Dot-Com Desire

Chapter 3: Our own scandal

The weeks following Penn Gold's full move-in blurred into a rhythm that Sierra West could only describe as addictive. The Queens apartment, once a solitary lair of code and ambition, now pulsed with the constant presence of another body—Penn's athletic frame taking up space on the couch, his laptop always open next to hers, his cologne lingering in every room. They worked, ate, slept, and f****d with an intensity that left little room for anything else. The $500,000 payout from Martina's death had cleared completely, no questions asked, and Penn had wasted no time spending a chunk of it on upgrades: new high-speed connection (a luxury in 1999), better monitors, even a bigger bed because the old one creaked too much under their nightly marathons. "OMG, this is our war room now," Penn had said the first night, christening the new mattress by taking Sierra from behind, her face pressed into the pillows as he thrust deep, slapping her ass red while she moaned "harder—make me feel our empire."

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 plotting deeper integration. They met Wade Witch—former Wanda, now a sharp, chain-smoking male dev in his 40s running a matchmaker site—at a dingy diner off Times Square. Wade had been Sierra's forgery partner for months, but now with Penn, the trio became a force. "LOL, hubby cleanup complete?" Wade cackled over black coffee, sliding a disk with extra forged trails—just in case any nosy relative asked questions about Martina's death. Penn leaned in, his hand on Sierra's thigh under the table. "We need more—international upsells for Euro launch panic." Wade grinned. "I got contacts in Europe. For a cut." Deals sealed, they left—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 numbers 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 flared constantly. 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 (new purchase with payout cash), 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.