Give her what she wants, then make her talk.

The Girl From Records

A squeak of surprise is the most Mia can manage in the flash in which your hand seizes her neck and proceeds to drive her back into the living room wall. Mo – or whatever he is – whatever it is – jerks upright at the sudden use of ****. As for Mia, her hand finds its way right back to your crotch, massaging the bulge. The growing bulge. Avery must not have been enough to satisfy you. Hopefully whoever acquired the slut gets better mileage out of her mouth than you did. Ingrid. Ingrid was always good for a quick and dirty blowjob. If you ever see Avery again – which you know you won’t, not with her moving, not with the blood of that thing that looked like her cat still seeping into your soul – you’ll make sure to tell her she never sucked cock like the janitorial staff could.

That’d show her.

“Show who?”

You hadn’t meant to verbalize. There’s a lot by this point you hadn’t meant to do. Your mouth finds Mia’s, hand squeezing a little tighter to stave off more questions. You’re the one who has a right to some answers. Fuck her for asking… whatever she’d ask. Had she asked something? Whatever. Fuck her.

You can still taste Avery’s pussy on her lips.

“Do they not teach the guttersluts down in records to pop a breath mint after they eat a bitch out, or what?”

The smile creeping to her face meets the same end as the clever little rejoinder working its way out of her mouth. Another slam against the wall, and you almost regret it this time, her hand squeezing a little harder on your balls in her surprise. You throw her grip aside and get to work on Mia’s own fastenings. You guide her face to your neck to give her mouth something to do instead of yap. There will be time for that after. Now, you have energy. You’ve talked enough. You still haven’t fucked enough. Somehow.

Slut that she is, it takes more to get her shorts off than one might expect. That denim is tight, and that ass isn’t little. It doesn’t matter. The shorts hit the floor – no panties, not on Mia – and you’re bearing her down to the couch in the next moment. She lands spread eagle, ready for you, breathless with anticipation, and probably because you’ve been **** her a bit.

“Stay.” The command never worked on Mo, but just as well, because you’re done with him – with it – watching. Skittish in the face of your enraged advance, the dog-device is driven before you into the back yard. You still can’t make yourself slam the door until you’re sure he’s clear. You throw the curtains closed, and leave those cameras behind his eyes blind to what you’re about to do. Like you almost wish you could be.

“Get it out.” Mia doesn’t need to be told twice. Eyes flitting to yours anxiously, she works at your pants quickly, hands shaking. You bark at her to go faster, which achieves the opposite. Impatient, you disrupt her efforts to grasp at her top and rip it off over her head. “Now get it out already!” At least you have a respectable pair of heavily tatted tits to watch while she fumbles at your zipper.

Your cock is sweaty, angry purple-red, when it finally gets out into the air. Mia opens her mouth expectantly, tongue extended. Instead of giving her what she wants, you twist it and give her what she deserves, a few cock slaps on the cheeks, a few more to the forehead while she tongues your balls. Once she gathers the courage to make a run at your shaft, you stop her palm to forehead and shove her back down to the cushions, wishing your couch were a little less comfy. Her legs spread again, automatically, a dyed in the wool slut.

“You wish. Now hold those tits together for me.” Before she could possibly obey, you drop down ass-first on her face. Her squeal of surprise is lost to the world. You don’t really care. There’s no time lost before you feel a tongue sneaking up into your ass. No hesitation, like she’d done it a hundred times. Maybe she had. Whatever. She already forgot your order, so you help her by throwing her hands at her chest and guiding your cock into the valley. As you start to fuck those branded sin bags, she doesn’t let up. It’s a reach, but really, fuck her neck cramps. It keeps her quiet. It keeps her in her place.

You pound her tits, lubricated only by your mutual sweat. You’re not getting any closer to coming though. Not until you’re ready. You’re in control. Her right tit receives a rough slap. She tightens her grip, squeezing your cock harder. So you slap the left, and then she relaxes. Then both, and she moans in pained confusion. Her nipples get their long-awaited twist, and before she’s done with a very different kind of moan, you’re back up and rolling her off the couch onto the floor.

“Please,” she manages between gasps. Please what, you neither know nor care. A grip on her ponytail enables you to pull her to her knees in front of you; that you timed it to enter that gaping, gushing cunt of hers is no doubt a testament to the many hours of fresh practice. One arm across her tits, the other clamped down firmly on her throat, and you’re back at it. A long, low whine squeezes through your grip and out her mouth, but you tolerate it. No more than. Then you throw her forward, her palms thudding to the carpet in the nick of time. Daft bitch should’ve used them to protect her ass, though, because that’s what you target next. The blows rain down on her ass unremittingly, but not before her theatrical whimpers become genuine cries of pain do you finally unload. You were the dam, but now the waters flow.

Spent, you buck her forward and she collapses tit-first on the floor. Her ass and tits are red from ****, fresh tears trickling down her face.

“You all right?” you ask, slumping down onto the couch.

Mia nods. She’s not yet ready for words. But the nod conveys her tremendous satisfaction.

“Are you a cat or a dog?” you open a short while later. You’re clothed again, but you forbade her the right. If she wanted to wear clothes, she should’ve been more useful.

“Um… dog…?” She seems confused.

“I’m not setting up a fucking sex game, Mia. At home. Did they give you a cat or a dog?”

“Oh. I have a cat. Fireball.”

“Adorable. Is he real?”

“Real? I… I don’t…”

“Don’t bullshit me. You seem to know how all this works. Is little Fireball a normal cat, or is it another surveillance drone, like… like…”

Mia shakes her head. “Will, what are you asking?”

“I’m asking if the Monarch employee benefits package includes a complimentary goddamn robo-pet! How am I being un-fucking-clear?!”

“Hey, easy Will. Now I don’t know what’s got you so upset, but… I mean, there’s no reason to be like that, OK?”

“I think I get to decide how to react to finding out Monarch replaced my fucking dog with a spybot!”

She tenses. “H-how did you find out about…?”

“The signal. Goddamn thing looks the part, acts the part, has me fucking baring my soul to it every time I get overwhelmed at the office. But if they want to upload the recordings in real-time, they have to transmit. Lazy fuckers used my wifi. I had to be sure, so I checked Avery’s. Fur feels real, but get past that and it’s all padding and parts.”

Your tacit admission that you used her to dissect Avery’s cat doesn’t seem to bother her much, though. “Will, I don’t know what you think I can tell you, but… you know there’s nothing. You know that, right?”

“Can’t tell me, or won’t? Because I can fix won’t if I have to, Mia. I am so, so beyond more of these bullshit games. I really am.”

“Can’t, Will. You know I can’t.”

You arch a brow. “I don’t know squat. And frankly, Mia, you’ve been a little too eager to suck up to management since day one. Thought I was hot shit when you thought I was tight with King, remember? How do I know you aren’t keeping his secrets? His, and Aubrey’s, and that ghoul Denosha?”

“Will, come on. Don’t be like that.” She looks like she wishes she were kneeling. Groveling was never her strong suit, though. “Come on, let’s you and me have a chill night, and tomorrow you can head up to 7 and… Yeah. Let’s just have fun.”

“Head up to 7? Are you insane? Is that where Avery’s cat, and Mo, and all that other shit come from? Where they… Where she… Where I…” You shake yourself out of your head. “No thank you. No, I’d rather get some answers, tonight, from you. So tell me what you know. What the fuck is going on.”

You don’t realize you stood up until you discover she’s looking up to you in fear. “There’s nothing I can tell you. You know that! You have to know that, don’t you?” She draws her knees up to her chest. “Are you going to… hurt me?”

“What’s going on, Mia.”

“I can’t!” she insists.

You step closer, looming for all you’re worth. “I sawed the head off Miss Kittenpuss with a kitchen knife tonight, Mia. We’re all learning about what we can and can’t do.”

The color drains from her tattoos. “No, I mean… You know, right? I can’t. Even if I wanted to, they’d… I’d…”

With a growl, you storm off to the kitchen. Mia follows in your wake, but when she catches up to you sliding a knife off of the butcher’s block, she stumbles back so fast she trips and falls on her ass, crawling away from you. “Will!”

“What’s going on Mia.”

She scrambles away, but you remain hot on her heels. “Please! I would, I really would, but…”

“Last chance, Mia. Give me something, or I take something.”

Do you even mean it? What will you do if she whines I can’t, myeh again? Could you really stab a person? Is she–

Mia throws herself at her purse, discarded on your coffee table what feels like a long time ago when she first arrived. You move toward her quickly, but her hand comes out not with pepper spray but her employee lanyard, her ID card dangling from a tremulous fist.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” you snap, snatching it from her hand nonetheless.

“It’s like I said. I can’t tell you, but…” She nods to the ID. “But I work in records.”

It’s dark when you pull into the Monarch parking lot. Only three cars in the lot besides yours. With a thin smile remembering a crazed meter maid with an inexplicable vendetta against you, you pull into the spot reserved for the CEO and turn off the car. Had that woman wanted something like what Mia had just gotten? Whatever she’d meant to provoke, she was long gone now. You have no regrets about the way you dominated that sneaky cunt tonight, but it’s not exactly your style. If that’s all she knows about getting a man, Brooklyn Diamond will either die disappointed, or have to do some serious soul-searching.

For a moment you think back to that first day you met Jenna on the elevator, her slutty secretary glasses and cute little black pixie cut oozing sexuality. That’s the kind of woman Brooklyn ought to emulate. Only then you remember that that’s not what Jenna looks like, except you remember it, except she doesn’t. Nothing makes sense any more.

There’s a security guard posted in the lobby. Every other entrance is monitored by camera, but that’s nothing to slow down the Associate Director of IT Security. Before Monarch could even guess what’s hit them, you’re in the building and none the wiser.

The records room is down in the basement. You take the stairs. It’s dead silent, dim. Records is down a couple empty hallways. You half expect to run into Ingrid here, sweeping the floors in case any passing fellas need a scorching hot fuck at 1 AM, but there’s no one. The glass door with a faded sign announcing its contents isn’t far. Behind it lies a cluster of servers and file cabinets storing all manner of secure company data. Internal memos, emails, transactions, financials – just about anything business-related. It’s not going to have schematics or engineering data, but maybe something. Mia’s card lets you right in.

It shouldn’t matter what desk you pick, but you take a moment to find Mia’s. As her computer starts up, you peek in a few drawers. A bottle of vodka, two tins of mints, and a change of panties. Classy. The computer’s ready, and you enter the login she gave you. To your surprise, it actually works.

You boot up the software to access the servers. There’s a second login; this one, Mia didn’t mention. You suppose you didn’t give her much opportunity to talk, all but chasing her out to her car, still naked. Your instincts kick in, though, and sure enough there’s her login on a post-it underneath her stapler. Like that, you’re in.

Terabytes of data are at your fingertips. Almost all of it is unimportant to you. Almost all of it is unimportant to everyone. Still, there you have your search fields, complete with a variety of filters, to help users find the data they’re looking for as easily as possible. It almost makes you wonder why there’s more than one desk down here. Then again, it’s Mia; if you had a blacklight, the glow off the desktop would probably blind you.

You begin by looking up 7.

RESTRICTED

The words flash red on the screen three times, so harsh you leap back in Mia’s chair. You try a few other options – 7th floor, 711, secret floor – and adjust some filters, but every time it’s either restricted or too far afield to return even that result.

Next up is your own name, striking right at the heart of this whole “commodity” business that turned your world upside down. Perversely, nothing comes up. You try a few other Monarch names just to make sure you don’t have any settings weird, but Ingrid, Aubrey, Mia, Amy, they all come up normally. But not you.

“What the hell is going on here?” you mutter into the gloom.

On a lark, you decide to listen to that nagging voice in the back of your head. The one that’s shouting that this is too easy, that Mia wouldn’t go from “can’t” to “and by the way here’s my login” in the blink of an eye. Just to satisfy the itch of paranoia, you take a moment to run a few quick diagnostics from tools you have stored on your cloud. Just to make sure.

There’s a trace.

Was it Mia betraying you? A security feature you tripped in the code? Hard to be sure. Hard to imagine the little minx being cunning enough to keep a dummy login that tripped a trace program on a post-it, but yesterday you’d have bet on that before betting on your dog being a spy-bot. Regardless, it means that right now, someone is watching you, watching every click and keystroke you make.

Digging a little, you follow where the feed is going. You know Monarch’s network quite familiarly by now, and when you see the final address, it’s unsurprising. Security. If he’s trained to the specifications you yourself recommended, he ought to be on his way down here to detain you.

In any event, there’s two stairwells and an elevator leading out, so if you act fast and don’t dig too deep, you have good odds of being out of here well before that rent-a-cop can get his hands on you. Then again, you almost certainly won’t get another chance like this; it just might be worth a figurative suicide run, snaring every bit of data you can. Hell, there’s even a part of you that’s somehow already coming down from the night’s events, wondering if crossing this thin red line is really worth blowing your career over. Or worse, being sent to 7 for… whatever it was. Nothing good.

At Monarch, it’s never anything good. Except when it’s too good.

Decision time! The decision is a little weird this week. You can only vote once! If the last vote wins, all other votes are ignored, but otherwise, Will has enough time to get data on up to 2 topics before making an escape.
Voting is open to the public, patrons or no, at my patreon.
“Mia” portrayed by Bee Phillips.

• Learn what you can about the surveillance.
• Learn what you can about the changes to your office.
• Learn what you can about Avery’s transfer.
• Learn what you can about the weird job titles.
• Learn what you can about “commodities.”
• Learn what you can about the Whisper, that club that caters so generously to Monarch staff.
• Learn what you can about Nolan King.
• Learn what you can about Aubrey Merriman.
• Learn what you can about Denosha Woods.
• Learn what you can about Brooklyn Diamond.
• Learn what you can about Lorelei Corfield, the only Monarch woman who’s rejected you.
• Fuck it. Learn as much as you can until they drag you away from the computer.