Cyberattack

Somewhere down a hallway was a conference room.

Six guys from IT, taking a cybersecurity training course; on the projector, an exercise that had long since ceased to be one. One of them had opened the help desk email with the sample link. The poor intern had an important conference call, and her coworker wasn’t there. They wanted to stay on the call invisibly as admins in case something went wrong.

What the six of them saw wasn’t a video conference. It was a stripcam.

The little intern from the back room, naked from the waist down, her skirt on the floor, fingers in her pussy, her bare ass occasionally in the lens, her lips parted, wet. Enlarged to meter-high proportions on the projector screen. One said, “Oh.” One laughed briefly and stopped. One was already reaching for the laptop.

“Recording in progress,” muttered the one at the head of the table. From now on, everything was being recorded—the chat history, the video, and the audio. They followed the entire chat.

They looked at each other. What should they do? How could they take advantage of the situation? The video was already hot.

They frantically debated how to intervene. One of them could just burst in, throw open the door, cause a scandal, and threaten to go to the staff council. Or cut off the stream. Or...

Peter himself provided the answer to their question.

“What would you do if someone walked in?”

The intern’s answer was there in black and white. “If you invited him: whatever you tell me to do.”

Apparently, the guy named Peter was allowed to boss her around. Apparently, Silke didn’t mind having sex with strangers if Peter ordered it. The sentence was displayed on the projector like a user manual.

A young employee cleared his throat. “There’s a workaround here. I can reconfigure the console so that the admin becomes Peter. The real one gets kicked out. Or he’s only allowed to watch.”

Silence.

Six faces. Down on the screen, Silke was just bending over again, showing her ass and her wet pussy from behind, and sitting down as if that were the end of it. The camera zoomed in on its own. Or maybe he did it. The real Peter, sitting somewhere in front of a blank screen.

“Should we really do this?”

No one said no right away.

One of them tapped the screen. “We’re already in. It’s just the press of a button.”

“She said ‘invited.’ If the name Peter demands it—”

“That’s a free pass.”

The boy already had his fingers over the keyboard. “Either we’re the ones who open the door and she dies of shame. Or we’re Peter and we have a lot of fun with her. It’s not like it’s rape. She’s doing what Peter says of her own free will, right?”

On the projector screen, Silke wasn’t laughing anymore. She was working. Two fingers. A folder. The stain on the chair.

Six men were watching. One pressed the button. It was just the press of a button. The console tilted. “Admin” was now named Peter. The real Peter remained in the stream—sound, video—without a keyboard. He was allowed to watch while they played with her.

Nothing visible changed on his monitor. The remote control was gone, and so was the chat input.

In the conference room, they drew lots. Slips of paper in a cup. Manfred had won. He got to go first. The others would have to watch. The boy kept the console warm. They scrolled through the chat.

Punishment. Costume party. Suffering at work. Playing with her pussy. What to do if someone walks in. *If he’s invited: whatever you tell me to do.*

That was something to work with.

Someone typed on Peter’s behalf. Briefly. Commanding. Not friendly. Manfred was already at the door when the last sentence was sent.

---

The message popped up on Silke’s screen. Hot and cold.

Peter: “Your punishment starts now. You didn’t really think it would be that easy, did you? Take the camera and set it on the table. Then take off your blouse. If you’re wearing a bra, take that off too. Someone’s about to knock on the door. You say loud and clear: ‘Come in.’

There’ll be a man standing there whom I’ve sent specifically for this. You’ll ask him what he wants and fulfill his wish. Then you’ll thank him.

Afterward, you’ll sit on your heels like a good slave and wait for new orders.

No distractions. No phone. Otherwise, I’ll extend the punishment.”

Silke was instantly wet.

What was he up to? He’d asked what she’d do if someone came in, and she’d written: “Whatever he wants.” Damn it. Why did she write something like that? She knew Peter well enough. He was prepared. Road trip. Party. Peak performance. This was the punishment, not the fumbling under the table.

She repositioned the camera.

Away from below. Up onto the counter. The LED was bright, merciless. The chair, her bare lower body, and now the rest: blouse up, off. Bra up, off. Tits out. Boots. Garter belt. No skirt. The lens saw everything a man would see if he were standing right there in the doorway.

She waited.

It was getting wetter between her legs. A streak on the inside. Her nipples hard in the air conditioning. Her cell phone vibrated, but she left it alone, as ordered. No distractions. In her head, the phrase *come in* was already there, rehearsed, stupid.

Peter—the real one—saw the same image and couldn’t type anything.

The chat—which wasn’t his—remained silent. A man was on his way. Not someone he’d called.

A knock.

Silke flinched. She didn’t get up. She sat naked except for her boots and garters in front of the camera, her tits glowing in the LED light, her pussy spread open on the chair, and said loud and clear, just as it was written there:

“Come in.”

The doorknob turned.