Chapter 6: More depravity
The sharp tang of spilled whiskey clung to the air, thick and cloying, mixing with Roger’s ragged breaths. He stared, unblinking, at the sleek tablet Mri produced from his jacket pocket, its screen glowing ominously in the dim living room light. Betty remained frozen on her knees, Roger’s softening cock still damp from her mouth, a low whine escaping her leather mask. "Recognize the décor?" Mri asked softly, thumbing the screen awake.
A sterile, fluorescent-lit office hallway flickered to life. The unmistakable layout of Roger’s own workplace. Then, movement: a figure in that same severe black dress, head encased in the featureless mask, being guided backwards until her hips hit the humming copy machine in the supply closet. Roger’s colleague, Dave Carlson – friendly, married Dave from Accounting – crowded her, yanking her skirt up around her waist, revealing her bare ass. "Fuck, been thinking about this all week," Carlson grunted, fumbling with his belt. On screen, the masked head nodded frantically. Carlson’s thick cock sprang free, already hard. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t kiss her, just spat roughly into his palm, smeared it over his cockhead, and drove it straight into her exposed cunt with a wet slap that echoed tinnily from the tablet. Betty on her knees flinched violently. Roger made a choked sound.
"Christ, you’re a tight little cocksleeve," Carlson panted on the recording, hips pistoning, slamming her masked face into the copier glass with every thrust. Papers scattered. Mri zoomed the image: the copier’s green light pulsed over the straining leather mask, the desperate clench of her fingers on the machine’s edge, the obscene, rhythmic glistening of Carlson’s cock plunging into her from behind. "Take it, you fucking office slut. Yeah, milk my cock." Roger felt sweat prickle his scalp, his own traitorous cock twitching against Betty’s cheek. He knew that strawberry birthmark on the breast jiggling violently with each slam.
Mri swiped. The scene shifted. A different closet, darker. Supplies stacked high. Betty’s masked face was in the lap of nervous Raj Gupta from R&D, her head bobbing frantically, lips stretched obscenely around Gupta’s skinny dick. Tears tracked down the leather under her eyes as she gagged, throat bulging. "Please, sir," Gupta whimpered, voice tight, "not so deep… I’ll come!" He fisted her hair anyway, forcing himself deeper down her throat until she choked violently, strings of spit dripping onto her black dress. Gupta’s hips bucked wildly. Roger saw the exact moment he emptied himself down her gullet, the convulsive swallow, the masked head pulling back, gasping, Gupta’s spend glistening on her chin. "Good girl," Gupta breathed, patting her masked head like a dog. "Very useful whore." The tablet went dark. Mri casually sipped his whiskey, ignoring the broken glass. Roger swayed, bile burning his throat, the images seared onto his retinas, and collapsed onto the worn sofa behind him, the springs groaning under his dead weight. The silence screamed.