Chapter 10: The Boardroom Submission
The warehouse address pulsed behind her eyes like a stubborn afterimage. It was there when she blinked, etched onto the dark backdrop of her eyelids. 10 PM. She spent Sunday in a suspended state, a ghost in her own apartment. She tried to read. The words swam. She tried to watch a film. The faces were flat, meaningless. All neural pathways led back to the hollow, to the machine, to the text.
Monday morning arrived with the sharp, unforgiving glare of routine. She stood before her closet, her body still humming with a residual ache, and selected her armor: a fitted, charcoal-gray suit jacket, a cream silk shell, a pencil skirt that ended just at the knee. She applied her makeup with meticulous care, outlining her eyes, painting her lips a subdued rose. She became Evelyn Marsh, Vice President of Marketing. The construct was solid, polished, impenetrable.
The meeting with the Silicon Valley client was scheduled for 11 AM her time, 8 AM theirs. A quarterly review. She set up her laptop on the frosted glass coffee table in the living room, adjusting the angle. The camera frame showed her from the chest up, a professional head-and-shoulders shot against the neutral backdrop of her sofa. The perfect picture of composed acuity.
Below the frame, it was a different reality.
She was naked from the waist down. The stool was positioned precisely. The machine, cleaned but not sanitized of memory, was strapped in place. The chosen attachment was the thickest one, the stretcher. Her cunt, still tender from Saturday’s marathon, throbbed in dull anticipation as she lowered herself onto the cold, lubricated silicone. She took it all in one slow, excruciating slide, biting her lip until she tasted copper. The familiar burn of being stretched wide bloomed, a fire she had come to crave.
She connected the remote to her laptop, a custom piece of software allowing silent control via keystrokes. Her thumb rested on the ‘M’ key. Medium.
At 10:59, she opened the video conferencing link. Three little windows popped up. Brad, the CEO, with his aggressively white smile. Lisa, the COO, sipping from a stainless steel water bottle. Mark, the CFO, already looking at a second screen.
“Evelyn! Right on time.” Brad’s voice was tinny through her speakers.
“Good morning, everyone.” Her voice was smooth, a warm alto that gave nothing away. A slight, professional smile touched her lips.
She pressed ‘M’.
The machine beneath her whirred to life. The piston drove upward, filling her completely, then withdrew almost out before slamming home again. A soft, wet sound, muffled by her own body and the leather of the stool. She crossed her legs at the ankle, a demure, composed pose. The movement hid the slight jolt that traveled up her spine with each thrust.
“So, looking at Q2 projections,” Lisa began, pulling up a shared spreadsheet. “The click-through rates on the new ad series are strong, but the conversion is lagging behind by about seven percent. Your thoughts?”
The machine pumped. Out. A relentless, rhythmical invasion. Evelyn focused on the numbers on the screen, on the cool analytical language of business. Her inner muscles fluttered, trying to clench around the thick silicone plug fucking her.
“The creative is clearly resonating for awareness,” she said, her tone measured. “The lag suggests a friction point in the user journey between interest and purchase. I’d recommend we A/B test the checkout page layout. Perhaps a more streamlined…” She trailed off for a nanosecond as the machine hit a particularly deep angle. “…a more streamlined process.”
“That was my read too,” Mark said, nodding. “The data on cart abandonment spikes at step three.”
Step three. The words morphed in her mind. Step three was the machine dialing up to high. Her finger hovered near the ‘H’ key. She didn’t press it. Not yet. The medium setting was a brutal, constant fullness, a reminder. But she needed more.
They talked numbers. Market penetration. ROI. Brad told a pointless anecdote about his golf game. Evelyn laughed at the right moment, a light, airy sound. Below the table, her hips gave a tiny, involuntary grind against the downward stroke of the piston. Heat was pooling, a low-grade fever spreading from her core. She could feel her own wetness mixing with the lube, a warm slickness on her inner thighs.
“Evelyn, your team’s proposal for the experiential pop-ups,” Lisa said. “The budget seems high. Can you walk us through the justification again?”
This was her moment. A longer speaking part. She took a shallow breath, her abdominal muscles tight.
“Of course.” She began, her eyes on the camera, projecting confidence. “The justification is in brand elevation. We’re not just selling a product; we’re selling an identity. The pop-up isn’t a store, it’s a narrative portal.” As she spoke, her finger found the ‘H’ key and pressed it.
The whirr shifted into a higher, urgent register. The strokes became shorter, faster, a frantic jackhammering deep in her cunt. It was like being fucked by a piece of industrial equipment. Which she was. Her words didn’t falter, but her vision blurred at the edges. She gripped the edge of the coffee table, her knuckles white.
“The cost per impression might be higher,” she continued, her voice tightening just a fraction, “but the emotional resonance and social media amplification will drive a loyalty that pure digital can’t buy.”
An orgasm was building, a terrifying tidal wave rising from the base of her spine, fed by the machine’s vicious, unfeeling rhythm. It clashed violently with the spreadsheet on her screen. She was splitting in two.
“So you’re saying the data supports the spend?” Mark asked, skeptical.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The piston pounded her greedy, stretched cunt. The pleasure was a sharp, bright pain. She was going to come. Right now.
She pressed her thighs together tightly, trying to muffle the wet, rhythmic slapping. Her smile became rigid.
“I’m saying,” she gasped, the word escaping before she could control it. She cleared her throat, forced steadiness. “I’m saying the qualitative data is as critical as the quantitative here. I agree with the proposed strategy.”
As the last professional syllable left her lips, the orgasm detonated. It was soundless, vast, and utterly devastating. Her cunt spasmed in a rapid, fluttering series of contractions around the unyielding silicone, trying to milk it, to pull it deeper. A hot gush of her release soaked the stool beneath her, dripping audibly onto the floor. Her eyes stayed open, locked on the camera. A faint sheen of sweat appeared on her upper lip.
“Well, you’ve convinced me,” Brad said, grinning.
“Let’s move forward then,” Lisa said, making a note.
They talked logistics for a few more minutes. Evelyn nodded, murmured agreements. The machine continued to piston into her, over-sensitizing her raw nerves, sending aftershocks through her trembling body. She was a ruin being perpetually excavated.
When the call ended, the windows winked out. The silence of her apartment rushed back in, broken only by the relentless, buzzing hum of the machine and the ragged saw of her own breath.
Her composure shattered.
A guttural, wounded sound tore from her throat. She slammed her fist on the ‘Max’ key.
The machine screamed. The thrusts were now a violent, short-stroke barrage, a frenzy. She uncrossed her legs, letting them fall open, and began to ride it in earnest, slamming herself down onto it, meeting each mechanical drive with a brutal crash of her own hips.
“Fuck me! Fuck this greedy cunt!” she snarled to the empty room, the obscenity raw and shocking in the pristine space. Tears streamed through her makeup. She wasn’t chasing pleasure anymore. She was pursuing obliteration.
She came again almost immediately, a sharp, slicing climax that felt like being ripped apart. Then again. And again. Each one weaker, more fragmented, a neurological short circuit. Her body convulsed, spent, but the machine didn’t stop. It fucked her through the tears, through the dry, painful spasms, until she was just a hollow vessel being hammered on an anvil.
Finally, with a sob that was pure defeat, she reached down and yanked the power cord from the wall.
Silence. A ringing, absolute silence.
She collapsed sideways onto the cool concrete floor, curling into a fetal position. The suit jacket was wrinkled, her silk shell soaked with sweat. Her ruined makeup stained the floor. The thick silicone attachment slipped from her body with a final, wet plop, leaving her feeling gaping, empty, and savagely used.
She lay there for an hour, maybe two. The gray afternoon light faded.
Her phone, face-down on the table, vibrated. Once. A notification.
She didn’t move to get it. She already knew. The warehouse. Tonight.
The woman on the floor, amidst the wreckage of her dignity and the smell of sex and despair, was not Evelyn Marsh, VP. That woman had just expertly led a quarter-million-dollar strategy call. The woman on the floor was someone else entirely. Someone hungry. Someone broken open.
And tonight, that woman had an appointment.