The usual

Adam does not let her keep teaching.

He holds Remy’s head and pushes his cock back into her mouth, past the practiced first inches, past the point where her technique still looks like a lesson. He goes where he goes with Mia. Where he went with Lana. Into the throat.

Remy gags hard.

The sound is ugly and wet. Her hands fly up to his thighs. Adam does not step back. He uses her mouth in short, deep strokes, the head punching the back of her throat, then staying, then punching again. Spit floods out around the seal of her lips and runs down her chin onto her top.

Mia stays on her knees and watches.

This is not the cubicle version of Remy. This is a woman with her jaw forced wide around a married man’s cock, eyes watering, pride still trying to sit on her face and failing every time he sinks.

It goes on a long time.

Adam finds the rhythm he likes and keeps it. He fucks her throat the way he fucks Mia’s when he is not being kind — deep enough that Remy’s nose hits his stomach, long enough that she has to take it or drown in spit. Remy can barely do it. Her throat convulses. She makes a choked noise every time he holds her there.

When he finally pulls out, a thick string of spit follows. Remy gasps like she has been underwater. She coughs. Her mouth hangs open, shining, ruined.

Mia crouches next to her.

“Have you taken something like that?”

Remy’s chest heaves. The bitchy spark tries to come back and only half makes it.

“Yes.” She swallows and grimaces. “I’ve taken that. Don’t look at me like I just discovered cock.”

Mia looks at Adam.

“Again.”

He steps in and takes Remy’s head.

This time he goes deeper than he has gone all night. Deeper than the first round. He feeds her the whole thick length until her lips are flush to him and her throat is a tight, wet sleeve around him. Then he stays.

Remy’s hands slap at his hips. He holds her there. Seconds stack. Her eyes stream. The wet gluck of her trying and failing to breathe around him fills the living room. When he starts moving again it is slower and worse, long withdrawals and longer thrusts, using the full depth of her throat like a hole that bragged.

Mia watches Remy’s face. The defiance is cracking. Not gone. Cracking.

Adam keeps her longer than is comfortable to watch. Remy’s thighs press together. A sound comes out of her that is not instruction and not a joke.

He pulls out.

Remy folds forward, coughing, spit hanging from her lip, throat raw. She is shaking.

Mia crouches again.

“Have you taken something like that?”

Remy’s “yes” this time is meek. Small. It barely has a spine.

“Yes.”

Mia takes Remy’s face in both hands. She makes her look at her. Close. No office. No audience of printers and Slack pings. Just Remy’s ruined mouth and Mia’s eyes.

“Have you really done all the things you say you’ve done?”

Remy’s eyes are wet. The tears are from her throat first. The rest is pride coming apart behind them.

She tries to hold the lie. It does not hold.

“No,” she says.

The word is hoarse.

Mia doesn’t let go of her face.

“No,” Remy says again, quieter. “I haven’t. I talk. I haven’t taken that. I haven’t taken him. I haven’t—” Her voice breaks on the rawness. “No.”

Mia thumbs a smear of spit from the corner of Remy’s mouth, almost gentle, and not kind.

“Would you like to experience all those things?”