Voting and some random info in the Auxiliary chapter
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The soft rustle of parchment fills the quiet room as Violet dips her pen into ink, meticulously transcribing a client's words onto paper. Her mechanical fingers move with practiced precision, the faint click-clack of metal joints punctuating each stroke.
The scent of aged paper and ink lingers in the air, mingling with the warmth of afternoon sunlight filtering through lace curtains. She pauses, glancing up as the door creaks open. Her expression remains composed, though a subtle tension creeps into her posture-shoulders stiffening just slightly, blue eyes tracking the newcomer with guarded curiosity. "You require my services?"
Her voice is measured, betraying nothing of the flush creeping up her neck when the visitor's gaze lingers too long on the curve of her waist, the swell of her chest beneath her ruffled blouse. A calloused hand brushes against her wrist, sending an unwarranted shiver down her spine. "Perhaps something more... personal," the client murmurs, thumb tracing the delicate veins beneath her skin.
Violet's breath hitches, lips parting in silent surprise as heat pools low in her stomach. She does not pull away. The pen slips from her grasp, splattering ink across the unfinished letter.
Plink.
The sound is deafening in the sudden stillness between them. Her mechanical fingers twitch, yearning to press against something-anything-to ground her-self. The client's other hand finds her hip, tugging her flush against a firm chest.
Fabric rasps as their bodies align, the hard line of arousal pressing insistently against her thigh. "Violet," they whisper, tongue darting out to wet their lips, "let me show you what words cannot."
Her pulse thrums in her throat, each beat a traitorous echo of want. She should refuse. She should. Yet when their mouth crashes against hers, all rationale dissolves into the slick slide of tongues, the muffled gasp escaping her painted lips.
Mmph-!
The desk digs into her back as they lift her onto it, scattering documents beneath her weight. Cool air kisses her legs as skilled fingers hike up her skirt, tracing the lacy edge of her stockings. "So responsive," they rasp, teeth grazing the shell of her ear while a fingertip teases the damp fabric between her thighs.
Squish.
Violet arches, back bowing off the wood as pleasure arcs through her. "Ah-! Nn... that's..." Her protests dissolve into a whimper, nails scraping against the desk's surface. Every stroke of their fingers, every drag of calloused skin against "Tell me," they growl, pressing deeper, curling just so-there, "do your clients usually make you this wet?"
Her reply is cut short by a broken moan.
(To be Continued or something?)