The hotel restaurant hummed with the soft clink of silverware and the low murmur of morning conversations. Lucy sat at a booth by the window, sunlight streaming in and feeling impossibly bright against her skin. She sipped her orange juice, the tart sweetness a stark contrast to the memories that coated her tongue.

The walk of shame had nothing on the walk of sheer, dripping revelation.

Last night, after Ms. Quinn’s dismissal, she’d gathered her clothes with trembling hands. She’d pulled on her wrinkled slacks and buttoned her blouse over skin that still hummed, over breasts that felt achingly sensitive. Her hair… God, her hair had been a stiff, matted mess, plastered to her forehead and cheeks with the essence of Ms. Quinn’s pleasure. The elevator ride down to her floor had been an eternity. Every person she passed in the hallway was a potential witness. Did they see the glazed look in her eyes? Could they smell the musk of sex and sweat and her lingering on her skin? She’d kept her eyes locked on the geometric pattern of the carpet, her heart a frantic bird in her chest, until the keycard finally let her into the sanctuary of her own room.

The door had clicked shut. Silence. Then, a burst of frantic motion.

She’d ripped her clothes off, not bothering to fold anything, letting them fall where they may. The need to be free of the fabric, to be alone with the ghost of every sensation, was overwhelming. Naked, she’d collapsed onto the bed, the cool sheets a shock against her heated flesh. And then she’d touched herself.

It wasn’t a slow exploration. It was a desperate, immediate re-enactment. Her fingers, slick with her own excitement, had replayed every command, every touch. The flat stroke of her tongue up Ms. Quinn’s smooth slit. The firm circle around a clit that wasn’t there. The deep, probing thrust into a tight, wet heat that existed only in her mind and memory. She came fast, her back arching off the bed, a choked cry muffled by the pillow. But it wasn’t enough. The emptiness after was vast. So she did it again. And again. Fantasizing about the weight of Ms. Quinn on her face, the possessive grip in her hair, the taste that had rewritten her definition of desire. The sheets beneath her grew damp, then soaked, a testament to the hours spent chasing the echoes of a pleasure that had fundamentally altered her.

Now, in the clean light of day, Lucy crossed her legs tightly under the table. A familiar, insistent throb pulsed between her thighs, a direct response to just thinking about it. She took another sip of juice, her eyes scanning the room. Did her skin look different? Could anyone see the want etched into her, like a brand just under the surface? She felt transparent, as if the entire restaurant could witness the filthy, beautiful movie playing on a loop behind her eyes.

Then, she appeared.

Ms. Quinn moved through the dining area like a sleek ship cutting through calm water. Radiant. Composed. She wore a navy skirt suit that was a masterclass in tailoring, hugging the generous curve of her hips and the narrow taper of her waist. The jacket was buttoned, professional, yet the fabric seemed to whisper of the powerful, sensual body beneath. Her dark skin glowed. She looked rested, victorious, and utterly in command.

Lucy’s mouth went dry. The throbbing between her legs intensified into a steady, demanding ache.

Ms. Quinn slid into the booth opposite her. A faint, clean scent of citrus and sandalwood arrived with her, overlaying the phantom musk Lucy would probably smell forever. She settled, her posture perfect, and folded her hands on the table. Her eyes, dark and knowing, locked onto Lucy’s.

“Good morning, Lucy,” she said, her voice a smooth, warm alto. “How did you enjoy your evening?”

The question was so casual, so utterly normal, that it took Lucy’s breath away. It wasn’t about the restaurant. They both knew it. It was a question loaded with the weight of everything that had happened on that couch, in that dizzying space between command and submission.

Lucy’s mind scrambled. She could lie. She could say, ‘The restaurant was lovely, thank you.’ But under that gaze, dishonesty felt impossible. Her body still hummed with the truth of it. She opened her mouth, but only a soft, airy sound came out. She tried again.

“I…” she started, her voice barely a whisper. She cleared her throat, feeling a hot blush creep up her neck. “I couldn’t sleep.”

A slow, feline smile spread across Ms. Quinn’s lips. It didn’t reach her eyes, which remained intently focused, studying every micro-expression on Lucy’s face. “Is that so? The bed wasn’t comfortable?”

“The bed was fine,” Lucy murmured. Her fingers tightened around her juice glass. “It was… my thoughts. They wouldn’t quiet down.”

“What kind of thoughts?” Ms. Quinn prompted, leaning forward just an inch. The movement was subtle, but it felt as though the world had tilted. The sunlight caught the gold teardrop earrings in her ears.

Lucy’s pulse fluttered in her throat. She was being laid bare all over again, here in a public place, with people having pancakes twenty feet away. “The kind… the kind that makes it hard to think about anything else,” she admitted, the words tumbling out. “I replayed it. Everything. In my head. All night.”

Ms. Quinn’s smile deepened. She picked up the menu, glancing at it as if they were discussing the weather. “And did you find your… reproduction… satisfactory?”

A fresh wave of heat flooded Lucy’s core. Her thighs pressed together harder. “It wasn’t the same,” she breathed, surprising herself with her own honesty. “It was just a… a memory. It wasn’t you.”

Ms. Quinn looked up from the menu, her eyes sharpening. The playful pretense dropped for a second, revealing the raw, assessing dominance beneath. “No,” she agreed, her voice dropping lower. “It wouldn’t be. The memory of a taste is a poor substitute for the real thing. Now, the reality…” She let the word hang, rich and potent.

“The reality is all I can think about,” Lucy confessed, the admission feeling both terrifying and liberating.

Ms. Quinn set the menu down. She reached across the table, not touching Lucy, but her hand rested there, palm up, an unspoken offer, a silent command. Her gaze was unwavering. “Tell me what you thought about. Specifically. While you were in your bed, touching yourself, soaking those expensive hotel sheets.”

Lucy’s breathing faltered. The air between them crackled, the sounds of the restaurant fading to a distant buzz. She knew. Of course, she knew. “I thought about your taste,” Lucy whispered, leaning in slightly, drawn by that outstretched hand. “The way you felt under my tongue. So soft, and so… powerful. I thought about the sounds you made. I thought about you coming on my face. The way you held me there.”

“And did you like it?” Ms. Quinn’s question was a velvet-wrapped blade.

“Yes.” No hesitation now.

“Do you want to do it again?”

Lucy’s whole body clenched. “Yes.”

Ms. Quinn’s fingers twitched, then curled slowly back toward herself, withdrawing the offer. She leaned back against the booth, the picture of composure once more. “Good.” She picked up her water glass and took a slow sip. “We have a long day of meetings ahead. I need you focused, Lucy. Not distracted by a needy, dripping cunt.”

The crude word in her elegant mouth, spoken so calmly, made Lucy jolt. A whimper almost escaped her.

“I can see it, you know,” Ms. Quinn continued, her eyes drifting down to the tablecloth, as if she could see straight through to the heat gathered between Lucy’s thighs. “That hungry little pulse. It’s distracting me already. We can’t have that.”

“What should I do?” The question was pure need.

Ms. Quinn’s gaze lifted, meeting hers. A new, more dangerous glint appeared there. “For now? You’ll sit there. You’ll eat your breakfast. You’ll listen in our meetings and take perfect notes. And you’ll remember that every moment of professional focus is a gift I’m giving you. A delay of the reward you’re clearly desperate for.” She paused, letting the tension coil even tighter. “But tonight, after we’ve impressed our clients… tonight, Lucy, you’re going to have your dinner, shower, and wait for me to call you to my suite. You will resist every desire to touch that needy little cunt of yours. When you arrive at my suite, you'll demonstrate how well you remember your lessons. All of them.”

The promise was a physical touch. Lucy felt it slide over her skin, settling deep in her belly. The ache became a sweet, unbearable torment. The day ahead stretched before her, an endless desert of waiting.

Ms. Quinn signaled for the waiter, her movement efficient and graceful. “Now,” she said, her tone shifting back to one of casual mentorship, though her eyes still promised darkness. “Let’s order. You’ll need your energy.”