Chapter 1: The Office Grovel
The break room hummed with the low, greasy thrum of the refrigerator. Fluorescent light bled from the fixtures overhead, washing everything in a sickly, pale green. It was a tomb of half-empty coffee cups, a forgotten donut slumped in a box, and the thick, clingy scent of cheap perfume overlaid with the smell of regret.
Lupe’s shadow fell across the table before she did, a sudden eclipse. She pulled a chair out, the legs screeching against the linoleum. She didn’t sit. She stood, looming, her voluptuous figure a monument of pure confidence. Her eyes, dark and glittering, found Mark where he hovered by the microwave, waiting for his soup to ding.
“Mark. Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a summons. The low, thunderous growl of her voice cut through the hum.
Mark flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible spasm. He turned, his light complexion paling further under the harsh light. His smile was a weak, trembling thing. “Oh. Hey, Lupe. What’s up?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up a cheap ballpoint pen from the table. With a deliberate, slow motion, she held it over the floor beside her chair. She dropped it. It clattered on the tile, rolling a few inches before stopping.
“Pick that up,” she said, her voice flat.
Mark barked a nervous laugh. “What? Come on, you just dropped it.”
“I didn’t ask you a question.” Her gaze was fixed on him, unblinking. A smirk played on her lips. “Pick it up.”
The air grew thicker. Mark’s eyes darted from the pen on the floor to Lupe’s face, then to the door. His soup beeped in the microwave, a shrill, ignored alarm. He took one step, then another. His movements were jerky. He bent at the knees, his posture apologetic, and snatched the pen from the floor. He held it out to her.
“Here.”
“I don’t want it,” she said, folding her arms. Her biceps strained against the fabric of her blouse. “Throw it in the trash.”
Mark blinked. He turned and took two steps to the small plastic bin by the sink. He dropped the pen in. It made a hollow plink sound against the empty can.
“No,” Lupe said, the smile widening. “Actually, I changed my mind. Take it out of the trash. I want it back.”
A hot wave of humiliation washed over Mark. He could feel it creeping up his neck, burning his ears. He stood frozen for a second, staring at the bin.
“Now, Mark.”
He moved. His hand dove into the bin, fingers brushing a sticky napkin. He pulled the pen out. He walked back, held it out again. His arm was trembling.
Lupe took the pen, her fingers brushing his. A deliberate, contemptuous contact. She laughed. It wasn’t a joyful sound. It was a deep, rolling sound of pure amusement at his expense. “Look at you. Jumping like a little puppet.” She tossed the pen onto the table. It skittered away.
Mark said nothing. He stared at a stain on the floor, wishing he could melt into it.
“You know what you are, Mark?” Her voice dropped to a mocking, intimate register. “You’re a loser. A genuine, certified loser.”
The word hung in the stale air. Loser. It seemed to vibrate.
He swallowed. “Lupe, please…”
“Please what?” She took a step closer. He took a step back, his calves hitting the edge of the table. “Say it. ‘I’m a loser, Lupe.’ Go on.”
His mouth was desert-dry. He shook his head, a tiny, desperate movement.
“Say it.” Her hand came down flat on the table next to him. Slam. The coffee mugs jumped. “Say ‘I’m a loser.’ Or do I need to make you?”
The threat was unspoken but absolute. It was in the sheer physical space she occupied, in the glint in her eye. It was in the knowledge that everyone in the office heard her, and no one would come in here.
“I’m…” The word choked him. He cleared his throat, a pathetic sound. “I’m a loser.”
“Louder.”
“I’m a loser.” It was a whisper.
“Again. And look at me when you say it.”
He forced his chin up. Met her victorious, gleaming gaze. “I’m a loser.”
“Good.” She purred the word. “Now get on your knees and say it properly.”
The world narrowed to the speckled pattern of the linoleum between his feet and her sensible, thick-heeled shoes. The refrigerator’s hum became a roar in his ears. This was the line. This was where he could say no, could walk away, could report her.
He didn’t.
His knees buckled. He lowered himself, the rough fabric of his trousers scraping the floor. He was now eye-level with the table edge, with the zit on her chin, with the triumphant curl of her lip.
“Say ‘I’m Lupe’s bitch.’ Say ‘I’m Lupe’s loser.’”
The taste of bile rose in his throat. The cheap perfume smell was overwhelming. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Her hand came down, not on the table this time, but on the top of his head. It was heavy, possessive. “Say it.”
The pressure anchored him, crushed him. “I’m…” he whispered, the words scraping out raw, “I’m Lupe’s bitch.”
“And?”
“And I’m… I’m Lupe’s loser.”
The hand on his head patted him, twice. A patronizing, ownership-pat. “You are,” she said, her voice rich with satisfaction. “You’re a loser. My loser.” She said it again, savoring each syllable. “Loser.” And again. “Loser.”
Each time she said it, the word hammered another nail into the coffin of his dignity. He knelt there, listening to the litany, each repetition carving the identity deeper into his soul. Loser. Loser. Loser.
Her voice was the only sound in the world, a thunderous, mocking growl that filled the grimy, fluorescent-lit tomb until there was no room left for anything else, especially not for him.
Her voice was the only sound in the world, a thunderous, mocking growl that filled the grimy, fluorescent-lit tomb until there was no room left for anything else, especially not for him.
The hand left his head. The silence that followed was worse.
“Get up,” she said.
He pushed himself off the floor, his joints stiff and creaking with shame. He couldn’t look at her. He studied the scuff marks on his shoes instead.
“We’re not done.” Lupe’s tone was conversational, as if discussing a mundane task. “Come with me.”
She turned and walked out of the break room, her heels clicking a firm, decisive rhythm on the linoleum. She didn’t look back. She knew he would follow. His legs carried him forward, a separate entity from his mind, which was screaming static.
The hallway was deserted. The offices were dark, their occupants gone for the day or hiding behind their cubicle walls. The only light came from the emergency exit signs, casting a bloody glow. She stopped at the door to the women’s restroom, pushed it open, and held it.
“In here.”
Mark froze. “Lupe… no. Someone will see.”
“No one’s here.” Her smile was all teeth. “It’s just us. Get in.”
He glanced down the empty hallway, a final, pathetic hope for a witness, for an interruption. There was nothing. He stepped over the threshold. The bathroom was smaller, cleaner than the break room, but just as bleak. The air smelled of industrial lemon cleaner and old plumbing. Lupe let the door swing shut. The click of the lock was deafening.
She leaned back against the row of sinks, appraising him. The smirk never left her face. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt. She shimmied it just low enough, reached in, and pulled out a scrap of black lace. She held them up, dangling from her finger.
“Put these on.”
Mark’s brain short-circuited. He stared at the fabric. “What? No. God, no, Lupe. I’m not doing that.”
“You’ll work the rest of your shift with these on.” She said it like she was telling him the weather. A simple fact of his existence.
“Please.” The word was a dry, broken thing. “Please, don’t make me do this.”
She laughed. It echoed off the tile. “Make you? You’re not being made to do anything. You’re choosing. You can walk out that door right now.” She pointed to the locked door. “Go ahead. Unlock it. Leave.”
He didn’t move. They both knew he wouldn’t. The threat wasn’t in what she’d do if he left; it was in the devastating, unspoken knowledge of what would happen if he stayed. And he was already staying. He had already chosen by walking in here.
“You have no choice,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “This is who you are. This is what my loser does.”
She extended her arm, the lace swinging gently. He stared at her hand, at the dark polish on her nails, at the delicate straps of the underwear. A wave of nausea, hot and sour, rose in his throat. His fingers trembled as he reached out. He took them. The material was still warm from her body.
“Go on,” she urged, her eyes bright with malicious delight.
He turned his back to her, a token gesture of modesty that was laughable. His hands fumbled with his belt, his zipper. The cold air of the bathroom hit his skin. He stepped out of his trousers, his movements clumsy and slow, as if he were underwater. He pulled the black lace up his legs, the fabric absurd and foreign against his skin. It felt like being branded. He yanked his pants back up, the coarse material now scratching over the delicate lace. He fastened his belt, the act final and terrible.
When he turned around, she was holding up her hand, her thumb and index finger forming a perfect, stark ‘L’ against her forehead.
“Look at you,” she said, her voice a low, humming purr of triumph. “My little loser. With my panties on.”
He stood there, pinned under her gaze, the lace a secret, screaming itch against his skin.
“Loser.” She said it softly, savoring it.
“Loser.” A little louder.
“Loser.” She chanted it now, the ‘L’ pressed against her own skin, a mirror of the one she had stamped onto his soul. Each iteration was a nail in a coffin he now realized he’d been building for himself all along, here in the sterile, lemon-scented dark with her.
Each iteration was a nail in a coffin he now realized he’d been building for himself all along, here in the sterile, lemon-scented dark with her.
Lupe watched him for a long moment, the ‘L’ still pressed to her forehead. She let her hand drop, the smirk settling into something colder, more satisfied. She turned and walked deeper into the bathroom, her heels clicking on the tile, the sound echoing. In the corner, near a stack of cleaning supplies, was a small, wheeled stool the janitors used. She pulled it to the center of the open floor, the wheels squeaking in the silence.
She sat down. The stool was low. She planted her feet wide, her skirt riding up her thighs. She looked at Mark, who hadn’t moved from his spot by the door, a statue of shame. She patted the space on the stool between her spread legs.
“Come here.”
Mark’s voice was a rasp. “Lupe. No more. Please.”
“Come. Here.” Each word was a brick, solid and immovable.
His feet moved. They carried him the few steps forward until he stood before her, looking down at the part of the stool she had patted. The black lace scratched his skin, a constant, taunting reminder.
“Take your pants off,” she said. Her tone was conversational, as if asking for a pencil. “Leave my panties on.”
“You can’t be serious.” A weak laugh escaped him, hollow and brittle. “This is… this is insane.”
“Insane?” She tilted her head. “The loser is calling the master insane? Interesting.” She leaned back, bracing her hands on the edge of the stool. “Do it. Or I get up, unlock that door, and walk to HR. I’ll tell them my colleague, Mark, followed me into the bathroom, acting strangely. I’ll say I felt threatened. Who do you think they’ll believe?”
He knew the answer. He saw it in the unshakable certainty of her posture, in the clean lines of her blouse against his rumpled shirt. He was the one wearing her underwear.
His fingers went to his belt again. The click of the buckle was deafening. The zzzip of the zipper was a confession. He pushed his trousers down, stepped out of them, kicked them aside. He stood there in his shirt, his socks, and the fragile black lace. The air was cold on his bare legs.
“Good,” she breathed. The word was full of warmth, of ownership.
She reached for him. Her hands were sudden on his hips, pulling him forward, guiding him to stand right in front of the stool, between her knees. The proximity was electric and horrifying. He could smell her perfume mixing with the lemon cleaner. He stared at a crack in the ceiling tile, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
“Look at me, loser.”
He dragged his eyes down. Her gaze was locked on him, fierce and hungry.
One of her hands slid inward, over the lace. He flinched. Her fingers found the seam, worked beneath the delicate fabric. She tugged, shifting the material aside. Her other hand came up, wrapped around him. He was already, traitorously, half-hard. The shock of her touch—warm, dry, deliberate—shot through him.
He gasped.
“Shh,” she said, her thumb moving. “You belong to me.”
She began to stroke him, a slow, relentless rhythm. Her eyes never left his face, watching every flinch, every twitch of humiliation. He was trembling.
“Ten,” she said, her voice a low hum. “You’re a loser. Nine. My loser. Eight. A pathetic little loser. Seven.” Her grip tightened slightly. “Six. Say it.”
He couldn’t speak. His breath came in short, sharp hitches.
“Say ‘I’m a loser,’” she commanded, her hand never stopping.
“I’m… a loser,” he choked out.
“Five.” She sped up her rhythm. “Four. Look at you. Three. You’re nothing. Two. Nothing but my loser.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, vicious and intimate. “One.”
On “one,” her hand stilled, clenched tight at the base, a sudden, arresting pressure. He cried out, a strangled sound that echoed off the tiles. His whole body shuddered, suspended on a wave of forced, unbearable sensation. The fluorescent light flickered overhead.
She held him there, on the edge, her grasp unyielding. A single, smug smile touched her lips.
A single, smug smile touched her lips.
She held him there, trapped at the precipice, her fist a tight, unyielding cage. His whole body was a live wire, vibrating with a need so acute it was pain. A choked, animal sound escaped his throat.
“Please,” he gasped, the word stripped raw. “Lupe, please. Let me… I need…”
She released her grip completely.
Mark shuddered, a full-body convulsion of denied release. He almost crumpled. His hands shot out, bracing against the sink counter behind her to keep from falling. He was panting, tears of frustration pricking his eyes. “Why? God, why?”
“Because I decide.” Her voice was calm, almost bored. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out her phone. With a tap, the screen glowed to life. Another tap. A soft, mechanical beep sounded in the tiled room. A small red recording dot appeared on the screen.
She held it up, the lens pointed at his face, pale and twisted with agonized need.
“Say it,” she said, her voice clear for the microphone. “Say, ‘I am Lupe’s slave forever, and I will do anything she wants. I am her loser.’”
The phone in her hand was a black void, a digitized eye. It made everything infinitely more real, more permanent. This wasn’t just a terrible moment in a cleaning closet; it was evidence. A commodity.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head.
She lowered the phone slightly, her thumb hovering. “Then I walk out. And you finish yourself off in here, alone. With my panties on.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or you say the words, and I finish what I started.”
He looked from the phone to her face, to the insistent, throbbing ache between his legs. The choice was no choice at all. It was a chute and a cliff, and the chute led to her.
He closed his eyes. “I am Lupe’s slave forever,” he mumbled.
“Louder. To the camera.”
He opened his eyes, looked directly into the lens. “I am Lupe’s slave forever, and I will do anything she wants.” The words tasted like ash and surrender. “I am her loser.”
“Good boy.”
In one swift, powerful motion, she grabbed his hip and yanked him down. He stumbled, off-balance, and landed hard on the small, wheeled stool between her spread legs. The edge of the seat dug into the backs of his thighs. He was sitting upright, pinned between her knees, his back to her chest. She was everywhere, surrounding him.
Before he could process the new position, her left hand clamped over his mouth and nose. Her palm was warm, smelling of her perfume and her skin. The pressure was immediate, total. His air cut off.
Panic flashed, white-hot. He squirmed, a frantic jerking of his shoulders and torso. He tried to twist his head, but her arm was an iron bar across his face, locking his head against her collarbone. He was smaller than her, lighter. Her strength was absolute, a wall of muscle and will he could not breach. His muffled grunts were absorbed by her flesh.
Her other hand snaked around his hip, her fingers finding him again.
“My loser,” she growled into his ear, her voice hot and close. Her hand began to move, a ruthless, efficient rhythm. “Pathetic loser.” Stroke. “My slave.” Stroke. “Weak.” Stroke. “Nothing.”
He bucked against her, but it was useless. The lack of air blurred his vision. The world tunneled into the feel of her hand, the pounding of his own heart, the vicious, loving words in his ear. The two sensations merged—the deprivation and the stimulation—into one overwhelming current. His struggle weakened, his movements becoming less a fight for escape and more a series of helpless spasms.
“Come for me, loser,” she commanded, her voice a dark chant against his ear. “Come for your master.”
His body, traitorous and broken, obeyed. The climax tore through him, a violent, shattering wave that had nowhere to go but into the muffled scream against her hand. He convulsed, his back arching, every muscle locked tight.
She held him through it, her hand never slowing, her other hand sealing his cries into silence until the last shudder passed.
Then, finally, she let go.
Her hand left his mouth. He sucked in a ragged, whooping gasp, the air burning his lungs. Her other hand released him, coming to rest on his thigh, a possessive weight.
For a moment, the only sounds were his desperate, gulping breaths and the hum of the lights.
Then, from above him, came her laughter. It was low, rich, and full of genuine delight. It echoed off the tiles, a sound of pure, unadulterated victory.
“There,” she said, giving his thigh a pat. She sounded pleased, satisfied. “Now I have a new slave.”