Chapter 20: Asphyxiation Bargain
The click of her heels on the polished concrete floor echoed unnaturally loud in the empty corridor. Richard’s executive suite loomed ahead, the frosted glass door a barrier separating the mundane world from… this. Sara’s thighs were slick, the absence of panties a constant, humiliating reminder of her state. Her skin still thrummed with the aftershocks of the orgasm Vogt had ripped from her over the phone minutes ago. Shame warred with a dark, liquid heat pooling low in her belly.
She paused outside the suite door, hand hovering. One breath. Two. She pushed it open.
The air inside was cooler, scented with expensive leather and a hint of Richard’s cloying cologne. The large conference room branched off to the left, its door ajar. She stepped inside, the recessed lights casting long shadows from the imposing table and high-backed chairs. David Vogt leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. Richard sat at the head of the table, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler, a look of detached amusement on his face.
Vogt’s eyes raked over her, a predator assessing prey. "Took you long enough, cunt." His voice was a low growl that vibrated straight through her. "Forget how to walk without panties holding you together?"
Richard chuckled softly. "David, manners. Sara’s earned her place here. Haven’t you, darling?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Creative Director. Quite the leap. Enjoying the view from the top?"
Sara forced her spine straight, meeting Richard’s gaze. "The responsibilities are significant," she said, her voice betraying none of the tremor she felt inside. "I’m capable." She was stalling, buying seconds, her gaze flicking almost imperceptibly towards the abstract painting on the wall opposite Richard. A tiny lens, nearly invisible within the chaotic swirls of dark paint – her insurance, meticulously installed late Sunday night. Still active.
Vogt pushed off the wall. "Capable?" He stalked towards her, each step deliberate, echoing in the cavernous room. "We’ll see about that." He stopped inches away, his height forcing her to tilt her head back. The scent of him, sweat and aggression, filled her nostrils. "Kneel."
The command was a physical blow. Her feminist pride screamed. Her cunt clenched, flooding anew. She hesitated, the defiance she’d shown Richard crumbling under Vogt’s raw dominance.
"Now, slut," he snarled, his hand shooting out, tangling painfully in her hair. He wrenched her head back, forcing a gasp from her lips. "You come when called, you kneel when told. That’s your use now."
Pain radiated from her scalp, sharp and grounding. She obeyed, lowering herself stiffly onto her knees on the cool, hard floor. The silk of her skirt rode up, exposing her bare thighs. The vulnerability was absolute, humiliating. Richard watched, sipping his drink, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Vogt loomed over her. He reached up, loosening the knot of his ridiculously expensive tie with one hand while the other kept a punishing grip on her hair. The silk slid free. He doubled it over, the dark fabric stark against his palm.
"Open your whore mouth," he commanded.
Sara parted her lips, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He shoved the folded silk roughly against her tongue. The taste of wool and him invaded her senses. He pulled it back, leaving the ghost of the fabric on her palate, then looped the tie around her neck. It felt cool, then constricting as he pulled it taut, not enough to cut off air, but enough to make her swallow hard against the pressure. He knotted it firmly at the nape of her neck. A leash.
"Good little bitch," Vogt murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. He gathered the loose end of the tie in his fist, holding it like a tether. "Look up at me."
Sara obeyed, her eyes wide, pupils dilated with fear and unwanted arousal. His free hand cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip. It was almost gentle, a terrifying contrast to the tie biting into her neck. He leaned down, his breath hot on her face.
"Count," he whispered, his voice a low vibration that resonated in her bones. "Count each breath I steal."
He tightened his fist on the tie. The pressure increased sharply. Sara gasped, a thin, reedy sound. The silk dug deep into the flesh of her throat. Her vision swam at the edges. She tried to suck in air, but the restriction was brutal.
"One," she choked out, the word barely audible.
Vogt’s other hand slid down, over the swell of her breast, squeezing hard through her blouse and blazer. The pain-pleasure mix was dizzying. Her lungs burned. He tugged the tie tighter still.
"T-two," she rasped, spots dancing before her eyes. Panic flared, primal. Her hands fluttered uselessly at her sides. Her cunt pulsed, a traitorous throb of slick heat completely at odds with the suffocation. She was pinned between agony and ecstasy, humiliation and a dark, yawning need.
"You love this, don't you?" Richard’s voice floated from the table, distant, amused. "Watching her struggle. Seeing how deep the need goes."
Vogt didn't look away from Sara’s face, watching the colour drain, watching her lips part desperately for air she couldn't get. "She’s built for it. A filthy little airhole craving to be plugged." He eased the pressure minutely. Sara gulped a shuddering breath. "Three."
The pressure clamped down again, harder, faster. Her vision tunneled. The abstract painting swam, the hidden camera a blur. It’s recording. It’s all recording. The thought was a thin thread of sanity. She tried to count, but only a desperate wheeze escaped.
"Four..." Vogt counted for her, his voice thick with dark satisfaction. He saw her focus waver, her eyes rolling back slightly. He held the pressure, relentless. "That's it, cunt. Drift. Let it take you."
Blackness encroached, swallowing the edges of the room. The pain in her scalp, the bite of the tie, the throbbing ache between her legs – all merged into a single, overwhelming sensation of being utterly owned. Controlled. Used. Her body went limp, only Vogt’s grip on her hair and the tie keeping her upright.
"Five..." The word was a whisper against her ear, the last thing she heard clearly as consciousness frayed. "When you wake up... my cock will be buried in your ass... and you won't even remember begging for it."
Darkness consumed her. The tie remained tight, a leash tethering her unconscious body to Vogt’s will. Her head lolled forward. The only movement was the faint tremor in her limbs and the slow drip of saliva from her slack mouth onto the polished floor.
The hidden camera, nestled within the somber painting, captured it all: the limp figure on her knees, the leash taut, the men watching, poised for the next violation. Sara’s slack jaw hung open, a thin line of drool connecting her lip to the polished concrete floor. Her chest barely lifted with shallow, strained breaths under the unrelenting pressure of the silk tie. The air hummed with the building’s ventilation and the low thrum of her own fading pulse in her ears.
Vogt’s knuckles were white around the knotted silk leash. He watched the faint tremor in her lax limbs, a predator gauging the stillness of prey. "Out cold," he stated, his voice flat and devoid of the earlier growl, pure clinical assessment. He gave the tie a sharp, testing tug; her head jerked limply back, throat exposed, but she didn’t stir. "Perfect."
Richard rose from his leather chair, the sound sharp in the quiet. He walked around the table, his polished shoes clicking rhythmically on the hard floor until he stood beside Vogt, looking down at Sara’s collapsed form. "She looks… peaceful," he mused, a hint of cruel amusement colouring his tone. "All that righteous fury, silenced. Quite an achievement, David." He nudged her shoulder with the toe of his shoe. Her body swayed slightly, lifeless as a doll.
"She begged for it," Vogt replied, releasing his grip on her hair. Her head slumped forward again. "Before the lights went out. Whimpered 'please' like the little cunt she is." He reached down, grabbing the hem of her skirt. With a rough yank, he hauled the fabric up over her hips, bunching it around her waist. The sudden exposure of her bare ass and cunt to the cool conference room air was obscene. Her pussy glistened obscenely, slick folds swollen dark from her earlier arousal and the brutal play. The scent of her musk mixed sharply with leather polish and cologne.
Vogt didn’t hesitate. His thick fingers, cold from the air conditioning, plunged roughly between her thighs, two digits spearing deep into her sodden cunt without preamble. He worked them brutally, a harsh, squelching sound filling the space as he fucked her slack hole. "Still dripping," he grunted, withdrawing his glistening fingers, coated thickly in her fluids. He held them up, glistening under the recessed lights, for Richard to see. "Filthy bitch is always ready. Even unconscious, her cunt remembers its job."
He wiped his wet fingers across her exposed ass cheek, leaving a slick trail. Then, his other hand went to his belt buckle. The rasp of leather sliding free, the metallic clink of the buckle, the whisper of his zipper lowering – each sound was amplified in the tense silence. He shoved his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and fully hard, the angry red head glistening with pre-cum against the dark thatch of hair. The vein pulsed visibly along its rigid length.
Richard watched, a detached spectator sipping his whiskey. "Ensure she stays compliant when she wakes," he instructed, his voice calm, discussing logistics. "The Creative Director position requires focus. Can't have her developing inconvenient morals again."
Vogt spat onto his palm and slicked it roughly over his rigid cock. The sound was wet, crude. "She won't," he promised, his voice thick with dark intent. He positioned himself directly behind Sara’s prone form, kneeling between her thighs. One hand gripped her hip bone hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The other guided the engorged, spit-slicked head of his cock. It didn’t seek her wet, swollen cunt. Instead, the broad, blunt tip pressed firmly against the tight, untouched pucker of her asshole, stark against her pale skin.
The resistance was immediate, absolute. The tiny, clenched muscle offered fierce opposition. Vogt leaned his weight forward, applying relentless pressure, his breath hitching with effort. "Fucking tight little asshole," he growled, gritting his teeth. "Clenched shut like a scared virgin." He pressed harder, the tip dimpling the resisting ring of muscle, forcing it to yield millimetre by agonizing millimetre. Sara’s unconscious body stiffened minutely, a low, animal groan escaping her slack lips – a sound of pure, invaded biology, not conscious protest.
"Open up for me, whore," Vogt snarled, his hips driving forward with brutal force. The slick head finally breached the outer ring, stretching the delicate tissue obscenely wide. A sharp, involuntary cry tore from Sara's throat, raw and guttural, her body arching slightly off the floor in a spasm of violated nerves. Vogt didn't stop. He pushed deeper, his thick cockhead forcing its way past the agonizing resistance, splitting her open. Her body trembled violently beneath him, still mostly limp but reacting to the profound, tearing intrusion. He grunted, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought her body's instinctive, unconscious clench. He was barely an inch inside the excruciatingly tight, dry channel when he paused, savouring the brutal stretch, the violated heat. Her ragged, unconscious breathing hitched, turning into shallow, pained gasps against the silk noose still biting her neck. The camera witnessed the brutal invasion, the glistening thickness embedded where it didn't belong, the limp body contorted in violation. Vogt adjusted his grip, planting his feet firmly on the floor. He drew his hips back slightly, feeling the fierce drag against his shaft, the desperate cling of her ravaged hole. Then, with a guttural roar of exertion and possession, he slammed his hips forward with all his strength, driving himself brutally deeper into her tight, resisting ass.
The brutal slam drove the air from Sara’s lungs in a choked, unconscious wheeze. Vogt’s thick cock tore through the clenched ring of muscle, forcing its way deeper into the impossibly tight, dry channel of her ass, stretching her obscenely wide. Pain, white-hot and searing, was the first sensation to pierce the suffocating blackness.
It jolted a ragged gasp from her throat, scraping against the constricting silk tie still knotted there. Consciousness flooded back, not gently, but like ice water thrown onto raw nerves. Her eyes snapped open, unfocused, stinging. The harsh recessed lights of the conference room ceiling swam into view, blurred and dizzying.
"Ah, fuck," Vogt grunted above her, his voice thick with exertion and dark pleasure. He paused, buried deep, savoring the fierce, hot clench of her violated hole around his invading girth. "There she is. Waking up just like I promised, slut. Right on fucking cue."
A rough, calloused palm slammed down between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest flat to the cold, polished concrete floor. Richard. He leaned his weight into it, his breath warm and smelling of expensive scotch near her ear. "Stay down, Sara," he commanded, his voice chillingly calm, conversational. "David hasn't finished reacquainting you with your true purpose."
Panic surged, primal and blinding. She tried to arch, to buck, to scream – anything to dislodge the monstrous intrusion splitting her apart. But Richard’s hand was an iron weight, crushing her breath. Vogt’s cock was a burning pillar of agony anchored deep inside her ass, impossible to escape. She could only whimper, a pathetic, animal sound muffled by the drool slicking her chin and the floor. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly against the smooth surface, finding no purchase. The hidden lens in the painting silently drank in the tableau: the leashed neck, the pinned body, the brutal penetration, her wide, terrified eyes.
"Feel that, you greedy little asspig?" Vogt growled. He withdrew slowly, deliberately, the drag of his thick shaft against her ravaged inner walls excruciatingly intimate. Every ridge, every vein scraped raw nerves alight. "Feel how I own this filthy hole now." He snapped his hips forward again, hard, burying himself to the hilt with a wet, meaty thud that echoed off the glass walls. Sara’s body convulsed beneath him, a silent scream locked in her throat, her vision blurring with tears of agony and humiliation.
"Christ, look at her take it," Richard observed, almost idly, his fingers tightening on her back, grinding her ribs into the hard floor. "That self-righteous bitch who lectured HR last quarter about 'toxic environments'. Turns out she just needed the right kind of toxicity shoved up her ass." He chuckled, a low, cruel sound. "You love this, don't you, Sara? This is what you really wanted when you pushed for that promotion. This is your fucking bonus."
Vogt set a relentless, punishing rhythm. Short, brutal thrusts, pulling out only inches before ramming back in with piston-like force. Each entry was a fresh violation, tearing at the delicate tissues, forcing choked gasps and involuntary spasms from her pinned body. The pain was immense, a deep, internal splitting. Yet, beneath it, a traitorous, shameful heat began to simmer – a visceral, unwanted response to the sheer, overwhelming force of the possession, the absolute surrender demanded of her. Her body, trained by previous violations, was betraying her principles again. Slickness, not just from tears now, began to ease the brutal passage, her own treacherous arousal mixing with the violation.
"Tighter," Vogt groaned, hips driving harder, faster. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her exposed lower back. "Fucking hell, her ass is clenching like a vice. Trying to milk my cock dry, you desperate cunt?" He reached forward, grabbing the knotted silk leash still fastened around her neck. He yanked it up sharply, pulling her head back, arching her spine painfully. "You will take it. Every fucking inch. And you'll thank me." His thrusts became faster, more erratic, the obscene, wet slapping sounds of flesh on flesh filling the room, punctuated by his rough grunts and her muffled, agonized whimpers. Richard watched, a faint, satisfied smirk on his face, his hand a constant, oppressive weight ensuring her submission as Vogt pounded ruthlessly into her ravaged ass. Her body was a trembling instrument of their will, the pain and burgeoning, unwanted pleasure coiling tighter and tighter as Vogt’s brutal pace accelerated towards its climax.
Vogt’s hips pistoned, each brutal thrust deeper, harder, tearing fresh waves of agony through Sara’s ravaged ass. The rhythmic slap of flesh, wet and obscene, filled the cavernous conference room, underscored by his guttural grunts and her choked, airless whimpers. Richard’s hand remained a lead weight between her shoulder blades, grinding her cheekbone into the cold, unforgiving concrete floor, the taste of dust and her own blood metallic on her tongue from biting her lip.
"Fuck, her asshole’s sucking me in," Vogt snarled, sweat dripping from his chin onto the small of her back. He yanked savagely on the silk tie leash, pulling her head back at a sharp, painful angle, exposing the strained column of her throat. "Greedy fucking pig-slut. Designed for taking cock up the ass."
"Seems fitting," Richard mused, his voice unnervingly calm above her, his fingers digging harder into her spine. "All that creative energy channeled into being a perfect fuckhole. A natural progression, really. Maybe we should bill her design time to 'executive stress relief'." He chuckled, a low, cruel sound that scraped over Sara’s raw nerves.
Sara’s vision blurred, tears mixing with the drool slicking her jaw. The burning pain inside her was immense, a brutal violation radiating outwards. Yet, beneath it, shamefully persistent, a treacherous heat bloomed, radiating from her core, a primal, unwanted response to the sheer dominance pinning her down, the utter helplessness. Her body clenched around the invading thickness, betraying her, slickness easing his brutal passage. The camera, her mind screamed through the haze, a thin wire of defiance. It’s recording this. All of it.
Vogt’s rhythm became frantic, animalistic. His thrusts lost all semblance of control, pounding into her with jackhammer force. "Gonna fill this filthy ass," he gasped, his voice thick and strained. "Gonna pump my fucking load right up your shithole, cunt!" His fist tightened convulsively on the knotted silk tie.
AS VOGT INCREASES HIS RHYTHM HE ALSO SQUEEZES THE TIE TIGHTER.
The pressure on her throat exploded. The already constricting silk became a vice. Sara’s desperate gasp died before it could form. Her eyes flew wide, bulging, starved for oxygen that simply couldn’t pass the crushing blockade. Panic detonated within her, obliterating the shame and the unwanted heat. Her body bucked wildly beneath Vogt’s weight, a final, frantic struggle born of pure survival instinct. Fingernails scraped uselessly against the polished concrete. Stars burst and swam in her darkening vision.
He was fucking her ass with brutal, piston-like speed, his cock a searing brand tearing her open with every slam, while simultaneously strangling the life from her. The agony below fused with the suffocating terror above. Sara felt her consciousness fraying at the edges, pulled thin and fragile like a thread about to snap. The world narrowed to the punishing slam of his hips, the relentless, crushing pressure on her windpipe, the terrifying burn of her lungs screaming for air that wouldn't come. She felt the desperate, involuntary spasms of her ass around his shaft, the betraying slickness, and the horrifying certainty that if he didn't cum right now, the blackness wouldn’t recede. It would be final. Her limbs flailed weakly, a dying moth beating against glass.
And then Vogt starts cumming.