Chapter 7: The Celebration
“Congratulations again, Jim. In the entire history of the BIA, no man has ever earned an office. A few have earned a promotion, but none have made it to director. You are now officially the highest ranking man in BIA history.”
Jim sat blushing uncomfortably in the big chair behind his new mahogany desk. His exposed skin was sticking to the nice leather, and he didn’t believe it was real.
“Only because I have a great team. You, Taylor, and Amber really helped make it all possible. And I don’t want you to treat me any differently now that we’re peers. I’ll always think of you as my boss.”
Nicole leaned forward, letting him have a good view down her low-cut top.
“That’s sweet, but you and I both know it’s not possible. Now that Chief has seen your value, she got you a medical exemption that lasts another week.”
“About that …”
Jim’s explanation was cut off by a knock at the door.
“Ah, good. They’re here. Come in!” Jim invited his guests inside.
It was Taylor and Amber, both dressed in professional attire.
“You wanted to see us?”
“Yes, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.” He gestured at the two empty chairs next to Nicole across from his desk.
The girls quickly took their seats and looked at him expectantly. He was fully naked – he wasn’t exempt from that particular BIA rule – but his new desk obscured their view of his throbbing erection. After over a month of chastity, he was desperate for release.
“I know you all heard about my recent promotion. And, well, the truth is … I know I only got it because of what happened with the Femme Fatales. And I couldn’t have done that without you three. So, I just wanted to say thank you.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.” Taylor seemed genuinely touched by his words.
“And, as a token of my appreciation, I got each of you a gift.” He reached under the desk and grabbed three small gift bags – one black, one blue, and one red – setting them out carefully on his side of the desk.
“Oh, Jim, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t get you anything!”
“Don’t get too excited. You know how, as director, I can set your dress code? Well, inside each bag is the outfit I’d like you to wear today.”
“Psssh, you’re really pushing it, Jim. Enjoy this while you can. The instant your medical protection ends, I’m going to make you pay.”
Jim smirked, riling Amber up on purpose.
“Oh, I will enjoy it, don’t you worry. In fact … on that note, let’s have all three of you strip, right now. That way it’ll be easier for you to change into the outfits I got you.”
The girls got up, stripping slowly while muttering to themselves about how much of a mistake it was to give a man any sort of authority at the BIA. Wise or not, Jim was quick to scold the girls for their complaints.
“Oh, come on. You licked the tears off my cheeks while standing on my testicles in stilettos. Quit your bitching.”
“I’ll show you ‘bitching’…” Amber muttered as the girls finished taking off the last of their clothes.
Once they were completely naked, Jim took his time enjoying the view. He slowly and deliberately reached his right hand down to his cock, almost involuntarily giving himself a couple long, slow strokes.
“Go on, Jim. Blow your load. Break your chastity so we have an excuse to castrate you.”
He smirked again. “I won’t make any mistakes, don’t worry. Just change into your new outfits.” He pushed each bag across the desk, continuing to lazily stroke himself with his right hand, his thumb circling the sensitive head as he watched their reactions.
The girls looked into the bags and took out their new "outfits"—three items so intimately revealing they made the previous clothing seem conservative. For Taylor, he bought a pair of impossibly soft blue thigh-high socks made of knitted cashmere that would feel like a whisper against herskin. For Nicole, heavy black steel-toed doc martens designed for maximum impact, their soles new and deadly. And for Amber, black Christian Louboutin stilettos with signature red bottoms, heels sharp enough to pierce flesh. It didn't take them long to "change" into them, their movements practiced and predatory. Amber's green eyes flashed with cruel amusement as she slipped into her shoes, the click of her heels against the floor echoing like a death knell. "You're really pushing it, Jim. Your medical protection doesn't last much longer."
He got up, walking around his desk to stand next to the three scantily clad ballbusters he was riling up.
“I’m not worried. You’re just weak little girls, remember? You couldn’t really hurt a big strong man like me.” A shit-eating grin stretched across his face. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“You didn’t seem so big and strong in that Femme Fatales den. I seem to remember lots of crying and begging us for mercy. And you kept asking for your mommy, for some reason? Did she ever show up to help you?”
“I was just pretending. It didn’t hurt that bad. In fact …” Jim reached down and pulled out three more gift bags, placing them atop his desk. “I got each of you girls another present. A little something you can use to make it actually hurt next time.”
The girls laughed. “Wow … just pretending? Those are big words from a man with blue balls between his legs. You’re really taking full advantage of your medical protection, aren’t you?”
Jim stopped in front of Amber, close enough that the red soles of her heels caught the overhead light. He was still hard, and he made no attempt to hide it.
"I want to ask you for something."
"Of course you do."
"When the exemption ends. I want the first one to be you, Amber. Yours. Not Taylor's, not Nicole's. I want you to be the one who busts me first."
Amber's expression did not change, but something behind her green eyes sharpened and settled, the way a hawk's does when the rabbit stops running.
"You want."
"I'm asking."
Taylor let out a low whistle. Nicole said nothing at all, which was somehow the loudest response in the room. She had reclined into her chair with her boots planted flat, watching the exchange the way a woman watches a hand of cards she has already won.
"And specifically," Jim went on, "I want you to start with your knees. Three of them. Your hardest, on an empty stomach and a full swing. I've been thinking about it every night. Three knees to start, and then obviously whatever you want after that."
For a moment the office was very quiet. Somewhere below, muffled through the floor, a cadet was screaming in the training hall, the sound thin and distant behind the insulation.
"Three," Amber repeated.
"Three."
She stepped into him, unhurried. He did not flinch. That, more than anything, seemed to interest her.
"Jim," she said, almost kindly, "you listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once and I want you to remember it while you're lying in a heap. I am always happy to bust your balls. That's never been a question. You could ask me to do it right now and I'd do it right now and you'd never walk to this office again. But after how you've acted today, strutting around your new little kingdom, rubbing yourself raw at us like a cheap boy while you hide behind the chief's paperwork?"
She leaned in. Her breath moved across his throat, warm and even.
"Ten. Not three. Ten knees. The first instant it's allowed, before you've had coffee, before you've had a chance to brace, before anyone has said a word to you. Ten of the hardest knees I can manage. You can count them out loud for me. I would call it a counteroffer, but it's not. It's a promise. "
Jim's mouth had gone dry. She saw it and smiled, tiny and satisfied, the first real smile she had given him all afternoon.
"Yes," he said. "Ten."
"Say it properly."
"Amber. Ten of your hardest knees to my testicles, the first instant my exemption ends. Please."
It was the please that did it. Nicole shifted in her chair and crossed her legs, the steel toe of one boot tipping up into the air.
"Good boy," Amber said. She pulled the mallet away from his thigh, tapping its head once against her open palm. "Now put your hands behind your back, stand up straight, and keep that thing of yours at attention while I practice. I want a real target when the week is up."
"You want to practice?"
"On the air." She smiled again, wider. "You're not cleared yet. But I can show you the wind-up. Stand still."
Jim put his hands behind his back.
What followed was worse than any blow, in its way. Amber set her feet, rotated her hips, and drove her right knee up through the empty air a hand's width from his scrotum. The wind of it moved his skin. He felt the displacement of the air and his whole body clenched in anticipation of contact that never came, and his cock jumped hard enough that a thin bead of fluid gathered at the tip.
"One," she said.
She did it again. And again. Ten times, each knee stopping just shy of him, each one a promise with the payment deferred. By the fourth, sweat had broken out across his shoulders. By the seventh, his legs were trembling. Taylor had come around the desk to watch from the side, close enough that he could hear her breathing.
By the tenth, he was swaying on his feet like a man in a high wind, and Amber stepped back and surveyed him with something close to pride.
"There," she said. "Now you know exactly what's coming. It won't stop just short, and I won't slow down, and I won't care how you ask me to."
"Promise me," he swallowed, working his jaw once before he fully trusted his voice. "You'll go extra hard," he said. "Harder than the Femme Fatales. Harder than anything."
"Yes."
"And you'll only count the ones that land clean. Directly on target. On my balls, full contact. If you miss, or if you clip the wrong spot, it doesn't count."
Amber tilted her head, and the amusement in her face narrowed into something sharper, more interested. "You think any of them are going to miss? I've been aiming at that specific spot since the first day I met you. I know the geography of your scrotum better than you do."
"That's not what I asked."
"Fine." She let the word out slow, the way a person draws a blade. "Every knee lands square, dead center, both testicles, full compression. If I graze, if I slide, if I catch your thigh or your pelvis by so much as a finger's width, the blow does not count, and I'll give you another one to replace it. Is that the promise you want?"
Jim's voice came out thin and stripped down. "Yes. Say you promise."
"I promise." She said it without hesitation, without any of her usual needling, and that was somehow the most frightening thing she had done all day. "Ten clean knees, and any misses replaced until there are ten that count. And I'll be trying to hurt you every single time."
"Good," he said. "Because there's something you should know."
Nicole's boot came down off her knee and settled flat against the floor.
"I lied," Jim said. "About the exemption."
"So did I," Amber said easily.
"No, listen. The exemption ended yesterday."
The silence that followed was not the silence of shock, exactly. It was the silence of three predators all running the same calculation at the same speed, checking the date in their heads, matching it against the paperwork, finding it consistent.
"Yesterday," Taylor repeated.
"Yesterday evening. That's why I called you all in." He looked from one to the other, and some of the shit-eating grin had come back, nervous and bright and genuine underneath. "I've been cleared since yesterday, but I don't want to go back to regular duty. I want the first session as director to be the three of you, and I wanted the first blows to be Amber's knees, and I wanted to hear her promise out loud because I know she keeps her word."
Nicole ran her tongue along her teeth, studying him the way a hunter looks at tracks. "You called us in here and bought us lingerie and shoes."
"I did."
"You riled us up on purpose."
"Harder blows," Jim said. "I wanted you angry. All three of you. I've spent a month thinking about what it'll feel like when it finally isn't the exemption anymore, and I didn't want a soft first day. I wanted your worst."
"You didn't have to lie about the date," Nicole said. "You could have just asked us."
"I could have." He shrugged, and it was loose and unbothered in a way that none of them had seen from him before, the whole frame of him turned confident by the simple fact of having decided something and then doing it. "But then you'd have gone easy on me, because it'd be official, and you'd be thinking about the forms, and Chief, and my recovery, and how much of the first session should go on the record. This way you're just a little bit humiliated that I played you, and you're going to take it out on my balls, which is what I actually want."
Taylor barked a laugh. Amber did not. She stared at him for a long second, and then she began to smile in earnest, wide and slow, and it was the kind of smile that should have come with a warning label on the packaging.
"You lied to me about your protection status."
"Yes."
"You stood there and let me promise you ten of my hardest knees on an exemption you don't have."
"Yes."
"You put those red bottoms on my feet and asked me, twice, to swear I'd go full strength."
"Twice," Jim agreed. "I wanted it clear."
"Get up," Amber said. "Against the desk."
It didn't go the way he'd imagined. He'd imagined his office, his authority, some semblance of the man who gave the orders. What he got was Nicole and Taylor taking one arm each before he'd fully turned, folding his wrists up behind his shoulder blades with a practiced, unbothered efficiency, bending him forward over the edge of the mahogany so his cheek pressed flat against the blotter and his hips hovered at the lip of the desk with his legs spread and stretched back, heels planted on the floor, everything that mattered to him hanging exposed and swinging beneath.
"Are you comfortable, Director?" Taylor asked sweetly.
"No."
"Good."
Nicole's grip tightened, and she leaned her weight into his shoulder so he felt the whole strain of the hold down his spine. "You wanted your first session to be memorable. Just so you know, when I'm done holding you, I'm taking the other end."
"That's fair," he gasped out.
"No. It's not. But it's what's happening."
Amber took her time. That was the part he hadn't anticipated, that she wouldn't rush, that she would actually respect the promise well enough to make him wait for it. She set her feet wide, found her stance, and tapped the toe of one red-bottomed stiletto against the inside of his ankle to make him spread another inch, which he did. And then she rolled her hips once, slowly, measuring the distance, and he saw the whole geometry of it in the way her weight settled into her back leg and then drove forward, that long lateral shift from the ground up, and he clenched everything he owned in his body in the half-second before contact.
The first knee landed fully.
The sound came before the pain did, a flat wet crack of testicle against kneecap. His whole body tried to fold at the same instant from both ends and could not, because Nicole and Taylor were holding him open, so all that force had nowhere to go but back into his own spine. Then the pain arrived, a stripe of pure white that went from his groin to his throat, and he made a high, thin sound he did not recognize as his own voice.
"One," Amber said. "Clean. Count it."
"One," he croaked.
The second was worse because he knew the shape of it, and knowing the shape meant he did not try to escape, just endured. It landed square on both, and this time the pain did not wash through him so much as settle in and take up residence, pulsing in time with the thud of his heart, and his legs sagged against the desk and Nicole hauled him upright enough to keep him hanging.
"Two," Amber said.
"Two."
"Are you seeing stars yet, Director?"
"No," he lied, because he was.
The third did not land clean. He felt it slide, the knee catching mostly his left testicle and the thigh grazing past, and Amber stopped herself mid-follow-through and stepped back a clean pace and shook her leg out.
"Three," she said.
"Three," he said.
"No." Amber's eyes were flat and steady. "That one don't count. It clipped. And a promise is a promise."
"Amber, honestly, that would have counted for anyone else, I felt it fully, I felt it in my stomach..."
"You felt it in your stomach," she repeated. "And I've told you exactly what I promised. Do you want to argue about it with your mouth where the target is, or do you want me to line it up again?"
Jim shut his eyes. Somewhere behind him, Taylor made a small appreciative noise.
"Line it up," he whispered.
It took them the better part of half an hour. Ten clean ones, a few misses replaced, a few more that he couldn't tell if they were clean until she told him so and went again. She paced it, counted it out loud, made him count it after her every time with whatever voice he could find at the bottom of his ribs. By the sixth, his scrotum had swelled tight and dark and hot and each impact sounded different, duller and heavier, and his whole lower body had turned into one continuous ache that had no bottom. By the eighth, he had started to weep without noticing, drops falling sideways off his nose onto the blotter. By the ninth, his legs had stopped holding and Nicole and Taylor were carrying his weight entirely, and he still counted. Still thanked her, hoarse and broken, after every single one, because that part had become something like reflex in him.
"Ten," Amber said at last. She stepped back and looked at her work, at the mess of him, and there was genuine satisfaction in her face. "Ten clean. I want it on the record that I gave you exactly what you asked for."
Jim hung between the other two women, shaking, his cheek smeared across the desk, and he did not lift his head.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for every one."
For a while nobody said anything. Jim hung between the two women with his cheek against the blotter and his shoulders jumping in small, helpless increments, and the sound that came out of him was not quite crying, more the low shudder of a man whose body has run out of ways to say stop. With every breath the air moved across his swelling scrotum and sent a fresh pulse of dull, sick heat up through his abdomen. He kept his eyes shut. Under his ribs he could feel his own pulse, slow and heavy, and he let it steady him.
Taylor shifted her grip on his wrist and glanced at Amber, who had retrieved her mallet and was idly turning it over in her hands, watching him with an expression that had gone briefly, almost insultingly, tender.
"Give him a minute," Nicole said. "He earned it."
Jim listened to that, and something in him turned over. A minute. She thought he needed a minute. He had spent a month learning exactly what he looked like when he wanted more, and it did not look like this. Or it did, but not for the reason they thought.
He swallowed, worked his jaw against the desk, and found enough voice to speak.
"Nicole."
It came out flat and wet, scraped raw, but it carried. The room went still. Taylor's head came up. Even Amber paused with the mallet in her hand.
Nicole did not move, but he could feel her attention settle on him like a hand laid flat on his back. "What do you want, Director?"
He turned his head enough to put one eye on her, and the desk was smeared beneath his cheek. "You're wearing the boots I bought you."
"I am."
"I want you to use them."
Something crossed her face, quick and unreadable. "I just watched my best operative turn your balls into a bruise. Say it plainly, or don't say it at all."
Jim closed his eyes again, and when he opened them the tears had mostly quit. "Ten. Ten full-force kicks to the balls with those boots. Steel toe, full swing, no holding back." He heard his own voice come out steady, which surprised him more than anything else in the last hour. "The first session as director belongs to all three of you. Amber had the knees. You get the boots."
The quiet that followed had a different quality than the one before. Taylor let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Amber's mallet stopped turning. Behind him, where he couldn't see her, Nicole was silent for a long, deliberate moment, and then he heard her stand, boots planting on the floor in two unhurried stages, steel toes ringing against the wood.
"You lied to me about your protection status," she said.
"I did."
"You put doc martens on my feet without telling me what they were for."
"I wanted them broken in by the person wearing them."
"And now you want me to kick the ranked director of this agency in the testicles with steel toes, in his own office, while two operatives hold his arms."
"Ten times," Jim said. "Hard. Full contact. Same promise Amber made. If it doesn't land clean, it doesn't count, and you go again."
He heard Nicole exhale through her nose, the closest to a laugh she had come all day. "Get him up. On his knees."
The transition was quick and practiced, and Jim did not fight it. Taylor and Amber hauled him off the edge of the desk by the arms and turned him, dragged him down onto the floor beside the desk, and settled him back on his heels with his wrists crossed behind him and each girl taking one arm to hold it there. Amber had the left, Taylor the right, and they used their other hands to spread his knees. Nicole nudged one boot against the inside of his ankle and then the other, widening his stance until his inner thighs strained and everything he had hung out over the small gap between his legs, swinging, undefended.
He looked up at her from the floor and felt his chest go tight with something that was not fear.
"Hands behind your back," Nicole said. "Chest up. Don't slump. If you fall over before ten, we start again from one."
"Yes."
"Say it like you mean it."
"Please kick my balls ten times with your boots, Nicole. Full force. I want you to."
She stepped back to a proper distance and measured him with her eyes, the way she had measured every cadet she had ever broken. Then she set her right foot behind her, took a short gather step, and drove the steel toe forward.
The kick landed square between his legs and lifted him two inches off the floor on his knees. The sound was a hollow metal boom against the desk leg, and then the pain came, and it was not the clean white of Amber's knee, it was a broad, sick, spreading thing that folded him forward against the arms of the two women holding him and squeezed a sound out of his mouth that he only half recognized.
"One," Nicole said.
He could not answer. Taylor shook his shoulder. "Count it."
"One," he got out, coughing around it.
"Good. Again."
The second kick caught him low and square and he felt it in his spine, a long bolt of cold that ran all the way up between his shoulder blades, and he lost the second count entirely and had to guess at it. The third made him vomit a thin rope of water onto the floor, and Amber put her hand on the back of his neck and pressed his head down while he retched, then pulled him up by the hair when he was done and said, not unkindly, "Chest up. Don't make her start over."
By the fifth kick his scrotum had turned a color he had never seen on himself before, a dark swollen purple with the shine of tightly stretched skin, and each impact no longer hurt in the same way. There was no more white and no more stripe. There was only a heavy, bottomless throb that arrived a half-second after each blow and stayed, layering onto the last, so that by the sixth he was not feeling individual kicks anymore, only a continuous crush that the intervals between blows did nothing to relieve.
He counted anyway. He thanked her after every one, hoarse and automatic, the same reflex Amber had drilled into him, because it was true. Somewhere in the middle of the seventh he stopped shaking and went very quiet, and the girls holding him felt it and exchanged a look over his head. Amber's grip on his forearm loosened by a fraction. Even Taylor's thumb came to rest against his pulse, checking him.
Nicole saw all of it, and did not slow down. Kick eight landed with his eyes already unfocused, and he heard the count come out of him sideways and wrong, and Nicole repeated it for him and caught him at nine.
"Eight," she said. "One more, and then one."
He did not understand her at first, and then he did. A miss. She had given him nine clean and she wanted him to have the tenth on real steel, with no ambiguity, because that was what he had asked for and she was not a woman who shaved a promise.
The tenth kick was the hardest of them. She put her whole weight into it and caught both testicles dead center with the steel toe, and the impact lifted him out of the girls' grip on one side, so that Amber had to catch his shoulder to keep him from going over sideways onto the floor. He let out a long, low moan that had no words in it at all, and sagged between the two operatives with his head hanging forward and his breath coming in broken snatches.
"Ten," Nicole said. She crouched down in front of him, cupped his chin, and lifted his forehead off the floor. "Ten clean ones, Director. On the record."
His eyes found hers. They were wet and very far away, and then they came back into focus.
"Thank you," he said. It came out quiet, and underneath it was something that had nothing to do with pain at all. "Thank you, Nicole. For every one of them."
For a moment she stayed crouched in front of him, holding his chin with one hand, and something moved behind her eyes that she did not let out. Behind her, Taylor and Amber were still kneeling on either side of him, both of them holding his arms despite the fact that the punishment was finished, neither one of them letting go, and the office smelled of sweat and disinfectant and blood, and the city hummed on beyond the window like nothing at all had happened.