Chapter 10: The Office Humiliation
The shower had lasted an hour. The water scalding, then icy, then scalding again. I scrubbed until my skin was raw and pink, but the smell of them seemed to have seeped into my pores—whisky, sweat, cheap cologne, the iron-tang of my own blood from where he’d torn me. The physical evidence was gone, swirling down the drain in a greyish vortex, but the memory was a stain on my mind, indelible. I stood under the pounding spray, shivering despite the heat, and re-wrote the journal entry in my head, framing the horror into his preferred clinical prose. A part of me was already detached, cataloging the events like data points: duration, positions, physiological responses. It was the only way to hold the screaming at bay.
When I finally stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel, he was sitting on the closed toilet lid, waiting. He held a small, black velvet pouch.
“You’re clean on the outside,” he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. “The inside is a different matter. That belongs to me. And to them, now. A permanent record.”
He opened the pouch and tipped its contents into his palm. Two objects. One was a smooth, egg-shaped silicone piece, pale pink, with a slender tail. The other was a larger, black silicone plug, but this one had a distinct, flat interface at its base. Both were modern, sleek, almost medical in their design.
“Remote control,” he explained, picking up the egg. “Bluetooth. This goes in your cunt.” He then lifted the plug. “This one, your ass. It has a small electrical pulse function. A gentle reminder.”
My stomach, already hollow, turned to liquid. “At… at work?”
“At work.” He stood up, crowding me in the small, steam-filled room. “You have the quarterly review with the Singapore clients at eleven. You will wear the white blouse, the one that’s slightly sheer. The grey pencil skirt. No bra. No panties. You will insert these before you leave. I will control them from here.”
He handed them to me. They were cool and inert in my hand. “Lube is on the sink. Do it now. I watch.”
The process was humiliatingly slow. My hands trembled so violently I could barely squeeze the lubricant. Turning away from him felt pointless, but I did it anyway, a shred of modesty that was laughable given what he’d seen, what he’d done, what he’d ordered others to do. I bent over, guiding the egg into my vagina first. It slid in easily, a foreign, occupying presence. The tail remained outside, a barely perceptible nub against my labia. Then the plug. My ass was still tender, swollen from the violation on the train. The lube helped, but the initial stretch was a sharp, bright pain that made me gasp. I pushed until the flared base settled against me. It felt enormous, far larger than the previous one. The flat, technological interface was a cold disc against my skin.
“Good,” he said from behind me. He hadn’t been watching the act, I realized. He’d been watching my reflection in the fogged-up mirror, watching my face contort with pain and shame. “Now get dressed.”
The white blouse was indeed sheer. In certain light, the shadow of my nipples, dark and peaked from fear and the cool air, was clearly visible. The pencil skirt was knee-length, impeccably tailored, and so tight that it forced a particular, deliberate gait. With every step, I felt the plug shift, a deep, intrusive fullness. The egg was subtler, a quiet, hidden weight.
He walked me to the door, holding my work bag. He didn’t hand it to me. Instead, he took out my phone, opened a custom app with a minimalist blue icon, and showed me the screen. It displayed two pulsing, concentric circles, one labelled ‘V’, one labelled ‘A’. Each had sliders for intensity and pattern.
“My thumbprint unlocks it,” he said. “No one else can access it. Not that you’d tell.” He placed the phone in my bag and finally handed it to me. “Remember. You are carrying my property inside you. You are my proxy in that glass tower. Whatever I do to them, I do to you. Now go. Be convincing.”
The drive to Bandra was a special kind of torment. Each pothole, each sudden brake, sent a jolt through me, making the plug press against tender internal walls. I sat ramrod straight, my thighs glued together, hands clenched in my lap. I caught my driver’s eye in the rearview mirror once; he glanced away quickly, a faint flush on his cheeks. Could he see? Did he sense the obscenity happening silently in his backseat? The thought alone made a hot wave of shame crash over me, followed, to my utter disgust, by a faint, damp warmth that had nothing to do with the lubricant.
My office on the 24th floor was a sanctuary of cold glass and muted tones. It usually felt like an extension of my mind—ordered, powerful, clean. Today, it felt like a staged set, a flimsy façade behind which I was rotting. I made it to my desk, my heels clicking a steady, professional rhythm that belied the chaos within.
The morning was a gauntlet of minor interactions. My assistant, Priya, came in with a stack of contracts. I signed them, my hand steady only through a massive force of will. She lingered, frowning. “Ma’am, are you feeling alright? You look… flushed.”
“Just a slight headache, Priya. Thank you. Hold all non-essential calls until after the Singapore meeting.”
Alone again, I tried to focus on my prep notes. The numbers swam on the screen. My entire awareness had narrowed to the twin devices inside me. They were silent. Waiting. The anticipation was a razor wire drawn tight across my nerves.
At 10:55, my phone buzzed on the desk. A text from an unknown number, but I knew.
>> In the conference room. Settled.
It was him. He was telling me he was in position, at home, app open. He was picturing me. My body stiffened. A moment later, a soft, deep hum began inside my vagina.
It was a low, throbbing vibration, not harsh, but insistent. It didn’t feel like pleasure. It felt like a biological alert, a constant, pulsing reminder of my state. I let out a shaky breath, adjusting my posture, pressing my thighs tighter. I gathered my tablet and notes, stood up. The movement changed the pressure, and the vibration seemed to intensify. I walked to the conference room, each step a careful negotiation between my professional demeanor and the secret buzzing between my legs.
Mr. Lim and his two associates were already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, admiring the smog-shrouded view of the sea link. They turned as I entered, smiles plastered on their faces.
“Ms. Kapoor! Always a pleasure,” Mr. Lim said, shaking my hand. His grip was firm, his eyes sharp. “We are eager to see these projections.”
“As am I,” I said, my voice thankfully clear. I took my seat at the head of the table, powering on the large display screen. The hum inside me was a steady baseline. I could manage this. I could divorce my mind from my body. I had done it on the train. I could do it here.
I began the presentation, talking about market penetration, ROI models, scalability. My words were fluent, my pointers precise. For three minutes, I was almost there. Almost detached.
Then the vibration changed. It didn’t intensify. It patterned. A short, intense burst, then two longer ones, then a pause. A morse code of violation. My breath hitched mid-sentence. “…and the third-quarter synergy, as you can see on slide six, hinges on—on seamless integration.”
I clicked to the next slide. The pattern continued. Burst. Pause. Burst-burst. It was maddening. It demanded attention. A faint sheen of sweat broke out on my upper lip. I took a sip of water, my hand trembling slightly.
Mr. Lim was watching me, his head tilted. “These numbers for user acquisition seem quite aggressive, Ms. Kapoor. Are the underlying assumptions sound?”
I opened my mouth to answer, and the world dissolved into white noise.
It wasn’t the egg. It was the plug.
A sharp, biting jolt of electricity, quick and brutal, shot through the muscles of my asshole. It was pain, but a clean, shocking, neurological pain. It wasn’t about stretch or friction. It was pure, targeted violation. A choked gasp escaped me. I dropped my water glass. It hit the table with a dull thud, water spreading across the polished wood.
“Ms. Kapoor!”
“I’m—I’m so sorry,” I stammered, swiping at the water with my notepad. “A sudden… cramp. My apologies.” My face was on fire. The shock had been so intense, so unexpected, that for a second I’d seen stars. The ghost of the sensation still danced along my nerve endings, a cruel echo.
The egg began to hum again, a steady, medium-grade thrum. The plug was silent. A warning.
“Perhaps we should take a short break?” Mr. Lim suggested, his voice a mix of concern and professional annoyance.
“No, no, please. It’s passed.” I forced a smile, my jaw aching. “Just a stomach issue. Please, let’s continue.”
I launched back into the analysis, my voice tighter now, my sentences clipped. I was fighting a war on two fronts: presenting a multi-million dollar strategy while my body was a remote-controlled battlefield. He played with the controls like a sadistic musician. Long, building vibrations that made my toes curl in my pumps, forcing me to shift subtly in my seat, my inner thighs slick with a wetness that was purely physiological, a traitorous response to relentless stimulus. Then, just as I’d begin to acclimate to the drone, he’d send another shock from the plug—sometimes a quick zap, sometimes a sustained, low-grade current that made the muscles in my lower back seize up.
My composure was fraying. My explanations became more verbose, a attempt to outrun the next assault. I could feel my blouse sticking to my back with sweat. A lock of hair had escaped my bun and clung to my damp temple.
“The security protocol you’re proposing,” one of the associates, a woman named Mei, said, peering at her copy. “It seems to create a bottleneck here.” She pointed to a flowchart.
I leaned forward to look, and he chose that moment. A violent, sustained vibration, coupled with a rapid series of electrical pulses from the plug. My vision blurred. A low moan, utterly unbidden, strangled in my throat. I clenched my teeth so hard I thought they might crack.
“Ms. Kapoor, you are clearly unwell,” Mr. Lim said firmly, closing his folder. “This is not productive. We can reconvene when you have… recovered from your ailment.”
Humiliation, cold and total, washed over me. Not the wild, chaotic shame of the train, but the sharp, professional kind that could cost contracts, reputations. “Mr. Lim, I assure you, I can—”
“We will schedule another meeting,” he said, standing. His politeness was now a frosty wall. “Please have your assistant coordinate. Get well soon.”
They filed out, leaving me alone in the vast, silent conference room. The display screen still showed a graph of projected growth, a steep, optimistic line pointing upward. I sat there, the devices inside me suddenly silent. The abrupt cessation was almost as shocking as the activation. The aftermath was a cacophony of sensation: the deep, throbbing ache in my cunt from the constant vibration, the raw, stinging sensitivity of my ass, the slick, cooling wetness soaking into my skirt from within.
My phone buzzed.
>> You survived. Now go to the bathroom. Strip. Send me a photo of your wet cunt. Then wait for further instructions.
The message was devoid of praise or critique. It was a simple next step in a protocol. A data point collected. I pushed myself up from the chair, my legs feeling like overstretched rubber bands. I walked out, not meeting Priya’s worried eyes, and made my way to the executive washroom. It was a single-occupancy, marble-clad space, always immaculate.
I locked the door and leaned against it, closing my eyes. The silence in my body was deafening. I could still feel the phantom vibrations. Slowly, I undressed. The blouse, damp under the arms. The skirt, which I peeled down my thighs. There was a distinct, dark patch of moisture on the grey fabric, right between my legs. I let it pool around my ankles.
Naked, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. My hair was a mess. My makeup, carefully reapplied this morning, was smudged under my eyes. My skin was flushed, from my chest up to my cheeks. And between my legs, glistening under the harsh LED lights, was the evidence. My pubic hair was damp, slick. The slender tail of the egg peeked out from my swollen labia. Lower, the black interface of the plug sat snug against my asshole, which looked reddened, puffy.
This was the image he wanted. Not the poised consultant, but the used, obedient animal. The one who could have a corporate meeting and be secretly masturbated by her master from miles away. The one who dripped for him on command.
I took my phone from my bag. My hands were steady now. The shock had faded into a numb acceptance. I angled the phone, ensuring the mirror captured my face—the shame in my eyes, the parted lips—and the explicit, wet reality of my lower body. I took the picture. The click of the shutter was obscenely loud.
I looked at it. It was a devastating image. It was the truth. I sent it.
The response was almost immediate.
>> Good. The plug stays. Remove the egg. Clean it in the sink. Bring it home. Kneel by the door with it in your mouth until I return.
I obeyed. Reaching down, I found the silicone tail and gently pulled. The egg slid out, coated in a mix of lube and my own slick arousal. It hummed faintly in my hand for a second before going inert. I washed it under the tap, the cool water streaming over it, cleansing it of my intimate proof. I dried it with a paper towel. It looked innocent now, a bland pink sex toy.
I did not redress. I left my clothes in a heap on the marble floor. Naked, carrying the clean egg, I walked out of the bathroom. The office was empty; Priya must have assumed I’d gone home ill. I took the private elevator down to the parking garage. My driver, Joseph, was reading a newspaper in the car. He looked up, and his face went utterly blank with shock as I, naked, streaked with drying sweat, walked to the car and got into the back seat. He stared straight ahead, saying nothing, putting the car in gear. What could he say? His salary was paid from an account I controlled, but my body was controlled by another. The hierarchies were all shattered.
The ride home was silent. I held the egg in my clenched fist. The plug remained inside me, a now-familiar lodger. I felt empty without the vibration, but the fullness in my ass anchored me to the reality of my condition.
Back in the apartment, I went directly to the foyer. I knelt on the cool marble, assuming the position he’d dictated: back straight, knees wide, hands on my thighs. I placed the clean, damp egg on my tongue and closed my lips around it. It tasted of soap and water. I stared at the grain of the wood on the front door.
I waited.
Time lost meaning. The marble numbed my knees. My jaw began to ache from holding the position. Saliva pooled in my mouth, threatening to make me drool around the egg. I swallowed carefully, the motion pressing the object against the roof of my mouth. This was a different test. A test of stillness, of patience, of absolute submission not in the frenzy of violation, but in the quiet, empty aftermath.
I heard his key in the lock an eternity later. The door opened. He stepped in, closing it softly behind him. He stood before me, looking down. He was carrying a small paper bag from a local electronics market.
“Open,” he said.
I opened my mouth, letting the egg rest on my outstretched tongue.
He took it from me with two fingers, examined it, and dropped it into the paper bag. “You dripped for them. In front of those important men. You leaked your slut-juice into your skirt while talking about firewalls and encryption.”
It wasn’t a question. I kept my eyes down, on his shoes.
“Stand up.”
I rose, my knees cracking, my body stiff.
“Follow me.”
He led me not to the bedroom, but to my home office. To my desk. He cleared the surface with a sweep of his arm, sending my monitor, keyboard, and a framed picture of my
parents clattering to the floor. The glass in the frame cracked, a spiderweb across their smiling faces.
“On the desk. On your back. Legs over the sides.”
His voice was different. Flat. Cold. It wasn’t the voice of command that expected arousal. This was the voice of a mechanic about to repair a faulty tool. I hoisted myself onto the polished teak, the wood cold against my bare skin. I lay back, the ceiling lights blinding me for a moment. I spread my legs as instructed, my heels hooking over the sharp edge of the desk. The position was profoundly vulnerable, my body splayed open for his inspection, for his use. The plug in my ass felt huge in this posture, a constant, stretching presence.
He didn’t touch me. He opened the paper bag and removed a new device. It was a long, black silicone rod, thicker than two of his fingers, with a series of raised, textured rings along its length. At its base was a small, wireless receiver. He held it up, turning it in the light.
“You came today,” he stated. “In the meeting. Your body betrayed you. It got wet. It enjoyed the humiliation.”
“I didn’t—” The protest died in my throat. He was right. The slick evidence had been on my skirt.
“Silence.” He coated the rod with a clear gel from a packet. “Your cunt learned a bad lesson. It thinks humiliation is a reward. It needs to be re-educated.”
He stepped between my splayed legs. He didn’t guide the rod to my opening with his hand. He simply pressed the thick, gel-slick tip against me and pushed. There was no gentle penetration. It was an invasion, a brutal, steady forcing. I cried out, my back arching off the desk. The textured rings dragged against my inner walls, a rough, scraping friction utterly unlike the smooth egg. It was too much, too fast, too dry despite the gel. It burned.
“It’s not for your pleasure,” he said, watching my face as he pushed it deeper, until the base sat flush against me. “It’s a placeholder. A reminder of your emptiness.”
He then reached for the plug. He didn’t remove it. He twisted it. The interface lit up with a tiny blue LED. A low, deep hum emanated from it, a vibration that seemed to resonate in my bones. Then the first shock came.
It wasn’t the sharp zap from the meeting. This was a sustained, escalating current that locked the muscles of my rectum in a spasming, agonizing cramp. I screamed, a raw, tearing sound. My body convulsed, my legs kicking involuntarily. The pain was electric, deep, and utterly consuming. It felt like my insides were being fused together with a live wire.
He watched, his expression impassive. He held a small, black remote in his hand. “You will count them,” he said. “You will thank me for each one. You will describe the pain. If you miss a count, we start over. If your description is insufficient, the next one is longer.”
The current stopped. The sudden cessation was a shock in itself. I was panting, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes into my hairline. My entire lower body was a constellation of pain.
“One,” I gasped, the word a sob. “Thank you. It… it felt like my insides were burning. Like a cramp that wouldn’t stop, but sharp. Electric.”
“Vague,” he said, and his thumb pressed the button.
The current returned, stronger this time. It wasn’t just in my ass now; it seemed to arc through my pelvis, seizing the muscles of my cunt around the thick rod. A guttural, animal noise was ripped from my throat. My vision spotted. I could smell something faintly acrid—my own sweat, my terror.
It stopped.
“Two,” I wailed. “Thank you. It… it shot through me. It clenched everything. It hurt in my spine. It made my teeth hurt.”
“Better.”
He shocked me again. And again. Each time the current was a unique torment. Sometimes it was a rapid-fire series of jolts that made my body jerk like a marionette. Sometimes it was a long, deep burn that made me beg for air. I lost count at seven. My world had narrowed to the desk beneath me, the lights above, and the exquisite, shattering pain radiating from my core.
“What number?” His voice cut through my sobbing.
I couldn’t speak. I shook my head, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
“We start over.”
He began again. This time, he combined the shocks with the plug’s vibration, a deep, unsettling rumble that amplified the pain, made it a living thing inside me. I counted through screams. I thanked him through clenched teeth. I described the sensations in broken, filthy poetry of agony. “It’s like glass in my guts.” “It’s a hot wire pulling tight.” “It’s my bones buzzing apart.”
On the twelfth shock, my body gave out. A different kind of wetness flooded from me, warm and sudden, soaking the wood of the desk beneath my hips. The humiliation was absolute, a final stripping away of all dignity. I had pissed myself.
He stopped. He looked at the dark, spreading pool on the expensive teak, then at my utterly broken form. He nodded, almost to himself. “Good. The body remembers. It learns.”
He finally removed the brutal rod. The sensation of its withdrawal was a relief so profound it was a new kind of pain. I was swollen, throbbing, raw. He left the plug in, switching it off. The silence in my body was a vast, hollow ache.
“Clean this,” he said, gesturing to the desk, to me. “Then kneel in the corner by the balcony. Face the glass. I want you to look at the city while you feel what you’ve earned.”
I slid off the desk, my legs buckling, catching myself on the edge. The urine was cooling on my thighs. I took a box of tissues from the floor and wiped the desk, then myself, moving like an automaton. The smell of ammonia and sex and fear hung in the air.
Naked, dripping, I crawled to the corner he’d indicated, a space between a bookshelf and the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over Mumbai’s glittering nightscape. I knelt on the hard floor, facing the glass. My reflection was a ghostly, bruised phantom superimposed over the skyline.
I heard him move behind me. Then his hands were on my hips, pulling me up onto my knees, arching my back. He was still dressed. The rough fabric of his trousers scraped the backs of my thighs. He unzipped.
He didn’t enter my ravaged cunt. He pressed the head of his cock against my asshole, against the plug. He pushed. The plug, lubricated only by my own strained body and the residual gel, offered brutal resistance. He pushed harder, using his weight to force the silicone deeper, using it as a brutal dilator to stretch me further for his own invasion.
A scream tore from my throat, echoing in the glass-walled room. It was a pain beyond the electricity, a deep, rending, full feeling of being split open. He grunted, shoving forward, and his cockhead popped past the ring of muscle, displacing the plug, forcing it aside as he entered me. He was thick, and my ass, already tortured by the shocks, was tight beyond belief. The friction was searing, dry, agonizing.
He fucked my ass with slow, deliberate, punishing strokes. Each inward drive was a white-hot lance of pain. Each withdrawal dragged against oversensitive, torn tissue. He gripped my hips, his fingers biting into the bone, holding me still for his use. My forehead pressed against the cool window, my breath fogging the glass. I watched the lights of the city, the cars like glowing ants, the endless, indifferent life going on as my body was broken open on a cock in my ass.
“This,” he growled, his voice thick with effort, “is the only reward you get. Pain. This is what you are for. This is your function.”
He picked up his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. The pain began to mutate, blurring at the edges, mingling with a shocking, shameful sense of fullness, of being utterly claimed. My cries softened into choked whimpers. My body, traitorously, began to lubricate from the front, slickness dripping down my inner thighs to mix with the urine and sweat already there.
He felt it. His hand snaked around my hip, his fingers sliding through the wet mess between my legs. “Disgusting,” he breathed into my ear, his thrusts never faltering. “Your cunt weeps because it knows its place is empty. It knows I own this hole instead.”
His words were the final violation. I came then, a brutal, convulsive orgasm that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with total physiological surrender. It ripped through me, a seismic shock that clenched around the invading cock in my ass, milking it. He groaned, a sound of pure triumph, and slammed into me one last time, his own release pumping hot and deep into my bowels.
He held himself there for a long moment, his weight heavy on my back. Then he pulled out. The sensation was a raw, open emptiness. I heard him zip his trousers.
I stayed on my knees, forehead against the glass, my body trembling in violent, uncontrollable waves. I felt his cum and blood and lube leak out of me, a warm trickle down the inside of my thigh.
He walked around to face me, crouching down so his eyes were level with mine. My reflection in the glass showed his face behind mine, calm, composed. He reached out and wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
“Now,” he said softly, almost kindly. “Go write your journal. I want to read how my slut came while getting her ass torn open. I want to read how it felt to piss yourself on your own desk. Write every detail. Then bring it to me.”
He stood and left the room. I listened to his footsteps fade. The city lights blurred and swam before my eyes. The pain was a universe. The shame was a ocean. And in the center of it all, a cold, hard certainty had crystallized.
He was right. This was my function. This was what I was for. I pushed myself up, my body screaming in protest. I walked, dripping and ruined, to where my journal lay on the floor. I picked it up. I found a pen.
My hand did not shake as I began to write.