Chapter 10: The Lunchtime Selfie Assignment
The office cafeteria air was thick with the smell of reheated lasagna and industrial cleaner. Stacy poked at her salad, the crunch of romaine lettuce lost under the chatter of her colleagues and the incessant fluorescent buzz. Her earbuds were in, her private world a thrumming bassline and whispered affirmations she no longer consciously heard.
Her phone vibrated on the Formica tabletop. A text from Dave. Her thumb swiped, smearing a little vinaigrette.
The message was simple: Smile for me.
The world didn't shatter. It simply… receded. The cacophony of the cafeteria folded inward, muted, like a TV with the volume turned all the way down. The texture of the lettuce, the voice of Janet from Accounting asking about the weekend, the flicker of the light above—it all became distant background noise. Her face relaxed into a serene, vacant expression. She placed her fork neatly on the tray.
Her fingers went to the buttons of her simple silk blouse. In the middle of the crowded lunchroom, she began to undo them, one by one. Her movements were calm, methodical. No one noticed at first; heads were bowed over phones, conversations bubbled along. She pushed the fabric open, shrugged it off her shoulders. Her lace bra was pale pink.
She picked up her phone, held it out at arm’s length. Her free hand came up, cupping one full breast, then the other, pushing them together. The soft flesh yielded, creating a deep, shadowed valley. The phone’s camera clicked. She reviewed the shot, her head tilted. A perfect, anonymous, pornographic image. She adjusted her grip, squeezed tighter, the lace digging in. Another click.
Another click.
A voice cut through the fog from her right. “Hey, you okay?” It was Ben from Marketing, his tray hovering, his brow furrowed in concern. He was looking at her unbuttoned blouse, her phone held out. “Stacy?”
His words were mere shapes against glass. They held no meaning. Her finger tapped the screen, sending the latest photo—her breasts squeezed, her nipples taut against lace—directly to Dave’s message thread. She selected the entire conversation. Delete. The digital evidence vanished as if it had never existed.
She calmly re-buttoned her blouse, each motion precise, her face a placid mask. “Just a minute,” she said to Ben, her voice pleasant but distant, like an airline announcement. Her phone vibrated again in her hand. A new notification lit the screen.
It was from Mark. The same three words.
Smile for me.
Her programming didn’t conflict. It simply accepted the next command in the queue. She gave Ben a perfunctory, empty smile and slid slightly down in her chair. Her hand, holding the phone, disappeared under the table. Her other hand followed, hiking up the soft fabric of her skirt.
Ben stood awkwardly for a second before mumbling something and shuffling away.
Under the table, in the semi-darkness between chair legs, Stacy’s fingers found the damp lace of her panties. She hooked a thumb into the waistband and dragged them down to her mid-thighs. The cafeteria air, cool and recycled, brushed her exposed skin. She brought the phone’s camera down, angling it between her spread legs.
The flash did not fire. The image on the screen was a stark, intimate close-up: the neatly trimmed triangle of her pubic hair, the glistening, swollen lips of her pussy, parted and slick. Her own fingers entered the frame, index and middle finger spreading herself open to reveal the pink, desperate wetness within. She held the pose. Click.
She reviewed the photo. It was clinical and obscene. Satisfied, she tapped Mark’s contact. Send.
The image whooshed away into the digital ether. She pulled her panties back up, smoothed her skirt, and tucked her phone into her bag. Picking up her fork, she took a bite of her now-soggy salad. The world’s volume seemed to swell back around her—Janet’s laugh, the clatter of trays, the buzz of the lights.
Ben glanced back at her from across the room, still looking confused. She offered him a genuine, warm smile, the kind that reached her eyes. She gave a little shrug and mouthed, “All good!” He nodded, relieved, and turned back to his food.
Stacy chewed her lettuce, the vague, pleasant ghost of obedience warming her from the inside. She had no memory of the photos, only a quiet sense of having been helpful. She pulled out her phone again, her thumbs tapping a new message to Mark, unrelated.
Lunch is blah. Miss you! Can’t wait for tonight. xx
Can’t wait for tonight. xx
She hit send, the message zipping off to Mark with a cheerful whoosh. The afternoon passed in a blur of spreadsheets and muted office sounds, the strange, vacant sensation in the cafeteria fading to a faint, almost pleasant buzz at the base of her skull. At her desk, she sipped lukewarm water, her focus on a quarterly report.
Her phone screen lit up face-down on the desk, the vibration a dull thrum against the pressed wood. She flipped it over.
Another message from Dave. Just those three words, again.
Smile for me.
The report’s numbers melted into grey static. The hum of the office HVAC became a distant drone. Her muscles relaxed, her spine settling against the ergonomic chair. A placid, empty smile touched her lips.
A placid, empty smile touched her lips. Her hands moved with a sterile efficiency, clearing a space on the cluttered desk. A stapler, a notepad, a coffee mug—all were pushed aside with a soft scrape of plastic on wood.
Her fingers closed around a standard blue Bic pen from the pencil cup. She rolled the cheap plastic barrel between her thumb and forefinger, a considering gesture, as if evaluating a tool for a specific task. Her other hand gathered the fabric of her skirt, pulling it up past her thighs, revealing the pale skin of her upper legs stretched over the office chair’s synthetic mesh.
She didn’t look around. The possibility of someone walking past the cubicle’s low partition didn’t register. Leaning back slightly in her chair, she spread her legs wider. The cool office air kissed her dampened skin where her panties were already soaked from the earlier command.
With her left hand, she tugged the lace of her underwear aside, exposing her swollen cunt. The lips were glistening, parted. Her right hand, holding the pen, descended. She used the capped, blunt end first, tracing a slow, teasing circle around her clit. The hard plastic was a shocking contrast to the soft, desperate flesh.
A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips, the only sound in her cubicle beyond the hum of her computer. She pressed the cap harder, a dull pressure that made her hips shift. Then, she reversed the pen. She brought the un-capped, writing end to her entrance. The pointed tip was not sharp, but precise.
She pushed it inside.
It was a tight, invasive stretch. The plastic was smooth and unforgiving. A low moan vibrated in her throat as she worked the pen deeper, past the initial resistance, fucking herself slowly with the office implement. Her breathing hitched, becoming shallow pants. She twisted the pen, feeling the ridged grip scrape her inner walls.
“Oh god,” she whispered to the empty air, her voice strained but her face still eerily serene, a slave to two masters—the programming and the raw physiological response it engineered. She fucked herself faster with the pen, the wet, slick sounds obscene against the office quiet. Her free hand dove down, fingers frantically rubbing her clit in hard, jagged circles.
Her climax built quickly, a brutal wave forced up from her gut by the relentless, mechanistic stimulation. She stuffed the pen deep and held it there, grinding against the hard plastic, her fingers a blur on her clit. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chanted, a broken record of release.
She came with a silent, shuddering convulsion, her back arching off the chair, her mouth open in a soundless scream. Pleasure, sharp and electric, ripped through her. Her thighs trembled violently around the invading object.
As the pulses subsided, her movements stilled. She slowly, carefully, withdrew the pen. It came out slick and shining under the fluorescent lights. She held it up for a moment, a grotesque trophy, then laid it on the desk beside her keyboard.
She picked up her phone. She didn’t wipe the pen clean. With the same detached precision, she opened the camera, switched to the front-facing lens, and arranged the shot. The image captured her flushed face, the empty smile, and over her bare shoulder, the glistening, used pen lying on the desk.
She attached it to a new message for Dave. She typed no words. She simply pressed send.
The image of the slick pen and her vacant smile delivered itself to Dave’s phone with a soft chime. He stared at it in the quiet of his own apartment, the silence there more profound than any office bustle. His breath caught. The depravity was a cold knot in his stomach, but his cock twitched against his thigh, a traitorous pulse.
He had unlocked a door, and now the darkness behind it was beckoning. His thumb hovered over the screen. He typed three words, then deleted them. He typed a new command, his fingers clumsy with a mix of shame and raw, thrilling power.
He sent it.
Smile for me.
Let’s see something in that perfect ass.
In her cubicle, Stacy’s phone lit up. The world drained of color and sound once more. She read the words. Her programming parsed the new parameter appended to the core trigger. A subroutine engaged.
She stood from her chair, movements fluid and purposeful. Her legs were still bare, her skirt rucked up around her hips. She glanced at the partition walls. No one was approaching. She turned, bent smoothly at the waist, and placed her palms flat on her desk, scattering a stack of invoices.
Her back arched, presenting the rounded curve of her ass, still clad in the damp lace of her panties. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and peeled them down, letting them tangle around her knees. The air, sterile and cool, touched her most intimate skin.
Her phone was in her hand. She reached back between her legs, angling the camera upwards. The screen showed a stark, vulnerable image: the pink pucker of her asshole, clenched tight, and below it, the glistening evidence of her earlier arousal. She held the pose.
It wasn’t enough. The command was specific. See something in.
Her eyes scanned the desk’s surface. The pen lay there, still wet. Her gaze passed over it, landing on a tall, cylindrical metal thermos. It was stainless steel, cool to the touch, about the thickness of two fingers. She picked it up, hefting its weight.
Without ceremony, she brought the rounded base to her rear entrance. The metal was shockingly cold. She pressed it against the tight ring of muscle, applying steady pressure. Her body resisted for a moment, a fierce, automatic clench.
She pushed through it.
A sharp, bitten-off gasp escaped her as the cold metal breached her. It was a brutal, stretching invasion, far more substantial than the pen. She worked it deeper, inch by terrible inch, feeling her body be forced to accommodate it. The stretch burned, a bright, clean pain that sharpened into something else.
She began to move it, fucking her ass with the thermos in short, shallow thrusts. The metallic slide was obscenely loud in the quiet cubicle. Her other hand snaked down, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in frantic counterpoint to the deep, claiming pressure in her ass.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, a strained mantra. “Oh fuck, fill my ass.” The words were empty, programmed echoes of a sexuality she wasn’t currently inhabiting, yet her body convulsed with their truth. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a feedback loop of violation and sharp, unforgiving pleasure.
She came again, harder this time, her knees buckling as she muffled a cry against her own arm. The orgasm ripped through her, wracking her body with shudders as the thermos remained lodged deep inside her. Spots danced behind her eyes.
As the tremors subsided, she slowly, carefully, withdrew the object. It came out with a soft, wet sound. She placed it back on the desk, not wiping it clean. Still bent over, she positioned the phone again, snapping a close-up of her used, gaping hole.
She attached the photo and sent it.
Then, with the same efficient calm, she pulled her panties up, smoothed her skirt, and sat back down. She straightened the invoices, placing the thermos carefully back beside her monitor. A vague, warm satisfaction settled over her, a job well done. She picked up her lukewarm water and took a sip, the mundane taste anchoring her.
Across town, Dave stared at the new image. His stomach churned. He saw the thermos in the corner of the shot, next to her keyboard. A tool from her desk. He had done this. He had turned her into this.
His phone buzzed again. A new message from Stacy, her normal number, her normal voice.
Hey you! Got slammed with work, haha. Need another coffee. Talk later? xo
He didn’t reply. He just looked at the photo, at the stark evidence of his corruption, and felt his own arousal, dark and bottomless, coil tightly in his gut. The door was open. He was standing in the darkness now. And he had no idea how to step back into the light.