Getting Comfortable

The late-morning light filtered through the office’s tall windows in soft gold, catching in the glass panels and along the curves of perfume displays that lined the walls. Euphorica’s flagship Manhattan headquarters hummed quietly outside Kiara Laurent’s private office—soft footfalls, gentle clicks of heels, the occasional murmur of assistants moving past glass walls with tablets in hand. But inside, behind the frosted door, all was still.

At her desk, Kiara sat with perfect posture, as she always did. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. One leg elegantly crossed over the other. Her hands rested lightly on the desk as she skimmed the morning briefing Seraphina had delivered just twenty minutes ago. She scrolled through it with long, delicately manicured fingers, the polish a subtle dusty rose with a fine shimmer—elegant, understated, executive.

The last five days had been more of the same: meetings about the Maison de Lune campaign, brand architecture proposals from Paris, PR talking points, packaging redesigns, viral rollout ideas. Isabelle had already begun hinting at final photo shoot timelines. Contracts were being drafted. The collaboration was no longer a possibility—it was a promise.

And Kiara had delivered. She spoke like a leader. Moved like a woman. Sold like a brand.

On the surface, everything was moving forward exactly as it should.

What no one in the room knew—what no one could know—was that Kiara was sitting there, legs pressed demurely together in her cream suede chair, while something moved gently, rhythmically, deep inside her.

The prostate stimulator had been in since just after she showered that morning. And it wasn’t the first time. She had worn it yesterday too, tucked discreetly beneath lace panties and shapewear, just like she was wearing now. The idea had come to her two nights ago, somewhere between frustration and genius: if the only way she could cum now was by building arousal, and the stimulator was her best route there, then why not start building that up gradually throughout the day?

She wasn't sure if this would work, but she knew she needed to build up arousal over an extended period of time to make an orgasm possible.

Every article said the same thing—most biological men didn’t have the nerve sensitivity built up to orgasm through prostate stimulation alone. It took practice. Repetition. Training.

Fine. She could train. Just like everything else.

And wearing the stimulator throughout the day? It didn’t even bother her on the lowest setting. The constant presence, the subtle warmth, the deep pressure when she shifted just a bit too fast or stood too straight—it was bearable. Sometimes even… welcome. It made her feel like there was a secret pulsing between her thighs, one no one else knew about.

It was her edge. Her plan. And it was working.

That confidence extended to everything now.

Her body? Trained.

Her schedule? Managed.

Her pleasure? Timed.

Her identity? Compartmentalized.

Kieran was still here. Still him. But he wore Kiara like a second skin now. And today’s skin was designer. From the inside out, every piece had a purpose.

Her panties were silk—Euphorica’s upcoming luxury lingerie prototype in soft nude, trimmed with scalloped lace. They hugged her hips perfectly, smoothed over by the high-waisted shapewear. That piece held everything in: the tucked cage, the stimulator, the faint swell of her hips. The stimulator stayed securely in place, just snug enough that every now and then a twist of her torso would send a delicious jolt through her core.

Over that, a corset. Ivory, boned, and overbust, though she left the top hooks open so that the soft swells of her breast forms could settle comfortably within her bra: a seamless molded balconette that lifted and shaped the silicone inserts into a gentle, realistic cleavage.

Adhered into place that morning, the breast forms felt like part of her now. She hardly noticed them anymore, except when the lace of the bra shifted slightly and made her chest jiggle just enough to feel real.

Her blouse today was dove grey silk, with ong sleeves with pearl-buttoned cuff, giving her wrists a romantic, almost old-money elegance. Her skirt was pencil-cut and charcoal, the fabric hugging her hips and thighs down to her knees, where a tiny slit allowed just a flash of her garter strap when she crossed her legs too fast.

To top it off, nude pumps, classic Louboutin.

Her hair was styled into a low twist today, pinned just beneath one ear and curled at the ends. Not too formal. Not too playful. Business-meets-beauty.

Her makeup was soft-focus: blurred matte skin, coral-blush cheeks, and a delicate mauve-pink on her lips. Her lashes were flared and voluminous, brushed upward with just the right amount of flutter.

She looked impeccable. She always looked impeccable now. And it didn’t even feel like effort anymore.

If anything, it was routine. Like brushing her teeth. Like slipping on heels. Like tucking herself into Kiara’s voice and saying “It’s so lovely to meet you” with a slightly tilted head and the kind of smile that melted through men’s expectations.

It used to feel like a costume. Now it was just… part of the job.

And when the workday was done? She could remove the forms. Peel off the corset. Use the toys. Then put them away. _Return to Kieran. _That was the plan.

And, masturbate once a week, maybe. Just to keep things from getting crazy.

Simple. Piece of cake.

Her legs shifted slightly under the desk. A tiny shift. And that was all it took for the stimulator to move inside her—just a bit. Just enough to make her exhale sharply through her nose.

She swallowed the breath before it reached her throat. Smoothed it out. Reset her posture.

Not a single flicker showed on her face. The pleasure was there, sure—but it didn’t own her. Not here. Not at work.

This wasn’t playtime. This was Euphorica. And she was the CEO.

Her phone buzzed beside her laptop—Seraphina, letting her know that Isabelle’s branding team had approved the new press mockups. Kiara tapped out a quick reply.

Perfect. Schedule design team review for tomorrow.

She set the phone back down and leaned slightly forward, scrolling through the next agenda item. Her hips shifted again. A slow pressure rolled through her abdomen, low and sweet and invisible.

She smiled, perfectly composed.

The stimulator stayed in. The cage stayed locked.

And Kieran? Kieran was just waiting patiently, buried somewhere deep beneath the silk and lace and lipstick.

Everything was under control.

The soft knock on the office door came just as Kiara finished typing out her follow-up notes for the Maison de Lune packaging rollout. She glanced up, expecting Seraphina, but instead, it was her mom who stepped inside—immaculate as ever, a vision of luxury and poise even in her most “casual” business attire.

Today, her mom wore a fitted slate-blue pantsuit with wide-leg trousers that glided with every step. The matching blazer was open at the waist, cinched with a thin belt that accentuated her hourglass shape. Beneath it, a white silk blouse clung to her generous bust—the top two buttons left tastefully undone, framing the hollow of her throat and a delicate platinum pendant. Matte lips. Smoky eyes. Effortless command.

She didn’t knock twice. She never had to.

“You have a lunch meeting,” Vivienne said smoothly, as she stepped fully into the room, glancing once around Kiara’s office like she was inspecting her own reflection.

Kiara blinked. “It’s not on my schedule.”

Vivienne offered a tight smile. “That’s because I just arranged it.”

Kiara tilted her head slightly, in that practiced way that softened her profile. “May I ask who it’s with?”

“Lucian Devereaux,” Vivienne replied, already checking her own phone. “Executive Vice President of Strategic Development. Youngest person to ever hold that title. Brilliant. Dangerous. Very well-dressed.”

The name alone made something twist in Kiara’s stomach—and not in the pleasant, fluttery way. More like a stone dropping into water. Lucian Devereaux.

Kieran remembered him well enough. The sharp jawline. The eyes like a wolf. The smirk that always seemed to know too much. The last time they’d crossed paths at the gala, Lucian had made it clear—with too-long glances and charming offhand comments—that he found Kiara very… compelling.

Kieran, of course, had seethed under the surface. But Kiara?

Kiara had giggled. Tucked her hair. Tilted her head.

The way she was trained.

Kiara smiled now, soft and composed. “And the reason for the meeting?”

Vivienne glanced up from her phone again. “He’ll be liaising with our Paris counterparts. Isabelle is pulling his department in to help build long-term strategy for the joint product line. I want him aligned with your messaging. And I want him aligned with you.”

Kiara gave the gentlest nod. “Of course.”

But inside, Kieran was fuming.

A lunch meeting with a man who’s into him? He wanted to scream. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

So instead, he tilted his head again and smiled with perfect restraint.

“All right,” Kiara said sweetly. “I’d be happy to.”

Vivienne paused. “It’s right now, darling. You’re already late.”

Kiara’s eyes widened slightly—just slightly—but she was already moving. She stood with a graceful push from the chair, brushing the pleats of her skirt with both hands as she smoothed her blouse. The heels clicked softly beneath her as she made her way around the desk.

Her breath caught in her throat as she adjusted her purse strap over her shoulder. The motion sent the stimulator ever-so-slightly deeper into that perfect spot, and her spine tensed—not visibly, but her breath faltered just long enough for her to notice.

And then it hit her.

The remote.

Her heart skipped.

She had left the damn remote in the drawer of her desk.

The prostate stimulator inside her was still on—set to its lowest rotation mode, sure, but on nonetheless. And now, thanks to her eagerness this morning, it was going to stay that way for the next hour. While she smiled. While she made polite conversation. While Lucian Devereaux looked her up and down like he wanted to devour her.

“Everything all right?” Vivienne asked, pausing at the door.

Kiara smiled—soft, practiced, adorable.

“Of course,” she said, smoothing a hand over her hip. “Just catching up.”

Vivienne gave a nod and turned. Kiara followed, her heels clicking as she walked—short, refined steps, perfectly aligned. Every motion—every tiny swing of the hips, every breath—was calculated now. Controlled. Feminine.

But the stimulator didn’t care about any of that.

It moved with her. Inside her. Every shift of her hips caused the head to swirl against the walls of her prostate, not painfully—but with a pressure that made her stomach twist with heat.

She could handle it. Of course she could. She’d trained for worse. She’d worn tighter corsets, more humiliating lingerie, more dangerous heels.

This was nothing. Just a small plug. Just a little buzz. Just a lunch date with a man who probably fantasized about fucking her.

No problem.

Her thighs pressed together as she walked into the elevator, the cage snug, the pressure constant.

And as the doors closed and her reflection shimmered back at her in the mirrored walls, she gave herself one last, small, perfect smile.

Kiara Laurent had this under control. Kieran, buried deep under layers of lace and strategy and pleasure, could only hold on.