Chapter 1: The Office Command
The city stretched beneath Valeria’s office window, a grid of cold, electric light. She leaned against the polished glass, the chill seeping through her tailored blazer, and sipped tepid espresso. The final shipping manifest of the day was submitted, her desk a monument to sterile order. Then her phone buzzed, a single, sharp vibration against the marble desktop.
Her heart stuttered before she even moved.
She crossed the room, her heels clicking a solitary rhythm on the hard floor. Picking up the device, she saw his name.Alex. The message was in German, their private language of command.
“Ziehe dich in deinem Büro aus. Komplett nackt. Steig in den Wetlookcatsuit mit dem Reißverschluss im Schritt, den ich in deine Tasche gepackt habe. Zieh deine Overknees an. Weitere Anweisungen folgen per Nachricht.”
A slow, hot lick of anticipation traveled straight down her spine. She walked to the sleek closet, opened it, and found her weekender bag. Buried beneath a spare silk blouse and her running shoes was the folded black material, slick and heavy. The overknee stockings, still in their tissue, lay atop it like a promise.
Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse first. The office was silent except for the low hum of the HVAC. The glass walls faced another tower, a grid of lit and dark windows. Anyone could be watching. The thought made her skin prickle, her nipples hardening instantly into tight, aching points against the lace of her bra. She let the blouse slide off her shoulders, then the skirt pool at her feet. The bra came next, the clasps yielding with a soft sigh. The cool office air hit her pierced nipples, a delicious shock. She stepped out of her thong, naked now in the heart of her own domain.She was completely exposed. A silhouette against the vast window. She didn’t look to see if anyone was watching. She hoped they were.
Unfolding the catsuit, the wetlook latex gleamed like a black oil slick. She stepped into it, the material shockingly cool and stubborn. She had to wrestle it up her thighs, over her hips, the tightness squeezing her flesh, molding her. She worked her arms into the long sleeves, then pulled the high collar closed at the front. The zipper there ran from sternum to navel. She left it open for now.
Then came the main event. The crotch zipper. She found the small, silver pull-tab seated just above her pubic mound. She tugged it down slowly, the rasp of the teeth parting a loud, obscene sound in the quiet room. The cool air hit her bare cunt, and she was already wet. Slickness gleamed on her inner thighs. She bit her lip, her breath coming faster.
Her phone buzzed again.
“Zipper vorne ganz zu. Knie nieder. Berühre dich nicht. Zähle bis dreißig. Langsam.”
Zip the front all the way up.Kneel. Don’t touch yourself. Count to thirty. Slowly.Valeria obeyed. She drew the front zipper up, sealing herself into the second skin. The pressure was immense, constricting, perfect. She sank to her knees on the hard marble, the latex tight across her thighs. She placed her palms flat on her thighs, her back straight, head slightly bowed. The position stretched the catsuit taut across her breasts, her pussy.
“Eins,” she whispered. Her clit throbbed against the cool, sealed latex at her crotch. “Zwei.” She felt a trickle of her own wetness trace a path down her inner thigh, trapped by the stocking she hadn’t yet put on. “Drei.” The ache was a deep, hollow pulse. Every second was agony. A beautiful, prescribed agony.
By “fünfzehn,” she was trembling. By “zwanzig,” a fine sweat had broken out on her upper lip, under the tight collar. She stared at the reflection of a naked, kneeling woman in the dark window—a sleek, sealed object awaiting use.
“Dreißig.”
As if on cue, her phone buzzed. She rose, her legs unsteady, and fetched it.
“Overknees jetzt.Dann geh. Das Collar ist im Seitenfach. Trag es. Geh zum ‘Eisenhammer’. Setz dich an die Bar. Warte. Zeig dich.”
Her hands shook as she tore the tissue paper. She rolled the first sheer black stocking up her leg, the lace top settling high on her thigh with a subtle, erotic bite. Then the other. The contrast of the sheer stockings against the stark, glossy latex was brutally hot. She found the collar, a simple band of black leather with a steel O-ring at the front, in the side pocket. She fastened it around her neck, the fit snug and undeniable. She tied her silk scarf over it, a flimsy secret.
She looked at the woman in the window reflection. The executive was gone. In her place was a secret waiting to be told.
Valeria grabbed her coat, a long trench, and belted it tightly. It covered the catsuit, but the stockings ended just above her knees, and when she moved, a flash of black lace and pale thigh was visible. She left the office, not looking back.
The ‘Eisenhammer’ was a ten-minute walk, a basement bar of exposed brick and low, amber light. The bass from the speakers thrummed in the floorboards. She felt every eye on her the moment she shrugged off her trench at the coat check. The catsuit shone under the bar lights, a patent black sin. The zipper at her crotch was a blatant, metallic invitation.
She took a stool at the bar, aware of her every movement, the way the latex creaked softly, the way the stockings whispered against each other. She ordered a gin, neat. She didn’t drink it. She just let it sit, letting the cold glass bead with condensation as she waited.
A man two stools over leaned in. “That’s quite an outfit.”
She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze. She said nothing. She just let him look, let him see the collar beneath the scarf, the glint of the zipper pull. She saw his eyes darken with understanding, and with a hunger that had nothing to do with her.
Her phone, face-up on the bar, lit up.
Her phone, face-up on the bar, lit up.
A new message from Alex. The preview text was a gut punch.
“Ich warte zu Hause. Ich werde dich um den Verstand ficken. Aber du kommst erst heim, wenn ich es erlaube. Du bekommst jetzt Aufgaben. Einige werden andere Männer beinhalten. Von jeder Aufgabe will ich ein Video als Beweis.”
I’m waiting at home. I’m going to fuck you senseless. But you only come home when I permit it. You will now receive tasks. Some will involve other men. I want a video as proof of each task.
A violent shiver, part terror, part electric need, wracked her body. The gin in her glass trembled. The man beside her saw it, the flicker of fear in her eyes. He mistook it for vulnerability.
“Bad news?” he asked, his voice softer now, predatory.
She didn’t answer. Her thumb unlocked the phone. The full message filled the screen. The words were a contract. Her pussy, already slick, throbbed in a fresh, shameful gush. The latex trapped the heat of it against her.
The phone buzzed again. Task one.
“Aufgabe 1. Der Mann, der mit dir spricht. Zeig ihm dein Collar. Sag ihm: ‘Mein Herr hat mich geschickt, um beobachtet zu werden.’ Dann heb deine Arme über den Kopf. Halte die Pose für 60 Sekunden. Video starten.”
Valeria took a sharp, quiet breath. She turned on her stool to face the man. He was in his forties, with sharp eyes and a wedding band. She leaned in, the movement making the latex squeak against the leather seat. She pulled the silk scarf down just an inch, revealing the black band of leather, the steel ring.
His eyes dropped to it. He didn’t smile.
“My Sir,” she said, her voice low but clear over the music, “sent me here to be looked at.”
She saw the understanding click, followed by a dark, intrigued curiosity. He gave a slow nod, saying nothing, his drink forgotten in his hand.
Valeria raised her arms straight over her head. The action stretched the catsuit unbearably tight across her chest, pulling the material so thin across her pierced nipples that their outline was stark and visible. The zipper at her crotch strained. The position exposed the vulnerable lines of her body, the sweep of her throat above the collar, the sealed, shiny black of her from throat to ankle, broken only by the sheer black stockings. She was an offering. A display.
She held it. The sixty seconds stretched into an eternity of exposure. She felt the gaze of the man, and others, like physical touches. She stared at a bottle of whiskey on the back bar, her vision blurring. Her phone was propped against her abandoned glass, recording. A tiny red light winked.
When she lowered her arms, they ached. She picked up the phone, stopped the recording, and sent it without watching it. The submission was instantaneous.
The man finally spoke. “Is he here? Watching?”
“He’s everywhere,” Valeria said, and it felt true.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately. Task two.
“Gut. Aufgabe 2. Geh zur Damentoilette. Schließ dich in eine Kabine ein. Zieh den Reißverschluss an deiner Muschi ganz auf. Berühre dich. Zwei Finger. Komm nicht. Nur 30 Sekunden. Zeig die nassen Finger in die Kamera. Video.”
Valeria stood, her legs unsteady. She didn’t look at the man. She walked toward the back hall, the click of her heels swallowed by the music. The bathroom was empty, tiled in black. She locked herself in the farthest stall.
Her fingers fumbled for the small silver pull at her crotch. The rasp of the zipper going down was obscenely loud in the tiled space. Cool air hit her wet, bare flesh. She leaned back against the door, one hand holding the phone up, framing the shot.
She looked into the camera lens, her eyes glazed. She brought her other hand down. Her middle and index finger slid through her folds with a soft, wet sound. She was soaked. The sensation was a sharp, bright shock after the prolonged denial. She pushed her fingers inside herself, just to the first knuckle, a shallow, teasing penetration. Her breath hitched. She moved them, a slow, maddening rhythm, circling her swollen clit with her thumb. Heat pooled low in her belly. The need to thrust deeper, to grind against her hand, was a screaming pressure.
But the order was clear. Don’t come.
At twenty-five seconds, a tremor started in her thighs. She pulled her fingers out, shiny and slick. She held them up to the camera, turning her hand so the light caught the glistening strands. Then she stopped the recording, sent it, and zipped the suit closed again, trapping the ache inside.
She splashed water on her face at the sink. The woman in the mirror had smudged eyeliner and a raw, hungry look.
Task three arrived as she was drying her hands.
“Aufgabe 3. Der Mann an der Bar. Frag ihn, ob er dir einen Klaps auf den Arsch geben darf. Einmal. Hart. Zeig ihm, wo. Du bleibst stehen und nimmst es an. Video vom Gesicht, wenn er es tut.”
This was the line. The first real touch from another. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She walked back into the bar. The man was still there, watching her approach. She stopped in front of him, close enough for him to smell her perfume and the faint, metallic scent of her arousal.
“My Sir has a request,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Yeah?”
“He wants to know if you would…spank me. Once. Hard.” She turned slightly, indicating the curve of her latex-clad ass. “Right here.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, then darkened with a flicker of pure, unadulterated lust. He wasn’t playing a role anymore. This was real. “Your Sir’s a fucking lucky man,” he muttered. He looked around, then back at her. “Okay.”
Valeria braced her hands on the bar rail, presenting herself. She held her phone up, pointing it at her own face. She nodded.
The man’s hand came down in a sharp, cracking slap that echoed even over the music. The pain was instant, bright, a sting that bloomed into a deep, radiating heat. It jolted through her, a shockwave of pure submission. Her eyes flew wide, a gasp tearing from her lips. The video would capture it all—the flinch, the shock, then the slow, dazed surrender in her expression.
She lowered the phone, her ass cheek burning under the latex.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the words automatic.
The burn in her ass was a brand. It pulsed in time with the bass from the speakers, a throbbing reminder of her exposure. The man was still close, his scent of bourbon and cedarwood filling the space between them. His eyes held a new, proprietary heat.
“Your Sir,” the man said, his voice a low rumble. “He’s fucking creative.”
Valeria just nodded, the collar feeling tighter than ever. She could still feel the imprint of his hand, a secret heat sealed beneath the slick latex. Her phone, clutched in her trembling hand, remained silent. The wait was its own torture.
Then it buzzed. A fresh wave of cold dread and hot anticipation twisted her stomach. She looked down.
NEUE NACHRICHT. GREIF DEM TYPEN IN DEN SCHRITT UM ZU TESTEN OB DU IHM GEFÄLLST.
The blood drained from her face, then rushed back in a scalding flood. This wasn't display. This wasn't a spank. This was an invasion. A direct, brazen claim on a stranger's body, using her hand as the instrument. Her breath came in short, sharp pants that fogged the screen for a second.The man watched her. “Another task?”
She couldn’t speak. She gave a jerky nod, her throat locked tight. She had to do it. The compulsion was a wire around her spine, pulled taut by Alex’s will. Disobedience wasn’t a choice; it was an impossibility carved into her psyche.
She lifted her gaze to his. The music seemed to fade, the bar dimming until it was just his expectant face, the rough shadow of his stubble, the dark curiosity in his eyes.
“He wants… he wants proof,” she stammered, the words ash in her mouth.
“Proof of what?”
She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she moved. It was a clumsy, surreal motion. She stepped into his space, her glossy thigh brushing against the rough denim of his jeans. The smell of him intensified—clean sweat, expensive aftershave, the underlying musk of a man. Her left hand, the one not holding the phone, lifted. It felt like it belonged to someone else.
She watched her own hand move down, past the buckle of his belt, the faded wash of his jeans. She pressed her palm flat against the rough fabric of his crotch.
He went very still. Absolutely rigid.
She held it there, her fingers tense. Through the denim, she felt the soft, dormant shape of him. Then, a shift. A thickening. A slow, hardening swell that grew, firm and undeniable, under her stationary palm. Heat radiated from it. Her own fingers, trapped against the growing bulge, felt like they were burning.
A low, rough sound escaped him, not quite a word. His hips gave an almost imperceptible thrust up against her hand. His eyes were black now, locked on hers, stripping her bare. The message was visceral, unambiguous. He was rock hard.
She had her proof.
She jerked her hand back as if shocked, her fingers curling into a fist. The phantom feel of him, of his instant, obedient arousal, was seared into her skin. Shame, hot and slick, mixed with a perverse, jagged thrill. She had done that. She, an object in a latex suit, had commanded that reaction with a touch.
Her phone buzzed again in her other hand, a quick, approving vibration. She didn’t need to look. She could imagine the single word: Gut.
The man leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, his voice thick. “You please me just fine. Tell your Sir that.” He didn’t move away. He was waiting, his body a tense line of offered tension.
Valeria took a stumbling step back, the connection breaking. The noise of the bar rushed back in—the laughter, the clinking glass, the relentless thump of the music. It sounded alien, too bright. She fumbled with her phone, needing the next command, needing the structure of the task to stop the shaking in her knees. The world had narrowed to this: the buzzing device, the burning in her ass, the persistent, aching emptiness between her own legs, and the heavy, approving gaze of the man whose cock had just hardened for her.
The world had narrowed to this: the buzzing device, the burning in her ass, the persistent, aching emptiness between her own legs, and the heavy, approving gaze of the man whose cock had just hardened for her.
Her phone vibrated again. A new command. She looked down, her vision briefly swimming before the words crystallized.
NEUE NACHRICHT. FRAG DEN BARKEEPER OB DU NOCH EINEN GIN TONIC GRATIS BEKOMMST WENN DU IHM IM GETRÄNKE LAGER EINEN BLÄST UND SCHLUCKT. VIDE OBEWEIS. DEM MANN SAGEN ER SOLL WARTEN.
Her skin went cold, then fever-hot. The bartender was a lean guy in his thirties with a tattoo sleeve and an efficient, disinterested scowl. He’d served her earlier without a second glance. This was different. This was a transaction. She turned to the man at the bar, his erection still tenting his jeans. “He says… you should wait,” she managed, her voice thin.
The man’s smile was slow, possessive. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Valeria turned, the latex of her suit whispering as she moved toward the polished mahogany bar. The bartender was polishing a glass, his eyes on the soccer match playing silently on a screen above the spirits. She waited until he glanced over.
“Another gin, tonic?” he asked, already reaching for the bottle.
“I…” The word stuck. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “My… my Sir wants to know if I can have one on the house. If I do something for you. In the storage room.”
The bartender stopped polishing. He looked at her, really looked. His eyes travelled from her face, down the obscenely tight shine of the catsuit, to the strip of bare skin at her crotch where the zipper was still parted a half-inch from her earlier task. A professional curiosity hardened into something else. He licked his lips.
“What’s the something?” he asked, his voice dropping.
“A blowjob,” she said flatly. The obscenity sounded clinical in her mouth. “And I swallow. He wants video proof.”
The bartender’s knuckles were white around the glass. He glanced quickly at the other end of the bar, where a waitress was ringing up a tab. The basement thrum of the music covered their conversation.
“Stock room’s back through there,” he said, jerking his head toward a door marked ‘PRIVAT’. “Give me thirty seconds. Door doesn’t lock.” He walked away, calling to the waitress about a keg change.
Valeria’s legs carried her toward the door. She felt like she was watching a film of someone else. A submissive in a wetlook suit walking to her debasement. The hallway was narrow, lit by a single bulb. She found the stock room; a cramped space reeking of stale beer and lemony cleaner. Shelves lined with liquor boxes, stacks of napkins, a broken stool.
The bartender slipped in behind her, pulling the door almost shut. The light was a dim, yellow glow from a bare bulb.
“Video,” he said, no preamble. It was business.
She fumbled with her phone, opened the camera, propped it on a case of vodka facing them. The red record light blinked like a malevolent eye.
He didn’t kiss her. He unbuckled his belt, popped the button of his jeans, and pulled his cock out. It was already hard, thick and uncut. He fisted it a few times, watching her. “You know the deal,” he muttered. “On your knees.”
The cold, gritty concrete bit through the thin latex at her knees. The position strained the suit across her thighs and ass. She looked up at him, his face shadowed, then leaned forward. The first touch of her lips against the head was salt and musk. She opened her mouth, taking him in.
He let out a sharp hiss. His hand went to the back of her head, not guiding, but resting there, a threat of pressure. She worked her tongue along the underside of the shaft, her own arousal a throbbing, ignored ache. She concentrated on the mechanics: suction, rhythm, the way her jaw was starting to ache. She could hear his breathing grow ragged, feel the tightening in his balls where her hand cupped them. He tasted of soap and a sharper, biological rawness.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his hips giving a small jerk. “Yeah, just like that. You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
She hollowed her cheeks, speeding up, using her hand to twist at the base. She was an instrument. A tool for his orgasm, for her Sir’s proof. The thought, detached and cold, somehow made her own cunt clench with wetness.
His grip tightened in her hair. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained.
She didn’t pull back. She took his thrust, the hot, sudden pulse flooding the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, the bitter taste making her eyes water. She kept sucking, milking him dry until he flinched from oversensitivity.
He pulled out with a soft pop. She stayed on her knees, catching her breath, a string of saliva and come connecting her lip to his softening cock for a second before it snapped. He tucked himself away, zipped up. He looked down at her, a strange mix of contempt and awe on his face.
“Your drink’ll be at the bar,” he said, and left without another word.
Valeria reached a trembling hand to stop the recording. The file saved. She sent it to Alex, her fingers numb. Then she stood, her knees protesting. She adjusted the collar at her neck, smoothed a hand over her hair. She was a mess of sweat, spit, and someone else’s release. She walked back into the noise of the bar.
The gin and tonic, condensation beading on the glass, was waiting on the counter where the first man still sat. He watched her approach, his eyes knowing.
“Proof delivered?” he asked softly.
She nodded, unable to speak. She took the cold glass but didn’t drink. The ice cubes clinked a fragile, mocking music.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, the screen lighting up with a new, awaited terror.