Chapter 50: The IT Technician's Demand
The taste and smell of Hayley was inescapable. Her strong morning piss sloshed in his belly. Her nectar pushed into his sinuses. The taste of her arsehole. A psychic stain. When he blinked, he saw the inverted room, the phone’s red eye. He tried to bury these thoughts under his work and, eventually, thanks to a difficult case involving the theft of some safety critical equipment, he managed it. It had been then that Holly had texted. She needed him. Now.
He stood outside the plain, maple-veneer door labelled ‘IT Services – H. Vance’. The hum of the office building was a low, corporate thrum. Someone laughed down the corridor. Normal life.
He knocked. Softly.
“It’s open.” Holly’s voice was quiet, tentative.
Paul entered, closing the door behind him with a definitive click. The office was a small, warm cave cluttered with server manuals, coiled cables. Framed photos of teams—smiling, unified—adorned the walls.
Holly stood by her desk. She was twisting a USB cable in her hands. She was beautiful in an unstudied way: athletic leanness, intelligent brown eyes that wouldn’t quite meet his, a spill of chestnut hair over one shoulder. She wore a simple cream blouse and a navy pencil skirt. Her knuckles were white around the cable.
“Odette messaged me,” she said, finally looking at him. Her gaze was a collision of nervousness and a deep, burning resolve. “She said you’d come if I texted. That you’d have to.”
Paul’s throat tightened. Help me. Odette’s words, transmitted through this shy girl, were a sentence. A directive. Another performance to be graded. He wondered if the video from Hayley’s bedroom had already been sent.
The thought was an icepick behind his eyes. His performance here, now, was the only currency he had to bargain with.
She dropped the cable. It slapped softly on the desk. “After yesterday. When you… when you begged to taste me.”
Paul remembered. The frantic, clumsy encounter in the stationery cupboard, the metallic, copper-tinged shock on his tongue, his own desperate gratitude for the permission. “I know,” he said, his voice rough.
“I messaged her last night,” Holly continued, her words gaining speed, tumbling out. “I told her how… intense it was. How I came so hard I saw stars. She said you have a party trick.”
Paul went very still. A cold tremor, unrelated to desire, traced his spine.
“She said you’ve done it before. Changed a tampon. With just your mouth.” Holly’s cheeks flushed a deep, mortified scarlet, but her eyes held his, defiant. “She promised you’d show me. That you like doing it.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned. She hoisted her skirt up around her waist in one swift, decisive motion. She wasn’t wearing underwear, though clearly just had been and removed it. The neat thatch of brown stubble glistened, swollen lips parted. From between them, a clean, white string dangled down against her inner thigh.
She leaned back against the desk, gripping the edge, her knuckles white again. “It’s ready,” she whispered, the statement clinical and unbearably intimate.
The command was absolute. It came from Odette, through this girl’s shy, commanding body.
The air in the cluttered office was suddenly too thick, tasting of dust and the coppery anticipation of blood. Paul’s knees pressed into the coarse industrial carpet. He had no choice. This was the vow he had made to Odette, the secret desire that made him complete and happy, but sometimes the labour of love was hard to carry through and this was not his favourite manifestation of it.
He leaned forward, the damp, musky scent of her filling his nostrils, overlaying the ghost of ammonia from Hayley’s urethra. The white string lay against her skin like a claim. He bent his head.
He gripped Holly’s tampon string between his teeth and proceeded.
The cotton was waxy between his molars. He applied gentle, steady pressure, feeling the immediate resistance from within her body. Holly gasped, her hands flying to his hair, not to guide but to clutch. “Oh, god,” she whispered, the words trembling.
He pulled. A slow, deliberate retraction. The saturated tampon began its slide from her swollen channel, dragging against her inner walls. He could feel the faint vibration of her moan through the string. The physical feedback was grotesque and intimate, a direct line to her core.
It emerged, a soaked, crimson-brown cylinder. The smell was profound—metallic, organic, deeply private. It plopped wetly from her onto his bottom lip, dangling from the string held between his teeth, a heavy, shocking weight.
“Fuck,” Holly breathed, her thighs quivering on either side of his head.
“Now,” she commanded, her voice gaining strength, riding on a wave of shocking power. “Now clean me.”
He dropped the sodden tampon into the bin beside his knee—a dark, dismissed relic. Then he drove his mouth onto her. His tongue speared into the aching, emptied space, lapping away the lingering traces. He tasted the raw interior of her, the slick, bloody residue painting his lips and chin- strong, bitter. He lapped upwards, finding her clit, swollen and hard amidst the mess
“Yes, just like that,” she chanted, her hips bucking off the desk, grinding her cunt against his face. He slurped and sucked, cleaning away the evidence of her cycle, his nose buried in her curls. The flavor was primal, a visceral revulsion. This was service, pure and demanded.
Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling painfully. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop, I’m gonna—!”
Her orgasm hit her like a seizure. Her back arched violently, a silent scream on her lips as her thighs clamped vicelike around his ears. He felt her inner walls spasm rhythmically against his probing tongue, a fresh gush of wetness, cleaner now, mixing with the last of the blood. He drank it, nursing at her until her shaking subsided into weak tremors.
He knelt back, breathing raggedly. His chin and lips were a glistening red mask. Holly quivered on the desk above him, her skirt still rucked around her waist, her legs splayed. She looked dazed, powerful, and young.
“No one’s ever… my ex, he said it was gross,” she said, her voice soft with wonder. She reached out a tentative finger and wiped at the blood on his chin, then looked at the red smear on her skin. “Odette was right. You’re a fucking miracle.”
The praise, sourced from Odette, was a lifeline. It washed over him, warm and absolving. For a moment, the belly full of filth became a sacrament.
For a moment, the belly full of filth became a sacrament. It coiled warm within him, a tangible connection to Odette’s will, approved now by Holly’s dazed, approving eyes.
Then Holly shifted, sliding off the desk with a soft shush of nylon skirt. Her hands, trembling slightly, went to the large leather satchel slumped by her chair. “Odette suggested it,” she murmured, her voice still airy from the climax. She rummaged, pulled out a plain white box, and extracted a fresh, plastic-wrapped tampon.
The crinkling of the wrapper was obscenely loud.
She tore it open, the applicator a stark, clinical white against her blood-smudged fingers. She leaned back against the desk again, parting her thighs, which were still slick from his mouth and her own release. Her expression was a fascinating mix of shy curiosity and gathering command.
“She said you could put it in for me. With your mouth.” Holly’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the instruction was clear.
She held the clean, cotton-filled tube poised at her entrance. The plastic felt cold and artificial against his lower lip. He opened his mouth, let her place it between his teeth, the thin, ribbed applicator.
“Go on,” she breathed.
Paul pressed his face forward. The blunt, rounded tip met her swollen, sensitive flesh. She gasped. He applied pressure, his neck muscles straining as he pushed against the natural resistance of her body. It was a clumsy, ungainly motion, all the finesse of his tongue replaced by primitive force.
He had to nuzzle deep, his nose buried in her, using the flat bridge of it to shove harder. The applicator slid an inch, then stuck. A low groan vibrated from his throat into her core.
“Use your tongue,” she instructed, her fingers tangling in his hair, not gently.
He snaked his tongue out, licking around the invading plastic, trying to lubricate the path. The taste of blood and her own slickness flooded back. He pushed again with his face, a slow, insistent pressure, his jaw aching from holding the applicator steady.
With a sudden, yielding pop, it slid home. His lips met her outer lips, the applicator now fully sheathed inside her. A triumphant, breathy laugh escaped Holly. “Oh my god. You did it.”
She guided his head back with her hands in his hair. He released the applicator, leaving it buried within her. With a practiced pinch of the string, she withdrew the plastic sleeve and tossed it toward the bin. It missed, clattering on the floor.
“There,” she said, looking down at herself, at the single white string now nestled back in her curls. A flush of pure, delighted power colored her cheeks. “All better. Thanks.”
She studied him, kneeling there, his face a devastated canvas of her fluids. Her gaze travelled down his front, lingering on the obvious, straining bulge distorting the fine wool of his trousers. Her shy smirk returned, a little wider now.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice gaining a new, playful texture. “Let me see it. Show me your cock, Paul.”
His hands, which had been resting on his thighs, felt like blocks of stone. This was the transaction. Obedience for approval, exposure to shred his dignity. He fumbled with his belt, the metallic clink jarring in the quiet room. The zip sounded like a scream.
He pushed his trousers and briefs down over his hips. His erection sprang free, thick and flushed, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum. It curved upwards, trembling slightly in the cool office air, a blatant confession his mind could never articulate.
Holly’s eyes widened. Her shy smirk deepened, her teeth catching her lower lip. She didn’t touch him. She just looked, her gaze tracing the throbbing vein along its length, the tight, drawn-back foreskin, the angry red tip.
“Fuck,” she whispered, almost to herself. “It’s so… serious-looking.” She reached out a single fingertip, then hesitated, pulling back. “You’re that hard from that? From putting a tampon in me with your face?”
Paul had no answer that wouldn’t sound like madness. The truth was a snake-pit: the hardness was from her shocked pleasure, from the vile tang of blood on his tongue, from the phantom pressure of a funnel in his throat, from the desperate, clawing need for Odette to hear he had performed well. It was an erection built from layers of holy degradation.
“It’s impressive,” Holly conceded, her tone shifting to something contemplative, almost professional. She leaned back, crossing her arms under her breasts, her skirt still rucked around her waist, the tampon string a silent pixel in the scene. “Odette said you weren’t allowed to come without permission. Is that true?”
He nodded, the motion stiff.
“Right.” Holly nodded too, as if filing the information. “Then you’d better put that away. Before I’m tempted to test the rule.”
The dismissal was casual, absolute. Paul moved clumsily, tucking his achingly hard cock back into the confines of his trousers, the fabric an immediate, cruel prison. The damp, coppery taste in his mouth was now permanent. The warm, shameful weight in his gut from Hayley’s gift seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
As he fastened his belt, Holly smoothed her skirt down, transforming back into the IT girl from the fourth floor. She glanced at the bloody smears on his chin, the state of his shirt collar. A flicker of concern crossed her face.
“You should use my loo,” she said, pointing to a small, en-suite door he hadn’t noticed. “Clean up a bit before you go back to your glamorous barristering.”
It was a practical kindness that felt more humiliating than any command. He was a mess that needed tidying. He stood, his knees cracking, and shuffled to the bathroom.
In the mirror, a stranger covered in dark, drying rust stared back. This was the face that would plead with Odette. This was the face that would explain the video, if it ever came. He turned on the tap, the water thunderously loud, and began to scrub.