve out purpose beyond the imposed boundaries.

It turns out that unpacking is less daunting than I initially predicted. After a few hours of sorting through boxes and organizing my belongings, I finally see some progress. But the comfort of my childhood room is overshadowed by the memories of my father's coldness and criticism.

As I make my way downstairs, the polished wood steps creaking softly underfoot, I can't shake the feeling of unease that lingers in the air. The extravagance of the mansion surrounds me, but it feels more like a gilded cage than a home.

Entering the kitchen, the gleaming stainless-steel appliances and spacious countertops are a stark reminder of the contrast between my childhood home and my old college apartment. The large fridge is filled with neatly organized shelves of food and drinks.

Rows of fresh vegetables line the shelves, along with enough protein drinks to last a lifetime. But as I peer inside, I'm disappointed to find anything that looks appealing, but what was I really expecting? My father never cared much about my preferences, and it seems that hasn't changed.

I can’t shake the feeling of being an outsider in my own home. My father's presence seems to linger in every corner of the room. His disapproval seems to follow me wherever I go.

Turning my attention to the pantry, I scan the shelves and catch sight of a note hanging on the counter. Curiosity piqued, I cross the kitchen and pick up the piece of paper, unfolding it to reveal Karen’s bold handwriting.

Mia-

Don't overeat. You don't want to get fat now that you're home. Remember that you’re not hungry, just bored.

Love, Karen

Geeze, thanks, Karen, for the unnecessary note!

I should've known this was what I was coming back home to. Ordering out wouldn’t even be an option because although I have the money Mom left me, every penny of it is monitored. Even if Dad doesn't notice the food charge, thing one and thing two would tattle on me.

Although their job is to keep me safe, they made it their own personal mission to be narcs. Though they haven't confirmed it, I know Liam and Julio were the ones updating Dad on my every waking and sleeping moment in New York.

If there were ever talk of hanging out or friends getting together, Dad would magically appear. Even going to a cafe with friends turned into a spectacle the next day, with Dad and Karen mysteriously appearing just to criticize my every move, saying I looked like I was gaining weight, or they wanted to make sure I was okay. So, I eventually stopped trying to meet friends, and unsurprisingly, the invites stopped as well.

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