Chapter 47: The New Reward System
The weekend had been a phantom limb. Ken moved through his apartment, feeling the absence of the routine, the lack of command. The memory of Pete’s final question—Would you like to be a tutor for more people?—echoed in the silence, a looming, shapeless dread. By Monday morning, his body was conditioned. The walk from the parking garage to the fifth floor was a study in agonizing anticipation, his cock hardening with each step, the cool office air raising goosebumps on his naked skin as he pushed through the department’s glass door.
He stopped.
The usual sight of his peers in various states of mandated undress was gone. Replaced.
Leo, Todd, Marcus, and David stood by their desks, but they were transformed. Each wore a stark white crop top, a stretchy band of fabric that rode high on their ribcages, leaving their lower abdomens completely bare. The tops were cut so low their nipples were exposed, dark and taut against the white material. Below, they wore not the standard briefs, but super-elastic black G-strings, thin bands that carved into their hips and pulled their cocks into prominent, outlined shapes. The fabric gleamed under the lights, emphasizing every curve and swell. They looked like a parody of athletic wear, rendered obscene.
“Ken!” Leo said, his voice bright. He gestured to his own outfit with a flourish. “What do you think? Young Master’s new directive came in over the weekend. A preview.”
“It’s… revealing,” Ken managed, his own total nudity suddenly feeling different. It was his baseline, his constant state. Theirs was a costume, a specific uniform.
“Master Pete called for a meeting,” Todd added, shifting his weight. The movement made the black elastic dig deeper, accentuating the full length of his shaft. “In the main meeting room. Now.”
Ken nodded, the familiar script taking over. He followed them, hyper-aware of the contrast. Their minimal clothing seemed, perversely, more deliberate, more designed than his bare skin. The meeting room’s glass walls were already fogging slightly from the body heat within. Every S&F employee was present, all in the same white-and-black ensemble, a sea of exposed skin and tight black straps. They filed in, the air thick with the scent of clean sweat and expensive body spray.
Without a word, they all assumed the position. Knees on the cool tile, legs spread wide, hands laced behind their heads, backs straight. A synchronized rustle of elastic and cotton. Ken knelt among them, the only unadorned body in the room, his hardness standing unabashed against his stomach.
The door opened. Pete entered, and the atmosphere sharpened. He was a burst of color in a sea of monochrome, wearing a tailored saffron-yellow suit with a deep violet shirt, his red glasses catching the light. He carried a tablet, tapping it absently as he surveyed the rows of kneeling men.
“Good morning, team!” he chirped, placing the tablet on the conference table. “Love the new look. Really captures the department’s… transparency.”
A low murmur of gratitude rippled through the room.
“I’ve been reviewing our metrics,” Pete continued, pacing slowly. “And I’ve been thinking about capacity building. Ken,” he said, stopping directly in front of him. “You’ve been an exceptional resource. My personal tutor.” He used the word deliberately, letting it hang. “Your dedication, your… transparency… is a model. So this week, I’m formalizing it. You will be the department’s tutor. Any S&F employee requiring clarification on the Q3 logistics overlay, or any core protocol, will come to you for instruction. You will provide it, thoroughly.”
Ken’s mouth went dry. Tutor. The word now meant something utterly different. It meant kneeling, spreading, explaining while being touched. It meant his private shame was becoming a departmental utility.
“Now,” Pete said, turning to address the whole room, his tone turning conspiratorial. “I’ve also heard some chatter. Feedback, really.” He grinned. “I hear that some of you view the weekly uniform designations not as a directive, but as a… reward system. That getting fewer pieces, more revealing fabric, is a point of pride. A status symbol.”
A few men, like Leo, exchanged eager, sheepish glances. A soft chorus of “Yes, Master Pete,” filled the air.
“I love that initiative!” Pete exclaimed, clapping his hands once. “So, let’s codify it. Effective immediately, I will use my authority to adjust the uniform policy. The S&F employee with the best weekly performance metrics—accuracy, timeliness, innovation—will receive a reward. Their designated uniform for the following week will be the maximum allowable piece.”
He let the phrase linger. Maximum allowable piece. It meant the least clothing possible within the rules. It meant beating your peers to earn the right to be almost naked.
The reaction was instantaneous. The kneeling men erupted. Not with shouts, but with a vibrant, humming excitement—sharp intakes of breath, widened eyes, backs straightening with competitive fire. They looked at each other, then at their own G-strings, imagining something even scantier.
“Thank you, Young Master!”
“This is incredible!”
“We won’t let you down!”
The chorus was sincere, fervent. In a wave of gratitude, they all leaned forward from their kneeling positions, bowing their heads low until their foreheads touched the tile near Pete’s polished leather shoes. A silent, profound thanks.
Ken remained upright, his mind whirring. The puzzle pieces clicked. His nudity was absolute. It was the baseline zero. He could not win a reward that involved wearing less, because he already wore nothing. His “reward” for his performance, for his transparency, was this permanent state. It was his role as the tutor. While his peers competed feverishly for the honor of approximating his condition, he was the condition.
A strange, hollow pride swelled in his chest, instantly followed by a colder wash of isolation. The envy he felt wasn’t for their scraps of fabric. It was for their ability to compete, to have a goal, to win something. He had already been won. He was the prize they were all striving toward, a finish line made of flesh and shame. He knelt among them, the living, breathing benchmark of their subjugation, and felt the terrifying power of having nothing left to lose.
He knelt among them, the living, breathing benchmark of their subjugation, and felt the terrifying power of having nothing left to lose. The silence after their bowing was deep, expectant, broken only by the hum of the server stack in the corner.
“Now,” Pete said, his voice slicing through the quiet. “A practical demonstration of Ken’s new tutoring role. Everyone, remain kneeling. Observe. Ken, approach the main monitor.”
Ken’s limbs felt heavy as he stood. The eyes of his peers tracked him, not with pity, but with intense, focused curiosity. He stopped before the large screen displaying a cascade of data flows. Pete walked to the conference table, a long slab of polished black walnut, and placed his palm on its surface.
“Assume the presentation stance here,” Pete instructed, his tone businesslike. “And explain the Q3 rollout. Start with your initial foresight models.”
Ken leaned forward, bracing his hands on the cool table. He spread his legs, presenting himself. The familiar position sent a jolt of unwelcome anticipation through him. He began to speak, his voice initially tight. “The Q3 strategy was predicated on competitor analysis from the spring. We identified a latency in their supply chain APIs.”
As Ken detailed the first wave of predictive algorithms, Pete moved behind him. Ken heard the click of the lubricant bottle from Pete’s pocket. A cold, slick drizzle landed between his ass cheeks. He faltered.
“Continue,” Pete said calmly.
“W-we built a shadow infrastructure to mirror their network paths,” Ken forced out, his knuckles whitening on the table. Pete’s hand, wet and warm, closed around his cock, stroking once from root to tip in a slow, claiming glide. Ken’s hips jerked. “Using a fork of the Cambridge analytic toolset.”
“Collaboration points?” Pete asked, his hand now cupping Ken’s balls, massaging them with a firm, rhythmic pressure. His other hand, fingers slick, pressed against Ken’s hole.
Sweat beaded on Ken’s back. He could feel every eye in the room on him, could hear their shallow breathing. “The initial handoff required alignment with the Singapore logistics hub. We had to sync our data clocks.” Pete’s finger pushed inside, just the tip, a burning, stretching intrusion. Ken’s breath hitched. “There was… pushback. On the protocol.”
“How did you solve it?” Pete asked. He pushed his finger deeper, curling it, and began a steady, pumping rhythm with his other hand on Ken’s cock.
The dual sensation was catastrophic. A helpless groan ripped from Ken’s throat, loud in the silent room. It was a raw sound of pure, unexpected pleasure. His cock swelled harder in Pete’s grip, leaking freely. He was mortified. His face burned.
“T-tutor?” Leo whispered from the floor, his voice filled with awe, not mockery.
Pete smiled, not stopping his motions. “Keep explaining, Ken. Your peers need to understand your process.” His finger found a specific spot inside, applying relentless pressure.
Ken trembled. He tried to grasp the threads of his own narrative. “I… I drafted a side-letter agreement. Bypassed standard comms. I… oh…” Another broken sound escaped him as Pete’s thumb rubbed over his slit. “I used my old network. From university. To get a direct line.”
“See?” Pete said cheerfully to the room, his hands working Ken’s body with effortless ownership. “That’s initiative. That’s using all available resources to implement the plan.” He leaned closer to Ken’s ear, his voice dropping to a murmur only Ken could hear. “Now tell them how it feels to be the solution.”
Ken’s vision blurred. Shame and arousal fused into a single, blinding current. “It feels… necessary,” he gasped, the words barely coherent. “It feels… like being used for the project’s success.” His body arched, pushing back against Pete’s finger, forward into his stroking hand, a betraying, eager rhythm. He was fully hard, painfully so, his entire being focused on those two points of contact.
The kneeling men watched, rapt. Their expressions held no disgust, only a fascinated, hungry admiration for Pete’s total control and for Ken’s utter capitulation. They saw the proof of the new hierarchy, the functionality of the tutorial method. Ken, through his shattering humiliation, was demonstrating his ultimate usefulness.
Pete withdrew his hands, leaving Ken gasping and empty against the table. The sudden absence of touch was a shock, a vacuum where pressure and heat had been. “Excellent practical example,” Pete announced to the silent, watching room. He wiped his fingers on a cloth from his pocket. “The correlation between thoroughness of explanation and physical receptivity is clear. Ken, you will begin your group tutorials this afternoon. Start with your team.”
He left without another word, the glass door sighing shut behind him.
The room remained quiet for a full minute, the only sound Ken’s ragged breathing as he pushed himself upright. He felt raw, used, his cock still thick and damp against his thigh. He turned to face the four men—Leo, Todd, Marcus, David—still kneeling in their scanty uniforms. Their eyes were wide, their own cocks visibly straining against the tight black elastic.
“The presentation stance,” Ken said, his voice scraped hollow. He gestured to the table. “You saw it.”
They nodded, a synchronized motion.
“We’ll begin now,” Ken said. He walked to the front of the room, near the large monitor still displaying data waterfalls. He positioned himself beside it, legs apart, hands at his sides. The fluorescent light was merciless on his skin. “Assume the sitting posture at the desks. Listen.”
They scrambled to the sleek office chairs, sitting with disciplined spreadeagle legs, hands resting on their thighs. Their attention was absolute.
Ken began. He spoke not of the act Pete had just performed, but of the work that preceded it. He described the silent, late-night hours compiling market metrics, the fractal patterns in consumer data that suggested the Q3 logistics gap. His words were technical, precise. He talked about building the concrete plan: the architectural diagrams, the stress-test simulations, the cost-benefit matrices rendered in shades of green and red.
He was just a man explaining his job. A naked man, his semi-hardness a persistent, ignored truth, standing before four near-naked men.
“Submission of the plan to corresponding departments follows a protocol of iterative humiliation,” he continued, his tone flat, instructive. “You deliver the draft. They criticize it in open forum. You thank them for their notes. You return, you revise, you present again. Each cycle pares away your original assumptions. What remains is not your plan, but the company’s. Implementation is the final stage of this erasure. You execute the thing that has been carved from your initial idea. Your hands perform the actions, but the will is no longer yours.”
He paused. The room was stifling. He could smell their collective scent—clean cotton, sharp deodorant, the musk of sustained arousal.
“Physical implementation mirrors this,” Ken said, the subject shifting seamlessly. “Preparing the body for use is a technical process. You will learn it.” He moved to the central desk. “The first posture is for administrative review. Bent over the desk, like this.”
He leaned forward, torso parallel to the surface, and placed his palms flat. He pushed his feet back, widening his stance until his ass was presented, his hole and balls fully exposed in the gap between his thighs. His cock hung down, heavy.
“This offers access and maintains a position of stable deference. The back is straight. The head is down. You do not look back.” His voice echoed slightly against the wood.
“The second posture is for more intimate examination.” He moved to the long leather sofa against the wall. He lay on his back, then hooked his hands behind his knees, pulling his legs up and apart until his knees were near his shoulders. His body folded open, a brutal display. Every part of him was on offer—the throbbing length of his cock, the tight sack of his balls, the pink, fluttering pucker of his asshole. “This allows for full visual and tactile inspection. It is vulnerable. It requires you to trust that the examiner will not harm you beyond the agreed parameters.”
He let his legs drop, sat up. His heart hammered against his ribs. “The state of arousal is not optional. It is part of the uniform. You will learn to achieve it on command. Focus on the permission. The relief of having no choices left. Let that thought fill your gut. Let it heat your blood. Your body will respond. It’s a simple chemical chain reaction.”
Swallowing hard, he stood. “Now. You will practice the principles of examination. Leo. Come here.”
Leo stood, his G-string straining. He approached, his expression a mix of eagerness and nervousness.
“Touch me,” Ken said, his voice leaving no room for debate. “Put your hands on me. Understand the texture. The temperature. The compliance of the subject.”
Leo’s hand, slightly trembling, reached out. His fingertips brushed Ken’s pectoral, then settled, palm flat over Ken’s heart. “It’s… warm,” Leo whispered.
“Be specific,” Ken instructed, staring at a point on the wall.
“Your skin is smooth. There’s tension in the muscle underneath. Your heart is beating very fast.” Leo’s other hand rose, hesitantly circling Ken’s nipple. It peaked instantly under the touch. “It’s reactive.”
“Now lower,” Ken said, the words ash in his mouth.
Leo’s hand trailed down Ken’s abdomen, through the fine hair, until his fingers curled loosely around Ken’s cock. He gave an experimental stroke. Ken’s breath hitched; his flesh swelled further, filling Leo’s grasp. “It’s hot,” Leo said, his own voice growing thicker. “It’s getting harder. The skin is like… moving silk over stone.”
“Enough,” Ken said, and Leo jumped back as if burned. “Todd. Your turn.”
One by one, they came. Todd, bolder, cupped Ken’s balls, weighing them, rolling them gently in his palm. Marcus, with a clinician’s detachment, used both hands to part Ken’s ass cheeks, staring at the exposed hole. “It’s clenching,” Marcus observed. “Unconscious reflex.”
“Make it stop,” Ken commanded, mortification a fire in his veins.
Marcus pressed a thumb firmly against the rim. The muscle, shocked, loosened. “Pressure applied directly counteracts the tension,” Marcus reported.
David, last, was instructed to feel the difference in Ken’s state. He touched Ken’s cock again, now fully, achingly erect, the head purpling and wet. “The vascular engagement is complete,” David said softly. “It’s… impressive.”
“Now pair up,” Ken said, stepping away, his body singing with the ghost of their collective touch. “Practice. One as examiner, one as subject. Use the postures. I will correct your technique.”
The room dissolved into a quiet, intense laboratory of shame. Chairs scraped. Soft gasps echoed. Ken moved among them, a naked foreman.
“Your hand is too tentative. Grab his cock like you mean it. He’s not made of glass.”
“Spread your legs wider, David. You’re hiding. The point is to be seen.”
“Leo, when you touch his hole, use the lubricant. There’s a bottle in the drawer. Smear it around the rim first. Then press in slowly. Feel for resistance.”
“Arch your back more, Todd. Present it. Make it an offering.”
His suggestions were mechanical, devoid of passion. He watched Marcus work a slick finger into Leo’s tight hole, watched Leo’s face contort, a mirror of his own earlier expressions. He saw David learn to choke back a moan as Todd jerked him off with brutal efficiency. Ken’s own untouched hardness was a relentless, painful anchor. He was the master of this domain, its architect, its most perfected specimen.
“Good,” Ken heard himself say, watching them. “That’s the basic methodology.”
Marcus looked up from where he was now kneeling between Leo’s spread legs, his finger buried to the knuckle. “And what comes after the basic methodology, tutor?” he asked, his voice curious, almost innocent. “What happens when they want more than just touching?”
Ken stared at him. The momentum of the lesson crashed into a wall of silent, terrifying implication. The narrative he had constructed had no next slide. The data stream on the monitor beside him bled endless, indifferent numbers.