Chapter 12: The Sales Team's Bonus
The office party thrummed with a cheap, synthetic energy. Paper streamers, leftovers from a retirement months ago, drooped from the ceiling tiles. A table near the copy room held a plastic bowl of sad-looking popcorn and two buckets of ice holding cheap Prosecco and a few token beers. The fluorescent lights buzzed, a constant high-pitched whine beneath the thump of a generic dance playlist pumping from a Bluetooth speaker.
Stacy moved through the crowd, a glass of flat champagne in her hand. She laughed at a joke from someone in Accounting, the sound bright and genuine. She felt good. Things had been… smooth lately. Work was fine. Dave was a bit distant, but he was probably just stressed about his own projects. She took a sip, the bubbles long gone, leaving just sweet vinegar.
Across the room, Mr. Thompson watched her. He nursed a Scotch, his back against the wall, a king surveying his domain. His eyes tracked the sway of her hips in her simple summer dress, the way the fabric stretched across her chest when she reached for another napkin.
The sales team, a cluster of loud, red-faced men in shirtsleeves, were getting louder near the speaker. They’d hit their quarterly quota. Mike from Sales, his tie loosened and his voice slurred, climbed onto a chair, raising his bottle.
“To us, you beautiful bastards!” he yelled. “We fucking did it!”
A ragged cheer went up.
“And to more commissions!” shouted another, a guy named Carl.
“Hell yeah! Let’s keep it going!” Mike bellowed, waving his bottle. “Next quarter, we’re gonna blow the roof off! Let’s… LET’S MAKE IT RAIN!”
The phrase echoed through the cubicle farm, amplified by booze and triumph.
Make it rain.
Stacy froze mid-sip. The glass stopped an inch from her lips. The chatter, the music, the buzz of the lights—it all melted into a welcoming, warm silence. A deep, programmed pulse thrummed in her core, spreading out to her fingertips. Her vision softened at the edges.
She placed her glass carefully on a filing cabinet. Her hands went to the hem of her dress. In one fluid motion, she pulled it up and over her head, letting it drop to the stained carpet. She stood in the middle of the party in nothing but a pair of white cotton panties and her bra.
A few people nearby stopped talking. Someone giggled nervously.
Stacy, her face a blank page of serene focus, walked to the long conference table that had been pushed against the wall to make dance floor space. She placed her palms on it and hoisted herself up. The cold laminate met her bare thighs. She stood up, unsteady on the slick surface for a second, then found her balance.
She began to dance.
It wasn’t the bubbly, self-conscious shimmy of the Stacy they knew. This was something else. Hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles. Her arms lifted, her hands running through her own hair, then down her body, over the curves of her bra, tracing the line of her waist, gripping her own ass through her panties. Her eyes were half-lidded, seeing nothing, seeing everything.
“Whoa, Stacy!” someone yelled, a mix of shock and amusement.
She didn’t hear him. The trigger had her. Make it rain.
Her fingers hooked into the sides of her panties. She bent over, offering the room a full view of her rounded ass clad in simple white cotton, and slid them down her legs. She stepped out of them, kicked them aside. She was now completely nude except for her bra on the conference table, under the harsh office lights.
The room had gone mostly quiet, save for the thumping music. Dozens of eyes were on her—stunned, curious, lecherous. Phones were pulled out, not to call for help, but to record.
Her dance slowed to a predatory sway, her eyes scanning the crowd of frozen faces and glowing phone screens. She spotted Carl from Sales, his mouth agape, slumped in a cheap office chair pushed back from the table. A vacant, coquettish smile touched her lips.
“You look lonely,” she called out, her voice syrupy and alien. She shifted her weight, letting her hips sway. “Would you like a private dance?”
Carl blinked, looking around as if for confirmation this was real. A few guys behind him chuckled, nudging him. “Uh, yeah, Stacy. Sure.”
She turned her back to the crowd, offering a full view of her bare ass, and then stepped off the table directly into his lap. The cheap chair creaked under their combined weight. Her warm, naked skin pressed against his clothed thighs. She draped her arms around his neck, her breasts hovering inches from his face.
“Just relax,” she whispered, grinding her hips slowly against the growing bulge in his trousers. She could feel him harden through the fabric. “Let it rain.”
Her movements became more deliberate, more obscene. She rose up on her knees, then sank down, rubbing her cunt over his cock with a practiced, filthy rhythm. The room erupted in whoops and cheers. Carl’s hands fluttered, then gripped her bare hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “You like that, don’t you?”
“You like that, don’t you?” Her breath was hot in his ear.
Carl could only nod, his throat tight. His hands slid from her hips to the desperate clutch of her ass, kneading the soft flesh. The spectacle drew others closer, forming a tight, breathless circle around the chair. Two men from logistics, emboldened by the darkness at the room’s edges and the sheer absurdity of it all, stepped forward.
Their hands, smelling of stale popcorn and beer, reached out. They palmed her breasts over her bra, squeezing roughly. The fabric strained. One hooked a thick finger under the cup, pulling it down until a nipple popped free, stiff and exposed to the humid office air. He pinched it, rolling the tight bud between his thumb and forefinger.
Stacy arched her back into their groping, a low moan vibrating in her throat. “Yeah, touch me,” she slurred, her head lolling back. “Everyone gets a turn.”
Carl, emboldened by her words and the audience, let one hand drift from her ass around to the front. His fingers trailed through the coarse hair of her pubis, then lower, through the slickness already gathering there. He found her opening, hot and impossibly wet. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed a finger inside her.
She gasped, her internal muscles clamping around the intrusion. “Fuck, yes,” she hissed, her grinding on his lap becoming more erratic, more desperate. “Deeper. Feel how wet your little slut is.”
Carl added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching her. The wet, sucking sounds were audible over the thumping bass of the party playlist. The men mauling her tits leaned in, mouths open, watching his hand work between her legs. One of them bent and took her exposed nipple into his mouth, sucking noisily.
The song, a pulsing electronic track, reached its crescendo and ended. There was a second of near-silence, filled only with the wet sounds of penetration and heavy breathing. Then a new song began, a slower, synth-heavy beat.
As if a switch had been flipped, Stacy stilled. She pushed Carl’s hand away from her cunt, leaving his fingers glistening. She smoothly dismounted from his lap, her body leaving a damp patch on his trousers. The men groping her breasts let go, stumbling back a step.
She stood naked in the center of the circle, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and marked with red fingerprints. That vacant smile never wavered. Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, scanned the ring of faces until they landed on Derek from IT, a shy, wiry man pressed against the wall, holding a beer like a shield.
She sauntered toward him, her hips swaying with a professional cadence. The crowd parted for her. She took his beer bottle from his limp hand and set it on a desk.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice a husky promise. She pushed him back into a rolling task chair and settled onto his lap, facing him, her knees on either side of his hips. She was wet; he could feel the heat of her through his jeans immediately.
“She’s fucking soaked, man,” Carl called out, holding up his glistening fingers for proof. Laughter, raw and tense, rippled through the onlookers.
Stacy wrapped her arms around Derek’s neck, nuzzling his jaw. “He made such a mess of me,” she whispered, loud enough for others to hear. “But I bet you’re even bigger, aren’t you? I bet you’ve got a real monster in those pants for this hungry cunt.”
Derek stammered, his face burning crimson. Mr. Thompson, still watching from his perch by the wall, took a slow sip of Scotch. He saw the perfect, pliable emptiness in Stacy’s eyes, the absolute compliance. It was more beautiful than any fantasy. He understood now the full scope of the tool her boyfriend had inadvertently created.
He pushed off the wall and walked calmly to the edge of the circle. All eyes, except Stacy’s, flicked to him, awaiting the boss’s condemnation, the end to the debauchery.
Thompson looked directly at Stacy, who was now whispering filth into a paralyzed Derek’s ear, her hand rubbing over the bulge in his pants. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply uttered two words, cutting through the bass line.
“Daddy’s girl.”
Stacy froze.
Her whispering stopped. She straightened up on Derek’s lap, her back going rigid. She turned her head toward Thompson, that serene, empty smile locking into place. She slid off Derek’s lap, leaving him achingly hard and confused.
She walked to Thompson, each step deliberate. The crowd was utterly silent, holding its breath.
“Yes, Daddy?” she asked, her voice sweet and hollow, a child’s tone laced with pornographic intent.
Thompson reached out and tucked a strand of her sweat-damp hair behind her ear, a grotesque parody of paternal care. “You’re the life of the party, sweetheart. Why don’t you show everyone how grateful you are?” He gestured vaguely to the men surrounding them.
Her programming parsed the command, seeking the most extreme interpretation of gratitude. Her smile widened.
She turned to the man nearest her, Mike from Sales who had started the chant. She dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands going to his belt. “Let me thank you first,” she said, looking up with dead eyes.
As she took Mike into her mouth, Thompson lit a cigarette, ignoring the building’s policy. He watched the scene unfold—a naked woman on her knees, moving from one man to the next, her mouth and body used as a communal reward. The horror of it was exquisite. The power was absolute.
He knew then he would own her completely. The boardroom had been a test. This was the beginning of the harvest.
This was the beginning of the harvest.
The scratch of Mike’s zipper was the only sound in the hushed circle. Stacy’s lips, slick and parted, closed around him. Her mouth was warm and utterly compliant, a hollowed instrument. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing without a gag, until his coarse pubic hair brushed her nose. Her eyes, aimed upward, were empty blue pools reflecting the fluorescent tubes overhead.
“Fucking hell,” Mike grunted, his hands tangling in her hair. He thrust, his hips jerking forward to meet her passive acceptance. The wet, rhythmic sounds of her effort were obscenely loud. “She’s a goddamn natural.”
Carl, his fingers still shiny from her, watched with a hard, focused intensity. The others jostled for a better view, phones held aloft, the devices’ soft glows painting her skin in eerie patches. Thompson exhaled a plume of smoke, savoring the tableau. He wasn’t participating; he was curating.
“Switch,” a voice from the crowd muttered. It was Raj from marketing, his earlier nervousness burned away by a raw, voyeuristic hunger. “My turn.”
Mike pulled out with a soft pop, his cock glistening with her spit. Stacy didn’t wait for instruction. She pivoted on her knees on the coarse carpet, the friction reddening her skin, and faced Raj. Her hands were already on his belt, deft and mechanical. She mouthed him through his trousers first, a damp, hot press that made him shudder.
“Yeah, just like that,” Raj breathed, tilting his head back.
She freed him, a thick, uncircumcised length springing free. She engulfed him, her tongue working under his foreskin with a practiced, hollow enthusiasm. “Suck it, you office whore,” he mumbled, tapping her cheek with his thumb. Her only response was a renewed, vacant eagerness, her head bobbing faster.
Thompson watched her move from man to man, a beautiful, broken doll resetting for each new user. The programming was flawless. There was no resistance, only a deep, waiting void ready to be filled with any command. He finished his Scotch, the ice cubes clinking softly. The harvest required collection.
His eyes found Derek. The IT guy was still pressed against the wall, his face pale, but his erection obvious against his chinos. He was gripping his own bicep, knuckles white. Fear and desire warred in his tight expression. Thompson walked over, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
“She hasn’t thanked you yet, Derek,” Thompson said, his voice low, almost paternal.
Derek flinched. “I… I don’t think…”
“She wants to.” Thompson cut him off, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. He leaned in, his breath smelling of peat and smoke. “Look at her. She’s begging for it. And I’ve heard things about you. Rumors in the server room.”
Derek’s eyes flickered to Stacy, now taking a third man, two fingers jammed in her own pussy as she worked him with her mouth. A strangled sound escaped his throat.
“Be a shame to waste that rumor,” Thompson whispered, then nudged him forward. “Go on. She’s communal property tonight.”
Stacy sat back on her heels, letting the third man—Pete from facilities—slide from her lips. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a strangely casual gesture amidst the debauchery. Her gaze landed on Derek, who was being pushed into the center of the circle. Her programmed smile, relentless and sweet, reappeared.
“You’re shy,” she observed, her voice raspy from use. She crawled toward him, a predator with no instinct but to consume. “Don’t be shy for me.”
She reached him and without ceremony, her hands went to his fly. He didn’t stop her. His breath came in short, sharp pants. When she pulled him out, a collective, low whistle cut through the room.
The rumor was true.
Derek was massively endowed, thick and long, veins prominent along the shaft. Compared to the others, he was a different species. Stacy’s blank eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a tiny blip in her programming, before the serene mask snapped back. “Oh,” she breathed, a sound of pure, programmed appreciation. Her small hand could barely close around his girth.
“Think you can handle that, Stacy?” someone jeered.
She answered by leaning forward and licking a slow, broad stripe from his base to his tip, her tongue flat and wet. She took just the swollen head into her mouth, her lips straining to circle him. It was too much. She couldn’t deepthroat him like the others. She used her hands instead, pumping the base while she sucked and licked the crown, her saliva coating him in thick, shiny strings.
“Fuck me,” Derek groaned, his head hitting the cubicle wall behind him. His hands hovered near her head, wanting to guide her but afraid to break the spell.
“Not like that,” Thompson’s voice came, calm and authoritative. He had moved to a chair, sitting backwards on it, watching like a director. “That’s not how a daddy’s girl says a proper thank you to all her friends. Turn her around, Derek. Show everyone what you’ve got.”
The command embedded in the air. Stacy released Derek with a final, wet kiss to his tip. She stood up on shaky legs, her skin gleaming with sweat. She turned, presenting her back to Derek, and bent forward, placing her hands flat on a low filing cabinet. The curve of her spine, the full swell of her ass, the glistening, swollen lips of her pussy between her thighs—she offered herself without a word.
Derek stepped up behind her, his monstrous cock jutting out, angry and red-tipped. He placed a trembling hand on her lower back, the other guiding himself. The broad head pressed against her entrance. She was slick, used, but he was so much larger than the others.
“Oh god,” he whimpered, more to himself than anyone.
He pushed.
Stacy’s whole body stiffened. A sharp, high gasp tore from her throat, the first sound of real strain all night. He was stretching her, filling her in a way that bordered on violation even in this sea of violations. He pushed again, grunting with the effort, and slid another inch inside. Her inner muscles, stretched taut, fluttered wildly around the invading thickness.
“Take it, you fucking slut,” Carl hissed from the sidelines, his own cock in his hand, stroking furiously.
Derek bottomed out with a final, brutal thrust. Stacy cried out, a short, pained sound that melted into a low, continuous moan. She was impossibly full, stretched to a breathtaking limit. Derek began to move, pulling back slowly, the sight of his slick, enormous shaft almost unreal, then slamming back in. The slap of his hips against her ass was a heavy, meaty sound.
“Yeah, get it, man!” Mike encouraged, phone up close, zooming on the point where their bodies joined.
The rhythm established, harsh and jarring, Derek gripped her hips, his fingers digging brutal bruises into her pale skin. Thompson nodded, a quiet conductor. He pointed at Carl, then at Stacy’s face. Carl needed no further invitation. He moved in front of her, his cock shoved roughly past her slack, gasping lips. She took him, her eyes watering as Derek pounded into her from behind.
She was a vessel now, utterly occupied. Derek’s massive cock pistoned into her cunt, each thrust rocking her whole body forward onto Carl’s length. Gagging sounds interspersed with wet, rhythmic slaps. A fourth man, Pete, knelt beside her, his fingers rubbing frantic circles on her clit, his other hand squeezing and twisting her breast.
The office air was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and cheap alcohol. The music had long stopped. The only sounds were grunts, slaps, skin on skin, and the choked, muffled noises from Stacy’s throat. Thompson watched, his own arousal a distant, clinical pulse. This was the yield. This was the product of the seed her boyfriend had planted.
Derek’s movements became ragged, frantic. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna fucking come!” he snarled, his voice strained.
He hammered into her, his balls slapping against her, and then froze, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural roar. His orgasm pulsed inside her, a deep, internal flooding. He collapsed over her back, spent, as Carl finished in her mouth with a sharp cry, painting her throat.
Derek slid out of her, his semi-hard cock leaving her gaping, dripping with his spend. Carl stepped back from her mouth, wiping his slick shaft on her hair with a grunt of satisfaction. Stacy remained bent over the filing cabinet, her body a landscape of sweat and violation, her breath coming in ragged, open-mouthed gasps.
“Who’s next?” Thompson’s voice cut through the heavy silence, calm and businesslike.
Raj was already unbuckling his belt, his earlier nervousness burned away to embers of urgent hunger. “My dick’s been hard since she took her dress off,” he muttered, pushing Derek aside.
He moved behind her, his hands gripping the flare of her hips. He didn’t bother with preamble or gentleness. He shoved himself into her wet, used opening with a single, brutal thrust. Stacy’s back arched, a choked cry catching in her throat as he filled her. “Tight little fuckhole,” Raj groaned, pounding into her with a fast, punishing rhythm.
From her front, Pete dropped his pants. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head up. “Open,” he commanded, his cock bouncing against her cheek.
Her lips parted obediently. He fed himself into her mouth, her throat still loose and slick from Carl. She gagged faintly, a wet, choking sound that only seemed to excite Pete more. He fucked her face with short, savage jabs, his balls slapping against her chin.
Thompson watched from his chair, the ice in his glass melted into a watery amber. He lit another cigarette, the flame illuminating the stark satisfaction on his face. This was systematic debasement, a factory line of consumption. Her programming held, flawless and terrifying.
Raj climaxed quickly, his thrusts becoming erratic. He slammed deep, shuddering as he emptied himself inside her with a low, grunting sigh. He pulled out, a fresh trickle of fluid joining the mess on her thighs. “Fuck yeah,” he breathed, stepping back to admire his work.
No one needed direction now. It was a rotation. Mike stepped up behind her again, his cock re-hardened. He entered her with a grunt, his hands smoothing over the sweat-slick bruises on her ass. “Still warm,” he chuckled darkly, setting a steady, deep pace.
Another man from Sales, Leo, took the front. He was younger, his face flushed with a mixture of shame and intense arousal. He guided himself into her mouth, his eyes wide as he watched himself disappear between her bruised lips. “Jesus, she’s just… taking it,” he whispered, almost to himself.
And she was. Her body rocked between them, a passive vessel accepting every thrust, every deposit. Her moans were constant now, a low, mechanical hum of overwhelmed sensation. Her eyes stared at the scuffed base of the filing cabinet, seeing nothing, reflecting everything.
Mike finished, cursing as he pulsed inside her. Leo spilled down her throat a moment later, his fingers tightening in her hair. They stepped away, joining the ring of onlookers, some still jerking themselves off, others just watching, hypnotized by the endless, vacant compliance.
The circle tightened. A balding man from accounting, Walter, knelt behind her. He lapped at her soaked, stretched sex, his tongue probing the mingled fluids before he pushed his thin length inside. A younger intern, face pale, took her mouth. He came almost as soon as he touched her lips, his orgasm spilling over her chin and neck in embarrassed, frantic spurts.
It went on. The air grew thick, suffocating. The smell of semen, sweat, and her own arousal was a palpable fog. Her skin was mapped with handprints, her makeup smeared, her hair a damp tangle. Still, that serene, empty smile never left her face between occupants.
Thompson finally stood. He walked over to her as Walter finished, zipping himself up with a shaky sigh. Stacy remained on her knees, swaying slightly, a thread of saliva and something whiter connecting her lips to the floor.
“Look at me, Stacy,” Thompson said softly.
Her gaze lifted, meeting his. Her eyes were glassy, distant galaxies.
“Such a good girl,” he murmured, stroking her hot cheek. “Such a perfect daddy’s girl. You’ve thanked everyone so well.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear. “The party’s over now, sweetheart. Time to clean up.”
The words acted like a chemical key turning in a complex lock. A faint tremor ran through her. The vacant intensity in her blue eyes shimmered, softened, and dissolved. Blinking rapidly, her focus returned, sharpening on Thompson’s face looming over hers. She looked down at her own nakedness, glistening and streaked, then at the ring of men around her, some still half-dressed.
A puzzled, almost embarrassed laugh bubbled from her lips. “Oh my gosh,” she said, her voice hoarse but recognizably her own—bright, bubbly Stacy. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking at the residue there with a vague, detached curiosity. “Wow. I must have… really let loose.”
She pushed herself up on unsteady legs, wincing slightly as she felt the ache between her thighs. She reached for her crumpled dress, pulling it over her head with a clumsy modesty. It clung to the damp mess on her skin.
“That was one heck of a party, guys!” she chirped, buttoning her dress askew. She looked around the room, her smile warm and genuine, if slightly confused. “Thanks for the… the fun. Really broke the ice, didn’t it?”
The men stared, silent, a mixture of guilt, satiation, and awe freezing them in place.
She found her purse under a chair, slung it over her shoulder, and gave a little wave. “Don’t work too hard this weekend! See you Monday!”
She walked out, her footsteps echoing in the silent, ravaged room. The door clicked shut behind her.
Thompson picked his glass up from the floor, the ice now completely melted. He took a long, final sip of the watered-down Scotch, his eyes on the door she had just exited. The power was no longer a theory. It was a fact, cold and irrefutable as the table beneath his hands.