You owe us

You owe us

"She thought she controlled the game—until the driver knew her secrets. Now, every ride is a lesson in submission."

CHAPTER 1

Yevgenia Petrovna slouched in the backseat of her official Audi, her blouse yanked free from her skirt, the buttons undone, the fabric gaping open like a scarlet flag. Beneath it, a burgundy-and-green Italian bra clung to her, the cups barely containing her. Her anthracite skirt was hitched up to her panties—burgundy-green, lacy, clinging to the curve of her hips.

A passerby could have glanced through the side window, there in the vast Auchan parking lot, and seen everything: the panties, the milky white of her thighs above the slanted stockings, the garters of her elegant brown belt, the tense arches of her feet.

One shoe lay discarded on the Audi’s plush carpet, the brand name embossed into the fabric. The other teetered on its toe, the stiletto heel trembling. Beside it, an empty, flat bottle of cheap whiskey rolled, the kind you grab from a liquor store in a hurry.

She was sucking a cock. Bent over, twisted into an awkward, almost impossible angle. Her thighs were splayed open for anyone to see. Her head and shoulders, turned a full 180 degrees, bobbed like a sewing machine shuttle over the man’s unbuttoned jeans.

His legs were spread wide, a firm hand pressed down on the back of her head, ruining the careful style she’d set that morning. Now her hair was a crow’s nest, tangled and wild. But he didn’t care. His grip was iron. He’d forced her into this position—spread her legs, unbuttoned her blouse, tugged it free from her skirt, even crumpled one cup of her bra to free a large, fox-like brown nipple. And it wasn’t Yevgenia Petrovna doing the sucking. It was being done to her. The penis was barely visible—just a flash of white skin between her plump, feminine lips before it vanished entirely into her mouth.

Every now and then, she made a sound—prff…—like a circus horse gratefully biting into an apple. Was it pleasure? Or was she suffocating, her nose buried in the coarse, curly hair, her escape blocked by the hand on the back of her head?

Finally, the man came with a low grunt, thrusting his hips forward so his cock disappeared completely into her mouth. She let out another prff, her body shaking, her front end twitching upward as if searching for something. His hands only released her head when both of them had stilled, the tension draining away.

***

The Audi was parked in the same vast Auchan lot.

Afterward, Yevgenia Petrovna called in sick. Thursday and Friday off. Four days—enough, she thought, to assess the damage. To gather her thoughts. To understand the losses, the possible solutions. But the truth was, she spent almost the entire time drunk, ignoring her husband’s questions, her son’s concerned glances. No answers came. No options presented themselves. Just the whiskey, the numbness, and the gnawing certainty that this was a problem so massive it might swallow her whole.

Monday arrived. Victor picked her up as usual, drove her to work. She sat in silence the whole way, not a word, her mind fixed on one thing:

“Get there. Run to the office. Lock the door.”

In the evening, he drove her home. Almost as usual.

As they passed the Auchan complex, he turned into the parking lot, killed the engine far from the other cars, and said it like it was nothing:

“Give me a blowjob. Back seat.”

“So this is it…”

CHAPTER 2

"Vitya, wait. I’ll be right back—I just need the restroom,"

Yevgenia Petrovna Belskaya said, leaving the office door ajar as she swept out, smoothing her skirt over her hips.

The driver watched her go, his eyes lingering. Then he glanced at the open door. For a commercial director, she treated her personal driver with the kind of cool detachment that came with her position. Though sometimes, just sometimes, she’d slip and call him "Vitya" instead of "Viktor."

She knew almost everything about him, even though he’d only been with the company a short time. The head of security—a retired FSB colonel named Brazhnik—had vetted him before hiring. His background check had been thorough, but there were gaps. Murky details even the all-powerful colonel couldn’t uncover.

Miroshnikov, the general director, had approved his candidacy. And at that level, he must have discussed it with the owner, Artashes Mirzoyan.

“I should have been more careful,” she thought as she switched from her old Korean car to this brand-new German one, complete with a new driver.

A personal car, a personal driver—symbols of her success.

“Like it or not, a driver is practically family. He drives my husband, my fourteen-year-old son. He’s in our home. He’s practically one of us. Almost. But caution is still necessary.”