Chapter 16: Betty's screams echo through the empty office as MRI shoves the vibrator remote into her ass, cranking it to maximum while Harrison records her convulsing body - zooming in on the moment her squirt splashes across Roger's framed wedding photo as the janitors laugh and call her 'Mrs. Office Slut'.
The silence in the penthouse was a physical entity, thick and suffocating. It stretched, second after agonizing second, broken only by the frantic, muffled click of heels as guests made a collective, unspoken decision to flee. Roger remained frozen, his face a bloodless mask, his eyes locked on Betty with the uncomprehending horror of a man watching his own execution.
MRI broke the spell. He plucked the untouched champagne flute from Betty’s numb fingers. “I believe your services are required elsewhere tonight,” he said, his voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. “My car is downstairs.”
Roger finally found his voice, a raw, strangled sound. “You… you fucking….” He took a stumbling step towards his brother, but MRI didn’t even flinch.
“Careful, Roger. This is still a celebration of your success. Don’t be ungrateful.” He turned his icy gaze to Betty. “Now.”
She moved on autopilot, the relentless hum between her legs a perverse anchor to reality. She didn’t look back at Roger. There was nothing left to see. She walked out of the penthouse, the weight of dozens of stares on her back, and descended to the waiting town car.
They didn’t go to MRI’s usual hotel. The car slid through the neon-washed streets and pulled into the underground garage of a familiar glass-and-steel tower: Roger’s office building. MRI used a keycard to access a private elevator, his silence more threatening than any lecture.
The corporate office after hours was a tomb. The air was still and cold, smelling of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. The only light came from the dimmed emergency strips along the floor and the faint, ghostly glow of a few sleeping computer monitors. Their footsteps echoed in the vast, open-plan space, a labyrinth of identical cubicles shrouded in shadow.
MRI stopped at one particular cubicle. Roger’s cubicle. The ‘Congratulations Roger!’ banner was still taped to the fabric wall, a cruel joke.
On the desk lay a single tube of fire-engine red lipstick.
“Undress,” MRI commanded, his voice flat. “Then get on your knees. Use the lipstick. Write ‘FIRE ME’ on one tit. ‘DADDY’ on the other. I want it big and clear.”
The finality in his tone brooked no argument. Her fingers trembled as she unzipped her party dress, letting it pool around her ankles. The cool office air raised goosebumps on her bare skin. She picked up the lipstick. The wax was firm, unyielding. She knelt on the coarse commercial carpet, the vibration inside her a constant, mocking reminder of his control. She twisted the lipstick and began to write, the red pigment stark and garish against her pale skin. FIRE ME. DADDY. The words were a branding, a public shaming that dwarfed the private one in the steam room.
MRI had set up a small tripod with his phone, the camera lens a dark, unblinking eye. He tapped the screen. “We’re live. A private stream. For a very select audience.” He smiled, a thin, cruel line. “Harrison should be here any moment. He was very… appreciative of your previous performance.”
As if on cue, the elevator chimed softly in the distance. Heavy, confident footsteps approached. Mr. Harrison rounded the corner, his face flushed with anticipation and cheap scotch. He stopped short, his eyes raking over her naked, kneeling form, the lipstick slogans on her chest.
“Well, well, well,” he breathed, a lecherous grin spreading across his face. “The masked slut from the spa. I knew you had a filthy mouth on you.” He unzipped his trousers, his erection already thick and heavy. “Let’s see if you can remember your lines.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He fisted a hand in her hair and pulled her head forward, forcing his cock past her lips. It was a brutal, claiming gesture. She gagged, the taste of him—sweat and stale alcohol—filling her mouth.
“That’s it, you fucking cocksleeve,” Harrison grunted, fucking her face with short, punishing thrusts. “Suck it. Clean it for your daddy.”
Over Harrison’s shoulder, she saw MRI watching, his expression one of clinical interest. He adjusted the phone on the tripod for a better angle.
Then, other figures emerged from the shadows. Three men in janitorial uniforms, their faces slack with a mixture of shock and raw hunger. They’d been summoned, too. MRI gestured them forward.
Harrison pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening tip. “My turn for the main event,” he slurred. He turned her roughly, bending her over Roger’s desk. Her cheek pressed against the cold plastic of Roger’s keyboard, the keys digging into her skin.
She heard the rip of a condom wrapper—a mockery of safety—and then Harrison was pushing into her from behind, dry and brutal. She cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound as he stretched her, his thrusts clumsy and animalistic.
“Tight little whore,” he panted, his hands gripping her hips, his belly slapping against her ass. “Take that corporate cock. You love it, don’t you? You love getting railed on your husband’s desk.”
The first janitor, a younger man with nervous eyes, moved to the side of the desk. He unbuckled his belt, freed his own hard-on, and pushed it towards her face. “Suck,” he commanded, his voice trembling with a newfound power.
She opened her mouth, the duality of the violation complete. Harrison pounding into her from behind, the janitor fucking her mouth, his coarse pubic hair scratching her nose. The sounds were obscene: wet, slapping flesh, grunts, and the choked gags she couldn’t suppress.
MRI’s voice cut through the din, calm and instructive. “Carlos, your turn. Don’t be shy.”
The second janitor, older, swapped places with the first at her mouth. He was rougher, grabbing the back of her head, forcing himself deeper down her throat until her eyes watered. Harrison, with a final, shuddering groan, emptied himself inside her with a guttural roar and pulled out, staggering back.
Without a moment’s pause, the third janitor was there, pushing her off the keyboard and onto her hands and knees on the floor. He knelt behind her, spat on his hand, and guided himself into her still-slick, used opening.
“Yeah, that’s the stuff,” he muttered, his rhythm faster, more desperate than Harrison’s. “Fuckin’ A.”
The first janitor, now hard again, came back to her face. “My turn for this sweet ass,” he grunted, positioning himself behind her.
She felt a finger, wet with spit, probing at her other hole. She tensed, but there was no resistance left in her. He pushed, a burning, tearing intrusion, and then he was inside her ass, too, a double penetration that made her vision swim. She was just a vessel, a collection of holes being used raw on the floor of her husband’s workplace, the words FIRE ME DADDY smeared and glistening with sweat on her heaving chest.
The men took their turns, a rotating carousel of grunting, sweating bodies. They came on her back, on her face, inside her. Through it all, the phone’s camera recorded everything, and MRI watched, a silent conductor of this symphony of degradation.
When it was over, the men dispersed into the shadows, zipping up their uniforms, avoiding each other’s eyes. Harrison left with a satisfied smirk, patting MRI on the shoulder. Betty lay curled on the floor, shivering, covered in their spendings, the taste of them thick in her mouth.
MRI walked over to Roger’s computer. He tapped a key, waking the monitor. With a few clicks, he accessed the building’s server. He dragged the video file from his phone and selected ‘Broadcast to All Network Monitors.’
He looked down at her, his work complete. “The cleaning crew will be here at six AM. The day staff at eight. I wonder how long it will take for someone to call your husband to come and see what’s playing on his screen.”
He turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the hum of the ventilation system.
Alone in the dark, Betty slowly pushed herself up. Her body ached, a deep, bruised pain. She looked at the monitor on Roger’s desk. On the screen, she saw herself, kneeling, the red words glaring. She saw Harrison approach. She saw the beginning of it all.
A strange, cold calm settled over her. The shame had been atomized. There was no lower for her to go. She reached out a trembling hand and smeared the drying come on her stomach. She looked at the sticky residue on her fingers, then back at the looping video of her own violation.
A smile, thin and sharp as a razor blade, touched her lips.