‘Such a greedy, needy little thing,’ he tells me. ‘You’re going to come in front of both of us, aren’t you? So fucking filthy. Shame you’re not into anal, but we can still plug your other two holes with our big dicks. How does that sound?’

Fuck, it’s going to happen, and the hideous, awful, unthinkable part is that it doesn’t sound hideous or awful or unthinkable. It sounds hot. It sounds like I’m a lucky bitch who’s going to get well and truly seen to by two gorgeous, dirty men. And it also sounds like I’m a total whore, because it’s taken me approximately thirty seconds of clit action from my boss to go from I’m terrified to give it to me now.

I make myself respond to Brendan, because vocalising this stuff is still one of the hardest parts for me, even after three weeks on the job with Mr Dirty Talk. ‘Um, yes please.’

He groans and grinds against me. He’s fully hard now, his dick straining against the fabric of his trousers and pressing into my lower back.

‘That’s my girl. Ethan, you want to come and do the honours?’ To demonstrate his meaning, he slides both hands up my sides and cups my breasts. My nipples tingle and strain.

‘Why not?’ Ethan pushes himself off the sofa and comes to stand in front of me or, more accurately, to tower over me. I raise my face to his. Fuck he’s tall.

‘They open,’ Brendan tells him. ‘See the buttons?’ He slides his hands back down to my waist.

‘Yes, I certainly do,’ Ethan says. He looks down at me. He’s so different from Brendan, who’s like a very, very dirty golden retriever. This guy is freezing cold. Intensity absolutely radiates from him. He and Sophia would be fire and ice together if she deigned to work for him.

More pressingly, his dick is at face height and practically punching a hole in those nice trousers. He cups my breasts hard, thumbs dragging over my nipples. Fucking hell. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. Let’s get you a little more warmed up, then you can suck my dick and Brendan here can watch, and then he’s going to fuck you while you finish me off.’

Oh my God oh my God oh my God. I don’t know what I feel, or what I should feel, but every word is like a shot of a million emotions.

‘Okay,’ I say in a shaky voice.

‘It wasn’t a question,’ he snaps, and his dismissively arrogant tone sends another wave of desire and self-disgust rolling over me.

It wasn’t a question.

Oh Jesus.

He makes brisk work of the tiny fasteners at the top of each bra cup and lays the lace down with something approaching reverence, exposing my breasts.