Chapter 7: Company Morale Booster
The fluorescent glare of the conference room felt sterile, surgical, amplifying the grotesque tableau unfolding beneath it. Betty knelt on the cold linoleum, naked except for the suffocating black latex mask sealing her identity, her body trembling slightly under the harsh lights. A cheap plastic bucket sat between her spread thighs. "Team building," Mri announced, his voice smooth as oiled steel, echoing in the tense silence broken only by nervous shuffles. "Stress relief. Think of her as... a communal resource."
Dave Carlson stepped forward first, his face flushed, fingers clumsy on his belt buckle. "Fuckin' weird, boss," he muttered, but his cock was already stiffening as he aimed it towards the bucket. A thick, acrid stream hissed against the plastic, splashing droplets onto Betty's inner thighs. The sharp ammonia stench bloomed instantly, thick and choking. "Missed," Carlson grunted, deliberately shifting his aim. The hot piss splattered directly onto Betty's breasts, running in rivulets down her stomach. She flinched, a muffled sob catching in her throat beneath the mask.
"Open," Mri commanded softly. Betty hesitated, then slowly parted her lips beneath the latex mouth slit. Carlson grinned, adjusting his stream. The piss hit her tongue, salty and foul, flooding her mouth. She gagged violently, trying to swallow, the warm liquid overflowing, dripping down her chin onto her chest, mixing with Carlson’s earlier offering. "Drink it, office cunt," Carlson ordered, emptying his bladder down her throat until she choked, tears leaking from the mask's eyeholes.
Raj Gupta was next, visibly shaking. "I-I don't..." he stammered. "Do it," Mri said, no room for refusal. Gupta whimpered, his stream weak and erratic, spraying Betty's face, her hair, before he managed to direct some into her open, waiting mouth. "Good boy," Mri murmured, handing Gupta a thick black marker. "Write what you think of her." Gupta's hand trembled as he scrawled "SLUT" across Betty's left breast in shaky capitals.
One by one, Roger's colleagues lined up – Brenda from HR, Mark from Sales, even old Pete the janitor, chuckling as he unzipped his stained overalls. Each added their steaming yellow contribution to the bucket, her mouth, or her skin. Each took the marker. "WHORE," "PISS DRINKER," "FUCKTOY," "CORPORATE CUMSLUT," the crude graffiti bloomed across her stomach, her back, her ass cheeks. Pete drew a crude cock dripping onto her thigh. The stench was overwhelming, a visible haze rising from her soaked skin and the overflowing bucket.
Roger stood frozen near the door, bile rising in his throat with each degrading act, yet his own traitorous erection strained painfully against his trousers. He watched Brenda deliberately piss onto the word "SLUT," watching it blur and run. He saw Mark grip Betty's latex-covered head, forcing her face into the bucket filled with the mingled piss of her husband's coworkers. "Lap it up, bitch!" Mark laughed as she struggled, sucking in foul liquid through the mask's slit.
Mri finally stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Roger's horrified face. He didn't unzip. Instead, he picked up the marker, leaned down, and slowly wrote a single word across Betty's forehead, just above the mask: "ROGER'S". He straightened, surveying his handiwork – the piss-soaked, defiled canvas of his brother's wife, branded for all to see. "See how well she serves?" Mri asked Roger, his voice a low, intimate purr cutting through the thick, nauseating air. "Your colleagues appreciate her... dedication." He gestured at the bucket, nearly full. "Finish it, Betty. Every drop." Betty, trembling violently, lowered her masked face back into the bucket, the obscene slurping sounds filling the silent room as Roger watched, trapped between utter revulsion and a dark, shameful pulse of arousal. Mri’s smile was glacial. "Tomorrow," he whispered, just for Roger, "we escalate."