Chapter 7: IT room
The heavy IT door sighed shut behind Stacy, sealing her in the buzzing green gloom. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a low, persistent drone that vibrated in her teeth. The air hung thick with the smell of stale microwave popcorn, burnt dust, and something vaguely metallic. Four faces swivelled towards her from their cubicle nests, blinking like moles in the sudden presence of her rumpled silk, smudged mascara, and sheer stockings. Her knuckles were white around the thumb drive.
A guy with a faded band t-shirt stretched tight over a substantial gut leaned back, chair creaking. "Whoa. Executive overflow?" His eyes crawled over her legs. "Lost, sweetheart?"
Stacy swallowed. Harding’s voice echoed: See if any of the guys down in IT would be interested. Disposable. Low stakes. The peach silk felt like a lie. She took a shaky step forward onto the thin, industrial carpet. "I... I have something to demonstrate." Her voice sounded thin, reedy against the hum. "From Mr. Harding."
Another guy, younger, pimply, peered around his monitor. "Harding sent you? Down here?" He snorted. "What, our printer quota needs adjusting?"
The third, older, balding, wiped cheeto dust from his fingers onto his khakis. He didn't speak, just stared, his gaze flat and assessing.
The fourth, hidden deeper in the gloom behind a massive monitor covered in blinking LEDs, remained a silhouette. "Demonstrate what?" His voice was a low rumble, bored.
Stacy’s cheeks burned. She held up the thumb drive, a tiny black rectangle against her trembling palm. "Veronica Hayes. Module Three. Acquisition." The words felt obscene here, stripped of Harding’s polished desk and city views. "I... I need practice. On practical application." Her gaze dropped to the scuffed linoleum floor tiles between cubicles. "I thought... maybe...?"
Silence. Just the buzz, the distant whir of fans. The guy in the band shirt whistled low. "Harding sent you down for... practice?" A slow, greasy smile spread across his face. He exchanged a look with the pimply one. "Acquisition, huh? Sounds fancy."
"Practical application," the older one repeated, his voice devoid of inflection. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his desk. "Go on."
The silhouette behind the big monitor shifted. "What exactly are you proposing to apply, sweetcheeks?" The rumble held a sharp edge.
Stacy flinched at the nickname. Sweetcheeks. Crude. Dismissive. Yet, beneath the wave of fresh shame, a treacherous pulse of heat throbbed low in her belly. Veronica’s voice whispered: Dispassionately. A transaction. She forced her chin up, meeting the gaze of the guy in the band shirt. Her voice barely a whisper. "Oral dexterity. Extracting... the essence."
A burst of harsh laughter from the pimply guy. "She means blowjobs, Dave! She's offering blowjobs!" He slapped his desk. "Harding sent her down to suck us off? Best Monday ever!"
Suck us off. The vulgarity hung in the stale air. Stacy’s breath hitched. The heat intensified, spreading, a counterpoint to the icy dread. Her nipples tightened painfully against the electric blue lace. Dave’s eyes narrowed, roving over her body with new, predatory interest. "All of us?" he asked, leaning back again, spreading his legs slightly. The chair groaned under his weight.
Stacy nodded, mute. The lump in her throat felt like stone.
The older man stood up slowly. He wasn't tall, but thick-set, his polo shirt straining. "Orderly," he stated, his voice flat. "You start with me, Dave. Then Mike." He nodded at the pimply one. "Then Carl." The silhouette – Carl – grunted. "I’ll supervise." He walked around his desk towards her. The scent of sweat and cheap cologne intensified.
"Kneel," the older man said, stopping a few feet in front of her. It wasn't a request.
The scuffed linoleum was hard and cold beneath her knees. The rough carpet edge scratched her shin. She looked up at him. His fly was already undone. He pushed his khakis and boxers down just enough. The smell was musky, thick. Her stomach churned. Dispassionately, she chanted in her head. Transaction. She leaned forward. Her tongue felt thick, clumsy. She closed her eyes.
"Look at it," the older man commanded. "Get acquainted with what you're servicing, cocksleeve."
Cocksleeve. The word slammed into her. Degrading. Humiliating. A fresh wave of heat flooded her core, soaking through her underwear. Her body arched slightly, seeking. She opened her eyes, forced herself to look. Her mouth opened.
It was mechanical at first. Awkward. She remembered Veronica's vague hints about technique, about stamina. She focused on the mechanics: the salty taste of skin, the softness giving way to rigid flesh. The older man grunted, a low sound of approval. He tangled his fingers roughly in her hair, not guiding, just holding. Possessing. "Good little office slut," he murmured. "Just like Harding ordered."
Office slut. Another spike of shame, another jolt of molten arousal between her legs. She moaned, the vibration seeming to please him. His grip tightened. The transaction. She was extracting. Drawing it out. She could almost taste the phantom power Veronica described. Tingling. Her own need intensified, a desperate ache.
He finished quickly, with a harsh groan, his grip painful on her scalp. He shoved her head back, stepping away, zipping up, wiping his hands on his khakis as if touching contaminated material. "Dave."
Stacy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the taste lingering. Dave lumbered forward, his faded band tee riding up over his ample belly. He didn't bother unzipping; he shoved his pants and boxers down roughly around his thick thighs. The fluorescent light glinted off the angry red head of his cock.
"Alright, sweetcheeks," he grunted, thrusting his hips slightly. "Show me what Harding's training program taught ya." He smirked at Carl and Mike. "Bet they got expensive tutors."
She leaned in, the stale popcorn smell mixing with Dave’s musk. Her lips parted. She focused on the mechanics again, the suction Veronica vaguely described. Dave groaned, a low rumble like a faulty engine. His hand clamped onto the back of her head, fingers digging into her scalp. "Yeah, like that, office toy. Get it wet."
He didn't take long either. A rough gasp, a shudder, and his grip tightened painfully. He held her head firm as he pulsed in her mouth, the salty bitterness flooding her tongue. Dispassionate. Transactional. She swallowed mechanically, the phantom power tasting like bile this time. He pulled out with a slick sound, leaving a smear on her chin.
Dave stepped back, hitching his pants loosely over his hips, ignoring the zipper. He didn't wipe himself. He just stared down at her, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes, small and piggish, roamed over the tight peach silk blouse hugging her curves, lingered on the straining buttons. That look wasn't satisfied.
"Nah," Dave said, his voice thick. His hand rubbed possessively over his still-visible bulge. "That ain't gonna cut it for me." He took a step closer, looming. "Shirt off. Bra too. Want those big tits out." He gestured crudely. "Gonna fuck 'em proper."
Stacy froze. The buzzing fluorescent light seemed to intensify, drilling into her skull. Lose the shirt? Here? Under these lights? Her hands instinctively went to her chest, fingers trembling over the top button. Shame burned hotter than ever, a furnace in her cheeks. Yet, beneath it, the treacherous pulse between her legs throbbed harder.
Mike snickered. "Dave wants the full show!" Carl shifted in his chair, eyes fixed. The supervisor watched impassively, arms crossed.
"Come on, sweetcheeks," Dave urged, his tone hardening. He tapped his cock against her cheek, sticky and warm. "Harding sent you down for practice, right? Consider this... advanced training." He grinned, revealing stained teeth. "Tits out. Now. Or I tell Harding you refused instruction."
The threat hung heavy. Refusal meant failing Harding. Failing Veronica. Failing herself, somehow. The transaction demanded payment. Her fingers, cold and numb, fumbled with the first silk-covered button. It slipped free. The second. The soft fabric gaped, revealing a sliver of electric blue lace bra. Dave’s breathing grew heavier, more ragged. She could smell his anticipation – sweat, stale beer, cheap deodorant.
She slid the silk blouse off her shoulders. It crumpled on the dirty linoleum floor. Hesitation clawed at her throat. The fluorescent light felt like interrogation. Her hands reached behind her back, trembling violently. The bra clasp resisted. Cold dread warred with that insistent heat pooling low in her belly. Veronica wouldn’t hesitate. Veronica used this. Stacy squeezed her eyes shut. Click. The clasp gave.
She peeled the blue lace bra away. Her breasts tumbled free, heavy, full, the nipples dark and stiffening instantly in the cold, stale air. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, unable to look at them, at Dave, at the others watching. The hum of the computers seemed deafening. Silence stretched, thick and expectant. She heard Dave’s sharp intake of breath.
"Fucking hell," Mike breathed. Carl shifted again, the chair scraping loudly.
"Look at that," Dave growled, his voice thick with lust. He stepped forward, his calloused hands already reaching out, cupping the heavy weight greedily, kneading the soft flesh. His thumbs rubbed roughly over her tight nipples. "Perfect fucking pillows." He squeezed hard enough to make her gasp. "Now." He spat into his palm, slicking himself. "Lean forward. Hands behind your back. Keep 'em squeezed tight for me." He positioned himself, the blunt head bumping against her sternum. "Let's see how good you extract this."
The cold air pricked Stacy's exposed skin as she leaned forward, obeying, pressing her breasts tightly together. Dave grunted, positioning himself, the thick heat of him pushing between the soft mounds. He thrust, a rhythmic, demanding slide against her skin. Stacy squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the gritty linoleum beneath her knees, the stale popcorn smell mixed with his musky sweat.
"Tighter, slut," Dave rasped, his hands gripping her shoulders, pushing her down harder. His breathing hitched, became ragged pants that echoed in the buzzing silence broken only by Carl’s shifting chair and Mike’s low chuckle. The friction burned, the sheer indignity of it a hot coal in her gut, yet her own treacherous body responded, a slick pulse between her legs contradicting the revulsion washing over her.
He thrust faster, harder, his hips pistoning against her trapped flesh. A guttural groan ripped from his throat. "Fuck yeah, office bitch! Take it!" His grip on her shoulders became painful, nails digging in.
Hot, thick streaks painted her skin, startlingly white against her flushed chest. The sudden heat, the sharp, unfamiliar scent, made her flinch violently. Dave shuddered, spent, staggering back a step, leaving her kneeling, sticky pearls clinging to her skin, trembling. He zipped up with a satisfied grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans, ignoring the mess he'd made on her. "Your turn, Mikey."
Mike was already moving, pushing past Dave with a predatory eagerness. He didn't look at her face, his gaze fixed on Dave's work glistening on her skin. He unzipped his fly with one hand, pulling himself out. He was thinner, harder-looking than Dave. "Look at that mess," he sneered, his voice tight with excitement. He tapped the swollen head of his cock against her chin, smearing a trace of sticky fluid onto her skin near Dave's mess. "Disgusting."
Stacy recoiled, a whimper escaping her lips. She tried to look away, but Mike grabbed her jaw, forcing her gaze upwards. His eyes were bright, feverish. "You think you're done?" he hissed. "Think sucking off Carl's gonna be enough for you now?" He pushed the head of his cock against her closed lips. "Open."
She hesitated, trembling, the humiliation a burning brand. Veronica’s voice, cool and distant in her memory, offered no instruction for this raw degradation.
"Beg for it," Mike demanded, his voice dropping lower, tightening like a noose. His thumb rubbed roughly over her lower lip, pressing against her teeth. "Come on, Harding’s little trainee. Show us how badly you need this cock." He pushed harder, forcing her lips apart slightly. "Say it. Beg me to let you suck it."
Stacy’s breath hitched. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry flies. The taste of Dave, the feel of Mike against her mouth, the eyes watching – Carl’s hungry stare, the Supervisor’s impassive gaze. Shame warred with a terrifying, undeniable throb of arousal deep inside. Her voice, when it came, was a ragged whisper, barely audible over the hum.
"Please..."
The word scraped her raw throat. "Please."
Louder. It wasn't a request."Let me suck it." The words tasted like ashes.
Mike’s laugh was short, sharp. "Good girl." He released her jaw only to guide himself roughly into her mouth, cutting off any further sound. She gagged instantly, the intrusion sudden and deep. His hands clamped onto the back of her head again, fingers digging into her scalp. "Deep," he grunted, thrusting shallowly. "Take it all, cocksucker." Saliva pooled, dripped down her chin. His rhythm was erratic, desperate. His thin hips bucked faster. A choked groan. He pulsed hot and sour down her throat, holding her head pinned until he finished. He pulled out with a wet smack, leaving her gasping, sputtering.
Mike stumbled back, zipping up with a shaky hand, his face flushed. He avoided looking at her. "Carl," he mumbled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "She’s all yours." He retreated to his cubicle, sinking into his chair, staring blankly at his screen.
Carl stood. He was huge, broad-shouldered, his bulk blocking the flickering fluorescent light behind him. He moved with unnerving quietness, his heavy boots scuffing the linoleum. He stopped before her. Stacy knelt amid the cold debris of Dave's mess on her chest, Mike's taste sour in her mouth, her blouse and bra discarded beside her like shed skin. She shivered violently, exposed.
Carl didn't touch her. He looked down, his face impassive beneath the harsh lights. His gaze flickered over her trembling form, the sticky streaks on her skin, her tear-streaked face. Silence stretched, thick with the buzz of computers and her ragged breathing. He slowly, deliberately, unzipped his worn cargo pants. He pushed them and his briefs down just past his thick hips. He was already hard. Thick. Veined.
Carl’s hand, thick-fingered and calloused, settled heavily on her head. Not forcing, just resting. Heavy. A silent command. His breathing was slow, deliberate. Sweat beaded on the thick skin of his neck, visible above his collar. The faint smell of machine oil and old sweat clung to him. Stacy looked up. His eyes were flat, unreadable pools in the harsh light.
"Okay," he rumbled. Just the one word. Low. Final. He shifted his stance slightly, his thick cock inches from her face. The sheer size was daunting. Different. Veins stood out like cords beneath the skin. She remembered Dave’s rough handling, Mike’s sharp humiliation. Carl offered only silence and weight.
She leaned in. Hesitant. The tip met her lips. Salt. Heat. Her tongue touched him tentatively. He exhaled, a slow hiss. His hand remained, a steady pressure. She took him slowly. An inch. Then another. It stretched her lips, filled her mouth. Her gag reflex tightened. She breathed harshly through her nose. Focused. Veronica’s vague words about control were useless here. It was about survival now. Compliance. Finishing the transaction.
Carl grunted, a sound like shifting furniture. His fingers tightened fractionally in her hair. Not painful. Yet. Guiding. Insistent. She pulled back slightly, then pushed forward again. Found a pace. Slow. Steady. Her jaw ached almost immediately. His size demanded effort. Concentration. She shut out the fluorescent buzz, the lingering stink of popcorn and sex, the eyes she knew were watching.
A strange detachment settled over her. The mechanics took over. The push, the pull, the hollowing of her cheeks. The wet sounds seemed loud in the relative quiet, punctuated only by Carl’s heavier breathing now. His hips moved slightly. Tiny, unconscious thrusts meeting her rhythm. In, out. Suck. Release. The ache in her jaw faded into background noise, replaced by a strange, focused energy. She was a machine performing its function. Efficient. Dispassionate. Extracting.
Her nostrils flared with each breath. The musky scent of him filled her senses. Saliva slicked her chin. She felt the pulse in him against her tongue, a steady throb matching the tempo she’d set. His breathing hitched. Grew ragged. The hand on her head gripped tighter, pulling her forward firmly.
The hand on her head gripped tighter, pulling her forward firmly. Carl's low groan vibrated through his thick torso, resonating against her lips. His control fractured. "Gonna fill you up," he rumbled, the words thick and guttural. His hips jerked forward, forcing himself deeper. Stacy gagged, eyes watering. The sheer size overwhelmed her throat, triggering primal panic. Her own body betrayed her utterly. A sharp, involuntary cry escaped her muffled mouth as her thighs clamped together, a violent tremor rippling through her core. Shame detonated alongside the unexpected, shattering climax. It wasn't pleasure, not really. It was annihilation. A raw, convulsive release born from the crushing weight of degradation.
Carl released a final, shuddering breath. "There." He pulsed hotly, forcefully, deep within her straining throat. She choked. Swallowed reflexively. The salty bitterness coated her tongue. Abruptly, he pulled out. Sticky warmth splattered across her cheek, her chin, the bridge of her nose. More streaked her neck. Cold drops hit her bare collarbone. "Paint that pretty face," Dave chuckled from his chair. Carl stepped back, tucking himself away without a word. His expression remained flat. Done. Stacy knelt frozen, trembling. Semen cooled rapidly on her skin under the harsh fluorescents. The silence stretched, broken only by the relentless computer hum. She could smell it. Taste the faint residue at the back of her throat. Feel the humiliating slickness drying on her skin. Her body still echoed with the unwanted aftershocks. The fluorescent light felt like a spotlight on her disgrace.
"Paper towel?" Stacy rasped, voice raw. She couldn’t look at them. Her eyes stayed fixed on the scuffed linoleum between her knees. "Something... to clean up?" Mike snorted, swiveling lazily in his chair. "Look around you, sweetcheeks." He gestured dismissively at the cluttered desks littered with discarded snack wrappers. "We ain't got no fancy executive napkins down here." The supervisor finally spoke, his tone flat. "Use your hands. Clean yourself." Dave leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. "Yeah. And swallow the rest. Waste not, want not." His grin was cruel. "C'mon. Show us you learned something useful."
Stacy flinched. The command hung in the stale air alongside the scent of sex and sweat. Her stomach churned. Slowly, reluctantly, she raised her trembling hands. Fingertips touched the cooling fluid on her cheek. It felt slick, alien. She smeared it, gathering the viscous strands. She closed her eyes, fighting a rising wave of nausea. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she hesitated, the sour-musky smell filling her nostrils. Dispassionately. Transaction. Veronica’s hollow mantra echoed uselessly. She forced her fingers into her mouth. The taste exploded – salty, bitter, overwhelmingly male. She swallowed convulsively. Gagged. Swallowed again. Tears welled, hot and stinging. She repeated the motions – wiping her chin, her neck, her collarbone. Gathering every trace. Swallowing hard each time until her hands came away mostly clean. Her mouth felt coated, violated.
Done. She lowered her shaking hands. Dave watched, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Mike looked bored now, clicking his mouse. Carl was already back behind his blinking monitor fortress. The supervisor nodded once. "Efficient." The word felt like a slap. Stacy pushed herself up on unsteady legs. The cold air hit her exposed skin, making her shiver violently. She needed to cover herself. Fast. She scanned the floor near her knees. Her crumpled peach silk blouse lay where she’d dropped it. She snatched it up, clutching the soft, stained fabric to her chest. Her eyes darted, searching frantically. Her bra. Where was her bra? She’d unclasped it, peeled it off... it should be right there. Near the blouse. But the patch of grimy linoleum where she thought it fell was bare. Nothing. Just dust bunnies and a stray cable tie. Panic tightened her throat. She looked again, wider, scanning the area under the nearby desks. Nothing. Just wires and discarded cardboard boxes. It was gone. Her bra was missing.