#bajin

“You bought me out and brought me here to work yet demand I wear such a dress and simply sit here,” she explained what his mind had supplied his desire, “to watch you work?” she dragged out the words, clearly not entirely believing him. “Maybe more,” he clutched the arms of his chair tight, as tight as he squeezed himself despite the pain, maybe because of it. “Hmmmm, more?” she teased with a quirked brow and leaning into him. Her hands finding purchase on the lip of his desk, her knees spreading the slightest fraction to accommodate her arms, arms that squeezed her chest tighter, pushing the small swell of breasts closer together. She smelled like fine western wine, sweet and citrusy, the bitter herbal smell she usually wore covered by deep indulgence. Her lips were tacky, and just barely caught his own lip, briefly joining them for a single blissful moment. Something that had him whimper in both this fiction and his reality. “But your hands were so rough with me last time,” she didn’t quite tease, or complain, or admonish, it was somehow none of them and all three. The movement of her lips on his moved his like putty in her hands, even with them connected as hardly more than points the size of pinpricks. Yet, somehow she had no trouble speaking. Like it was as easy as breathing, like it was something she had done a hundred times before. “Basen,” she called, and in an instant a punishing grip was on his shoulders, crushing as it slid down to his biceps. It hurt, and it was glorious, the weight and force that he remembered Basen exhorting on his hips now used to restrain him for Maomao’s benefit. Basen used as a tool of Jinshi’s restraint, stopping him from reaching out to Maomao as he desperately wanted to. Forcing him back into the chair with a force he could only hope to replicate on his shaft with his own hand, but Jinshi had too much experience with Basen’s strength to think he was capable of such a feat.