Dot-Com Desire

Chapter 5: Payout jackpot

The weeks after Martina Big's death settled into a rhythm that Sierra West could only describe as intoxicating. The official cause—heart failure from "chronic stress during Y2K compliance testing"—was accepted without question. The tech world was too busy panicking about potential global meltdown to scrutinize one more overworked coder's collapse. The poison had done its job perfectly: slow, tasteless, mimicking natural cardiac arrest. Sierra's forged medical history and Penn's digital cleanup ensured no loose ends. The $500,000 accidental death payout hit Penny—no, Penn's—account like clockwork, approved by Sierra's own algorithm without a single human review. No investigation. No suspicion. Just money.

Penn celebrated by moving in completely the day the transfer confirmed. His clothes filled her closet, his laptop sat permanently next to hers, his cologne mixed with hers in every room. The Queens apartment felt smaller, but in the best way—alive with another body that matched her hunger. Penn was everything she had craved: tall, athletic, sharp-featured with dark hair and eyes that burned when they looked at her. His coding was solid, but his real gift was ambition—he saw WestNet not as a scam, but as an empire to build, and he dove in with the same intensity he brought to bed.

Their days started the same way. Sierra would wake to Penn's mouth between her thighs, his tongue lapping slow, teasing circles around her c**t until she was fully awake and grinding against his face. "WTF, you taste like victory," he'd murmur, fingers sliding inside her to curl against her G-spot while his thumb pressed her c**t. She'd come fast, squirting into his mouth, thighs clamping around his head as she cried out. Then she'd return the favor, pushing him onto his back and taking his thick c**k deep in her throat—slow at first, tongue swirling the head, tasting his precum, then faster, gagging slightly but pushing further until her nose pressed against him. Penn's hands would tangle in her hair, guiding her rhythm until he came down her throat, her swallowing every drop with a satisfied hum. "BRB, shower s*x?" she'd tease, and they'd stumble to the bathroom, water cascading over them as he lifted her against the tile, thrusting deep while she wrapped legs around his waist, nails raking his back.

Mornings bled into afternoons at the office. Penn had taken over frontend design with ruthless efficiency, turning WestNet's clunky site into something sleek and deceptive—flashing banners promising "Y2K-Proof Your Future" and "Discreet Coverage for Modern Risks." Traffic exploded; suckers flooded in, buying worthless add-ons for "scandal protection" inspired by the endless Lewinsky coverage. Sierra refined the backend—hacks scraping more data, algorithms inflating quotes based on harvested secrets. They'd work side by side, but focus never lasted. Penn would reach under the desk, fingers sliding up her thigh to find her wet, circling her c**t while she typed. "Keep coding," she'd gasp, spreading her legs wider as he finger-f****d her to orgasm, her juices dripping onto the chair. Then she'd drop to her knees under the desk, blowing him while he debugged—deepthroating, saliva dripping, eyes locked on his until he came in her mouth.

Evenings were for deeper integration. They met Wade Witch regularly now—the sharp, chain-smoking dev who'd become their forgery master. Over diner coffee, Wade slid disks with extra trails—just in case. "LOL, clean as a whistle," he'd cackle. Penn leaned in, hand on Sierra's thigh under the table. "We need international upsells—Euro panic is coming." Wade grinned. "I got European contacts. For a cut." Deals sealed, they'd leave—Penn's hand possessive on Sierra's lower back.

Back home, plotting turned to s*x. Penn bent her over the kitchen table, thrusting deep from behind as they discussed new scams. "Harder—talk dirty about the money," she'd demand, and he'd growl projected earnings while pounding, slapping her ass until she squirted. Anal became regular—"Take my ass while we plan the next payout," she'd beg, lubed and ready, his thrusts deep as she rubbed her c**t, coming with screams as he filled her.

Jealousy fueled everything. When Sierra interviewed a male freelance designer—good-looking, talented—Penn's eyes darkened. "WTF, you need him?" That night was punishment—Penn tying her wrists with his belt, spanking her ass red until she begged, then anal rough, no mercy, her squirting as he came inside. "You're mine—no one else," he'd hiss. Sierra loved it—the possession, the fire. She'd reclaim him next morning, strapping on a toy, pegging him while stroking his c**k until he came hands-free, moaning her name.

Business boomed—Y2K prep had suckers buying policies like toilet paper. s*x fueled ideas—quickies during investor calls, Penn taking her from behind while she pitched "family protection bundles."

The chapter peaks with a late-night session after closing a big data sale—Penn introducing double penetration toys, her squirting floods as he took p***y and toy ass, screaming "I'm your queen—forever."

But Penn's possessiveness grew—snapping at male clients, demanding all her attention—as Sierra's eyes wandered to new "assets" for the empire.