A Writer in Wrestling Ch.5 {Patreon Exlusive} - Rhea Ripley (WWE) (Patreon)

A Writer in Wrestling

Chapter 5 - Rhea Ripley

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Three weeks had rolled by since Jade Cargill walked out of the office with cum still leaking down her thigh and a new feud already sketched out on Piers’ laptop. The grind never slowed—another loop of SmackDown tapings, a quick house-show swing through the Midwest, one premium live event where the production trucks ran hot until 2 a.m. Piers had kept his word on the small stuff. Jade opened the show with a banger promo. Bayley got her three clean wins and a tag title tease. Becky had a real segment instead of a thirty-second backstage bite. Tiny fixes, just enough to keep the locker room from rioting. But the knocks on his door never stopped. Talent always wanted more.

This knock wasn’t a knock. The door flew open so hard the particle-board frame rattled like it might snap. Rhea Ripley stepped in and the tiny office shrank around her. She was still in her ring gear from the dark match—black leather-style top stretched tight across her chest, the material thin enough that the outline of her pierced nipples was already visible. The top barely contained her heavy, natural D-cups; they sat high and full on her frame, the kind of tits that bounced when she hit a clothesline and drew every camera in the arena. Below that, her abs were a carved six-pack, ink crawling across her ribs and disappearing under the waistband of her shorts. Those shorts hugged her like a second skin—thick, powerful thighs that could scissor a grown man unconscious, and an ass that had its own zip code: round, high, and heavy from years of squats and ring bumps, the kind of ass that rippled when she walked and made the crowd lose their minds every time she turned around.

Her black hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, the shaved sides showing off the spiderweb tattoo that climbed her neck. Sweat still glistened on her skin from the match, mixing with the faint scent of her vanilla-laced body spray and the leather of her gear. She looked like she could bench-press the desk and then suplex the entire writing team.

“Piers,” she said, voice low and dangerous, that thick Aussie accent cutting through the stale coffee air. She kicked the door shut behind her. “You and I need to have a fucking chat.”

Piers didn’t flinch. He closed the laptop lid, leaned back in his squeaky chair, and gave her the same calm look he gave everyone. “Rhea. Sit. Talk.”

She didn’t sit. She planted both hands on the edge of his desk and leaned in, close enough that he caught the heat coming off her body and the sharp, clean smell of her post-match sweat. “I just lost to fucking Liv Morgan again. Clean. In the middle of the card. Then I get told I’m ‘helping elevate the division’ by putting over the new girls. I’m Rhea fucking Ripley. I was the Women’s World Champion. I main-evented WrestleMania. I come back from injury, I’m ready to run the whole damn show, and this is what you give me? A fucking jobber role? My booking is a joke. The stories are weak. I’m out there every night selling my ass off and getting nothing back.”

Her chest rose and fell with every word, those heavy tits straining against the top. Piers let her keep going, watching the way her jaw tightened, the way her thick thighs flexed as she shifted her weight.

“I’ve got Buddy waiting back home,” she continued, voice dropping a notch. “He’s in AEW killing it, and I’m here getting pinned by mid-carders. You think I want to go home and tell him I’m still playing second fiddle? Fix it, Piers. Or at least give me a real reason why I’m not main-eventing.”

Piers waited until she ran out of steam, then spoke quietly. “I hear you. The machine moves slow sometimes. But you know how this works—sometimes you gotta remind people why you’re worth the rush.”

Rhea’s eyes narrowed. She straightened up, crossing her arms under her chest, which only pushed her tits higher. “The fuck does that mean?”

He didn’t answer with words. He just reached down, unbuckled his belt with a slow metallic clink, and unzipped. The sound filled the tiny room. He reached in and pulled himself out—thick, heavy, already half-hard from the sheer energy she’d brought in with her. It rested against his thigh, fat and solid, the head already starting to swell.

Rhea stared. For a second the anger short-circuited. Then she laughed, short and sharp. “You serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” Piers said, voice low and even. “You want me to listen? Really listen? Then get under the desk and put that mouth to work. Tell me everything that’s pissing you off while you’re down there. Might help me… absorb it better.”

She stood there, breathing hard, eyes flicking between his face and his cock. The silence stretched. Then she muttered, “This is so fucked,” but she was already moving. She dropped to her knees in the cramped space, shuffling sideways until she was wedged under the desk. Her broad shoulders brushed the underside, her ponytail catching on a drawer handle before she yanked it free.

Up close the smell of him hit her—clean skin, faint soap, the sharp musk of arousal already starting. She wrapped one strong hand around the base. Her fingers didn’t meet; the girth was ridiculous. She gave it a slow pump, feeling the weight, the heat.

“Fine,” she growled against his thigh. “You want the truth? My booking is dogshit. I’m supposed to be the Nightmare, not the warm-up act. I leave Buddy at home, I train my ass off, and for what? To get carried out after a five-minute match?” She leaned in and dragged her tongue up the underside, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin. “Liv pinned me clean tonight. Clean. And the crowd still popped for me more than her. But no, creative wants me to lose again next week.”

She took the head into her mouth. The stretch was immediate—her lips thinning around the fat shaft, jaw opening wide. She sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, tongue working the underside while she kept talking around it, the words muffled but clear enough.

“Mmph—Buddy thinks I’m the dominant one at home. He has no idea his girlfriend is under a desk right now with another man’s cock down her throat because the writing team can’t book her properly.” She pulled off with a wet pop, spit already dripping down her chin onto her leather top. “He’s good to me. Treats me right. But he’s not… fuck, he’s not you. He’s not this thick.”

Piers’ hand came down gently on the back of her head, fingers threading into her ponytail. Not forcing yet—just resting there. “Keep going,” he said quietly. “Tell me how much better this feels than anything Buddy’s ever given you.”

Rhea’s eyes flicked up, dark and defiant for half a second. Then she dove back down, taking him deeper, gagging softly when he nudged the back of her throat. The wet, rhythmic sounds filled the cramped space—slurp, gluck, the soft choke every time she pushed a little further. Her free hand slipped between her own thighs, pressing against the heat building in her shorts.

“Goddamn,” she gasped when she pulled off again, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cock. “He tries. Buddy tries so hard. But his dick… it doesn’t stretch me like this. Doesn’t make me feel full. I fake it sometimes just so he feels good, and now here I am, on my knees for the writer because he can actually make me wet.” She licked the head in slow circles, eyes locked on his. “You gonna fix my booking, or do I have to keep sucking until you promise?”

Piers’ grip tightened in her hair—just enough to let her know who was in charge now. “You’re gonna keep sucking until I say otherwise. And yeah… I’ll fix it. But first you’re gonna show me exactly how bad you need this.”

He pushed her head down again, slower this time, feeding her every thick inch until her nose pressed against his pelvis and her throat convulsed around him. Rhea moaned—low, filthy, the vibration traveling straight up his shaft. Her hand worked the part she couldn’t fit, slick with spit, while the other rubbed herself through her shorts. The office smelled like stale coffee, old paper, and the growing musk of her arousal mixing with his.

A soft knock at the door made her freeze.

Piers didn’t pull her off. He just rested his hand on her head, keeping her there, cock buried deep. “Yeah?” he called, voice perfectly steady.

The door cracked open. One of the production assistants poked his head in. “Hey, Piers, just checking if you saw the updated run sheet for next week—”

“Nah, send it over,” Piers said casually, the hand under the desk giving Rhea’s ponytail a slow, possessive stroke. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Rhea’s eyes watered, throat fluttering around him, but she didn’t move. The risk—the fact that anyone could walk in and see the Nightmare of WWE gagging on the writer’s cock—sent a fresh flood of heat between her legs. She waited until the door clicked shut, then started moving again on her own, eager now, desperate. Her head bobbed faster, wet slurps louder, spit dripping onto the floor under the desk.

“Fuck,” Piers groaned quietly. “That’s it. Suck it like you need this push more than air. Tell me again—does Buddy know his girl is a desperate little office slut when the cameras are off?”

Rhea pulled off just enough to gasp, “No… he has no fucking idea.” Then she swallowed him again, taking him all the way, throat bulging slightly around the girth.

Piers let her work for another minute, savoring the heat and the wet sounds, before he finally pulled her off by the ponytail. Spit dripped from her chin onto her tits. Her lips were swollen, eyes glassy with lust and a hint of shame that only made her wetter.

“Up,” he said. “Shorts off. Bend over the desk.”

Rhea wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing hard. “This better be worth it,” she muttered, but she was already standing, peeling the tight shorts down her thick thighs. No panties—just smooth, shaved pussy already glistening, lips puffy and slick. Her ass flexed as she turned and planted her hands on the desk, arching her back and pushing that massive, round rear out toward him. The cheeks spread slightly, showing everything.

Piers stood behind her, cock slick and throbbing. He gripped one heavy cheek, fingers sinking deep into the firm-yet-soft flesh, and spread her open. “Jesus, look at this ass. Built like a fucking weapon.” He slapped it once—hard—watching the ripple travel across the muscle. The crack echoed in the small room. Rhea gasped, pushing back for more.

He rubbed the thick head of his cock up and down her slit, coating himself in her wetness. “You ready to get fucked like your boyfriend never could?”

“Shut up and do it,” she growled, but her voice cracked with need.

He pushed in—slow at first, letting her feel every inch stretch her open. Rhea’s head dropped forward, a long, broken moan tearing out of her as her walls clamped down around the girth. “Fuuuuck… so thick…”

Piers bottomed out, hips flush against her ass, and paused, letting her adjust. Then he started moving—deep, steady thrusts that made her heavy tits swing beneath her and her ass ripple with every impact. The wet slap-slap-slap of skin on skin filled the office, mixing with her moans and the creak of the desk. He reached around, grabbed one swinging tit, and pinched the pierced nipple hard, rolling it between his fingers.

“Tell me,” he grunted, thrusting harder, “does Buddy’s dick ever make you moan like this?”

“No,” she gasped, pushing back to meet him. “Never… fuck, harder—make me forget his name…”

Piers gave her exactly what she asked for. His hips snapped forward faster, the heavy smack of his pelvis against her ass turning loud and rhythmic. Each thrust sent a visible wave through those thick cheeks—flesh rippling outward, then bouncing back against him with a meaty jiggle that he couldn’t stop watching. The desk legs scraped the cheap carpet every time he drove in deep. Rhea’s strong arms trembled as she braced herself, knuckles white on the edge of the particle board.

“Goddamn, this ass is unreal,” he growled, grabbing two handfuls and spreading her wider so he could watch his thick cock disappear inside her over and over. The sight was obscene—her pussy stretched tight around him, creamy wetness coating his shaft, dripping down her thighs. “Bet Buddy never gets to fuck you this deep. Bet he’s never made this pussy cream like this.”

Rhea moaned louder, the sound raw and filthy. “He hasn’t… fuck, he tries, but he’s not you. He’s not this big. I love him, but—shit—your cock is ruining me.” She pushed back harder, meeting every thrust, her powerful glutes flexing under his palms. The smell in the room had thickened—her vanilla body spray, fresh sweat, the sharp musk of her soaked pussy, and the faint leather scent still clinging to her top.

He reached forward with both hands, sliding them under her to grab her swinging tits. They overflowed his palms—heavy, warm, the metal of her nipple piercings cool against his fingers. He pinched both at once, tugging just hard enough to make her cry out and clamp down around him.

“These tits,” he muttered against her ear, still pounding her from behind. “So fucking full. Bet Buddy loves playing with them. Too bad he doesn’t know I’m the one making them bounce right now.”

Rhea’s head fell back, ponytail swinging. “He does… but he’s gentle. You’re not. Fuck—pinch them harder. Make them hurt so good.” She was close already; he could feel it in the way her walls fluttered and gripped him.

Piers kept the brutal pace for another minute, then slowed, pulling out with a wet, obscene sound. Rhea whimpered at the sudden emptiness, ass still pushed out like she was begging.

“Turn around,” he said, voice rough. “Sit on the desk. Legs spread.”

She spun, hopped up onto the edge, and planted her boots on the desk surface, knees wide. Her pussy was flushed dark and dripping, lips puffy from the pounding. Piers stepped between her thighs, lined up, and sank back in with one smooth thrust. The new angle let him hit deeper; Rhea’s eyes rolled back and a low, guttural moan tore out of her.

“Fuck yes,” she breathed, wrapping her powerful legs around his waist and pulling him in tighter. Her heels dug into his lower back. “Right there—don’t stop.”

He started thrusting again—hard, steady rolls of his hips that made her whole body rock. Her tits bounced freely now, right in his face. He latched onto one pierced nipple, sucking hard while his hand mauled the other, pinching and twisting the barbell until she was gasping and clawing at his shoulders. The wet slap of his hips against her ass filled the room again, louder in this position, her juices coating his balls every time he bottomed out.

“Look at you,” he rasped between licks. “Big bad Rhea Ripley, legs spread on the writer’s desk, getting fucked like a desperate slut. What would Buddy say if he walked in right now and saw his girlfriend creaming all over another man’s cock?”

Rhea’s nails raked down his back. “He’d… fuck, he’d lose his mind. But I don’t care right now. Just—don’t stop. Make me cum. Make me forget he even exists for five minutes.”

Piers straightened up, gripping her hips for leverage, and fucked her harder. The desk creaked dangerously under them. Her ass hung off the edge, cheeks rippling every time he slammed home. Sweat ran down her abs, down the ink on her stomach, pooling where their bodies met. The air was thick with the scent of sex—tangy arousal, clean sweat, the faint vanilla that still clung to her skin.

She came without warning—back arching, a raw cry ripping out of her throat as her pussy clamped down in rhythmic pulses. Her legs locked around him, thighs trembling, boots digging into his back. Piers slowed but didn’t stop, grinding deep through every wave until she was shaking and gasping.

When she finally sagged back onto her elbows, chest heaving, he eased out again. His cock glistened with her cum, veins standing out, head dark and swollen.

“On your knees again,” he told her. “Clean me up. Then we’re doing this one more way.”

Rhea slid off the desk on shaky legs, dropped to her knees without hesitation, and took him straight into her mouth. She sucked greedily, tasting herself all over him, moaning around the thickness while her hand pumped what she couldn’t swallow. Spit ran down her chin onto her tits again, making them shine.

“Good girl,” Piers groaned, hand back in her ponytail. “That’s it. Taste how wet you got for me.”

She pulled off just long enough to gasp, “He could never make me this messy,” before diving back down, gagging herself on him willingly now.

After a minute he pulled her up again. “Wall. Now.”

Rhea stood, turned, and backed up until her shoulders hit the thin office wall. Piers hooked his hands under her thick thighs, lifted her like she weighed nothing, and pinned her there. She wrapped her legs around him again, arms looping around his neck. He thrust up into her in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt. The wall thumped with the first hard stroke.

“Fuck—yes,” she moaned, head falling back against the drywall. Her ass slapped against his palms with every upward thrust, cheeks rippling and bouncing in his grip. He mauled them roughly, fingers digging in deep enough to leave marks, spreading her open so he could fuck her even deeper.

The wall rattled harder now. Every powerful snap of his hips lifted her slightly before letting her drop back down onto his cock, the wet smack-smack-smack echoing off the thin walls. Her heavy tits bounced between them, nipples hard and pierced, brushing his chest through his shirt with every bounce. He leaned in and caught one in his mouth, sucking hard while his hands kept mauling her ass—squeezing, spreading, occasionally slapping the underside so the flesh rippled harder.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned around her nipple, teeth grazing the barbell just enough to make her hiss. “This body… built for this. Strong as fuck in the ring, but right now you’re just a needy little fucktoy for the writer. Tell me again how much better I feel than Buddy.”

Rhea’s head thunked back against the wall, ponytail sticking to her sweaty neck. Her voice came out broken and breathless between moans. “So much better… fuck—your cock is splitting me open. Buddy’s never been this deep. Never made me shake like this. I love him, but—god—he can’t fuck me like you can. He can’t make me cum this hard. I’m your slut right now… just your dirty office whore.”

The dirty talk hit her as hard as the thrusts. Her pussy fluttered around him again, another orgasm building fast. Piers could feel it—the way her walls started gripping him rhythmically, the way her thighs trembled around his waist. He shifted his grip, one hand sliding up to pinch and twist her free nipple while the other kept spanking and kneading her ass in time with his strokes.

“Say it louder,” he growled, slamming up harder, the wall thudding behind her. “Tell me whose cock you’re creaming on while your boyfriend waits at home.”

“Yours!” she cried out, voice cracking. “I’m creaming on your cock—fuck—Buddy could never do this to me. I’m yours right now. Use me. Ruin me for him.”

Her third orgasm crashed over her—harder than the last two. Her whole body locked up, powerful legs squeezing his waist like a vice, pussy pulsing and gushing around him as she screamed into his shoulder to muffle the sound. The contractions milked him relentlessly. Piers buried himself deep, grinding through every wave, letting her ride it out until her screams turned to shaky whimpers and her body went limp in his arms.

He held her there against the wall for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, sweat slick between their bodies. The room reeked of sex—thick, heavy, unmistakable: her tangy arousal, clean post-match sweat, the faint vanilla still clinging stubbornly to her skin, mixed with the sharp musk coming off him now. The cheap drywall behind her had a faint damp spot from where her back had pressed and slid with every thrust.

Finally he eased her down until her boots touched the floor. Her legs wobbled badly; he kept one arm wrapped around her waist to steady her while she found her balance. Rhea’s chest heaved, tits still out and glistening with spit and sweat, nipples swollen and dark around the piercings. A thin trail of her own wetness had leaked down the inside of one thick thigh.

“On your knees one last time,” Piers said, voice thick and rough from exertion. “Finish me.”

Rhea didn’t argue. She dropped straight down, knees hitting the rough industrial carpet without a flinch. Looking up at him—eyes glassy, lips swollen and shiny, makeup smudged around her eyes—she wrapped one strong hand around the base of his cock again. The other cupped his balls gently, rolling them while she leaned in.

She took him deep right away, sucking with fresh hunger, moaning around the thickness as she tasted the mix of herself and him. Her tongue worked the underside in long, deliberate strokes; spit built fast and ran down her chin in messy strings, dripping onto the tops of her tits and making them shine even more under the fluorescent lights. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the tiny office again—gluck-gluck-gluck, the occasional soft gag when she forced him all the way to the back of her throat.

Piers groaned low, hand tightening in her ponytail—not yanking, just holding the base so he could feel the sway of it when her head moved. “That’s it… swallow every drop like a good little cuck-quean. Show me how grateful you are for the booking I’m about to give you.”

Rhea moaned louder around him, the vibration shooting straight through his shaft. She pulled off for half a second, gasping, strings of spit connecting her lower lip to the head. “He could never make me this messy… never make me choke on it like this.” Then she dove back down, taking him all the way until her nose pressed against his pelvis again, throat bulging visibly around the girth.

She worked him faster now—head bobbing, cheeks hollowing, one hand pumping what she couldn’t fit while the other kept rolling his balls. The room was loud with it: wet slurps, her muffled whimpers, the faint creak of the desk behind them still settling from earlier. Sweat dripped from her forehead, running down the side of her face and mixing with the spit on her chin.

Piers felt the pressure building fast. He held her head in place with both hands now, rocking forward in shallow thrusts while she kept sucking hard. “Fuck—here it comes. Take it all, Rhea. Every fucking drop.”

She hummed in response, eyes flicking up to lock on his as he came. Thick, hot ropes pulsed straight down her throat. Rhea swallowed greedily, throat working around him, not spilling a single drop. When the last spurt hit her tongue she pulled back slowly, lips sealed around the head until the very end, then gave one final slow lick from base to tip, cleaning him completely. She sat back on her heels, breathing ragged, a thin string of spit and cum still connecting her lower lip to his softening cock for a second before it broke.

Piers tucked himself away, zipped up, and leaned back against the edge of the desk, looking down at her. She was wrecked in the best way—knees red from the carpet, thighs shiny with her own cum, tits heaving and slick, hair a tangled mess, ponytail half-undone. But the fire in her dark eyes hadn’t dimmed one bit; if anything, it burned hotter now, mixed with something raw and satisfied.

“So,” she rasped, voice completely shot, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “We good? You gonna write me into something real now, or do I have to come back tomorrow and do this all over again?”

He smirked, reaching down to brush a damp strand of hair off her forehead with surprising gentleness. “Yeah. We’re good. You’re getting the program you deserve. Title chase starts next month—real main-event segments, promos that actually mean something, a slow-burn feud that builds heat instead of squashing it. The whole package. But every time you start feeling too comfortable… or every time creative tries to fuck you over again… you know exactly where to find me.”

Rhea let out a low, tired laugh that still carried that signature edge. She pushed herself up slowly, legs still shaky, and started gathering what was left of her dignity. She tugged the tight shorts back up over her thick thighs, wincing a little as the fabric dragged over her sensitive, well-fucked pussy. Cum was already starting to leak down her inner thigh in a slow, warm trail; she didn’t bother wiping it away. She just let it drip, owning the mess with the same casual confidence she owned everything else.

She pulled her leather-style top back into place, the material clinging to her sweat-damp skin like it was painted on. Her nipples were still hard and obvious through the thin fabric, piercings pressing against it. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to fix the ponytail, but gave up halfway and just left it loose and messy.

Rhea had one hand on the doorknob, body still humming from the aftershocks, thighs sticky where his cum had started leaking out of her. Her shorts were yanked back up but barely zipped, the leather clinging wet to her skin. Sweat plastered the thin black top to her torso—those heavy tits of hers heaving with each breath, the outline of her nipple piercings sharp against the damp fabric like little metal accusations. Her abs flexed under the sheen, carved deep from years of brutal training, leading down to wide hips and that thick, powerful ass that had taken every slap and grip he’d thrown at it. Black hair hung in damp strands around her face, the messy ponytail undone, spiderweb tattoo on her neck glistening like fresh ink.

She was two steps from walking out when Piers spoke again, voice low and lazy from the chair.

Piers watched her every move, arms crossed, that same knowing smirk still playing on his lips. He waited until she was almost at the door before speaking again, voice low and teasing.

“Hold up a second, Rhea.”

She froze, knuckles whitening on the knob. Glanced back over her shoulder, one dark brow arched, lips still swollen and shiny. “What now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pushed up from the chair, slow, letting the springs groan under him. Stepped closer until he was right behind her—close enough she could feel the heat rolling off his chest again, smell the salt and sex still clinging to both of them. He didn’t grab her yet. Just hovered, letting the tension coil.

“You’re walking out of here like you just won a war,” he said, voice dropping. “Head high, hips swinging, looking every bit the Nightmare. But we both know you’re already thinking about round two. Admit it—you’re secretly hoping creative screws you over again real soon so you’ve got an excuse to come back.”

Rhea snorted, but it came out thin, almost a huff. Her cheeks flushed darker under the ruined makeup—black liner streaked, lipstick smeared across her chin from earlier. She didn’t turn fully, just kept her eyes forward, breathing shallow through her nose.

Piers closed the last inch. Pressed his front to her back, not hard, just enough to pin her lightly against the door. His hands came up slow—palms sliding over her hips first, fingers digging into the meat there, feeling the solid muscle under the soft curve. She tensed, but didn’t pull away.

“Come on,” he murmured against her ear, breath hot. “Be honest. That was the best fuck you’ve ever had, wasn’t it? Better than anything Buddy’s ever given you. Say it.”

Her grip on the knob tightened until her knuckles popped. She stared at the wood grain like it might give her an out. A long beat passed—only the hum of the arena vents and their breathing.

Then, quiet, almost like the words tasted bitter: “…Yeah. It was. Fuck you for making me say it.”

Piers let out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Good girl.”

His hands moved higher without asking—sliding up under the hem of her top, palms flat against her ribs, then cupping the heavy undersides of her tits. He lifted them, squeezed, feeling their weight spill over his fingers. Her nipples were already hard, the barbells cool against his skin. He thumbed them rough, rolling the metal, tugging just enough to make her hiss through her teeth.

“See? Still sensitive,” he said, voice gravel. “Bet Buddy doesn’t play with these the way you need. Too gentle, right? Too sweet.”

Rhea’s head tipped back slightly, resting against his shoulder. She didn’t deny it—just let out a shaky exhale. Her ass pressed back into him instinctively, grinding once, slow.

Piers groaned soft against her neck. One hand stayed mauling her left tit—pinching the pierced nipple hard, twisting until she arched—while the other slid down, over the curve of her stomach, fingers tracing the deep lines of her abs before dipping lower. He palmed her ass through the shorts, gripping a full cheek, squeezing until the muscle flexed under his hand. Then he slapped it once—sharp, echoing in the small room. She jolted, but pushed back harder.

“Tell me,” he said, lips brushing her ear. “What more do you want? If you come back tomorrow, or next week, or whenever creative fucks you again… what do you want me to do to you? Be specific. I want to hear it from that pretty mouth.”

She exhaled hard, shoulders rising and falling. For a second it looked like she might shove him off and bolt. Then she turned her head just enough to lock eyes with him over her shoulder—dark eyes glassy, pupils blown.

His hand on her tit squeezed harder, kneading the soft flesh, thumb flicking the barbell back and forth. The other stayed on her ass—mauling, spreading, fingers digging in deep enough to leave marks under the leather.

“I want you to bend me over that desk again,” she said, voice low and wrecked. “But slower this time. Make me feel every fucking inch stretching me open until I can’t think straight. I want you to grab my tits so hard I bruise—maul them like you’re trying to mark me, twist those piercings until I’m begging you to stop and don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Piers growled low in his throat. He pinched her nipple harder—sharp tug on the metal—and she whimpered, hips rocking back against him.

“Keep going,” he ordered.

“I want you to slap my ass until it’s red and stinging,” she continued, words spilling faster now. “Make it burn, make me feel it every time I sit down tomorrow. Then fuck me from behind while I tell you—loud—how much better you are than him. How much thicker you are. How Buddy’s never filled me like this, never made me shake like this.”

His hand left her tit, slid around to her throat—not choking, just holding, thumb pressing under her jaw so she had to keep looking at him. The other hand dipped between her thighs from behind, cupping her soaked pussy through the shorts, fingers rubbing slow circles over the wet leather.

“And then?” he prompted, voice thick.

“I want you to sit in that shitty chair,” she rasped. “Make me ride you until my thighs burn and I’m dripping all over your lap. I want to grind on you, tits in your face, while you suck these pierced nipples raw. And when I’m close… when I’m right there… I want you to choke me—just enough—while you tell me I’m your dirty little secret. Your office slut who cums harder for some writer than she ever did for her boyfriend.”

The words hung heavy between them, filthy and raw. Rhea’s face was burning, chest rising fast, but she didn’t break eye contact. Her hips rolled slow against his hand, chasing the pressure.

Piers let out a slow, dark breath. “That’s more like it.”

He gave her ass one last hard squeeze—fingers digging in, spreading her cheeks through the fabric—then stepped back just enough to let her breathe. His hands lingered a second longer, sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing the sides of her tits one final time before dropping away.

She gave a small, shaky laugh—half-embarrassed, half-turned on—and finally turned the knob.

“Lock the door next time,” she muttered, voice still rough. “And make the fucking story good.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

The cooler arena hallway air hit her like a slap—sweat cooling fast on her skin, the wet spot on her shorts growing darker, cum still leaking slow down her inner thigh. She didn’t bother hiding it. Just straightened her shoulders, rolled her neck, let the Nightmare mask slide back into place. Head high, hips rolling deliberate, every inch the dominant force the fans knew and feared.

Inside the office, Piers dropped back into the chair. The springs squeaked again, tired. He stared at the closed door for a long second, then opened the laptop. Blank document. Fingers hovered over the keys.

He started typing.