Week 1: Wednesday, 5th Dec 2029, Night

I was still digging through the digital wreckage of Yoko’s career, finding layer after encrypted layer of illicit tech, when the owner herself barrelled in—no warning, just the dull crash of the door ricocheting off the stop.

“Coming in! Can’t knock, hands full,” Yoko called, the words tumbling out half-muffled by the bowl she balanced precariously. Her foot nudged the door wider, hip-checking it with practiced indifference. “Heard you suffered through a garbage lunch, so I cooked. Sort of.”

She dumped the offering on the desk between us, an overfilled bowl of ramen, narrow noodles glistening in thin broth, an egg half-dissolved on top, steam rising like a broken promise. Simpler, somehow, than what I’d managed to **** down earlier.

I let the silence weigh a moment, my expression impossible to read. “I’d say I appreciate the thought, but it feels like you’re just angling for punishment.”

Yoko set her hip against the desk, arms crossed, and affected a pout that never quite reached her eyes. “Hey, when the slaves get trash-mash, the master’s lucky to get ramen.” Her smirk had the sharpness of a challenge.

“It’s practically a staple in Free Cities, keeps things running smooth. No solids in, nothing solid out. That way, when you want to enjoy a ****’s ass, you don’t get any surprises. ” I replied.

I let my gaze linger on the ramen, then flicked my eyes toward her. “Get under the desk, Yoko. I’ve got more ‘liquid food’ for you if that’s really what you’re craving.”

She rolled her eyes, mouth twisting into a crooked grin. With a fluid motion she slipped off the edge of the desk and sank to her knees, crawling beneath the polished steel slab with a feline grace that belied her usual bravado. The faint clink of her collar was lost beneath the whir of cooling fans and distant hum of city shields.

I sat back, steady and unhurried, letting her take her time. Her fingers worked at my belt, deft, familiar—zippers rasping down, waistband tugged, the cool air hitting exposed skin. She fished out my cock from the confines of my underwear, giving it a gentle, almost proprietary squeeze. Her breath feathered warm across the shaft, but she didn’t speak, her face a study in mischief and obedience both.

Above the desk, I lifted the ramen bowl, chopsticks sliding in with practiced ease. Steam curled upward, mingling with the sharper scent of anticipation from below. The broth was a little too salty, what you would expect from a shut-in. I took a slow, measured bite, feeling her lips close around the head of my cock at the same moment, her tongue teasing, the tip flicking playfully against the sensitive underside. I didn’t rush her, didn’t guide, Yoko was at her best when left to improvise, and she always craved an audience.

She began with slow, languid sucks, letting each inch disappear between her lips, the heat of her mouth contrasting the clinical chill of the office. She set a steady pace, up, down, tongue swirling with the kind of focus that came only from practiced skill and genuine delight in the game. I could feel the vibrations of her low, throaty hum as she swallowed me deeper, savoring every twitch and pulse, as if testing the firmware on some prized new device.

Above the desk, my chopsticks worked through another mouthful, broth slicking my lips, egg yolk breaking in a slow ooze. The taste was plain, but the heat of Yoko’s mouth, the soft glide of her hair against my thighs, made the meal feel less like sustenance and more like a private ritual, one only we understood. Occasionally, she would glance up, eyes shining with the thrill of being hidden and exposed all at once, her cheeks flushed with effort and pride.

I set the empty bowl aside, leaning back to let the pleasure sharpen, each slow drag of her mouth bringing a low, appreciative sigh from my chest. She swallowed, tongue teasing the tip, then settled back on her knees, waiting for my next command, her chin glistening, lips swollen, the taste of me mingled with the last hint of salt and broth on her tongue.

“Good girl,” I murmured, running a hand through her hair. “Now strip. I want you naked. Fetch my leash while you’re at it, we’re about to give the new office a proper tour.”

Yoko’s mouth twitched in a sly half-smile, her eyes alight with mischief as she rose onto her knees. Without hesitation, she shrugged out of her clothes piece by piece, baring pale skin to the chilled office air, each movement exaggerated for my viewing pleasure: top pulled over her head, bra dropped to the floor, skirt shimmied down her hips, underwear peeled away with an unhurried tease until she was bare, collar gleaming stark against her throat.

She crawled to the corner, still on all fours, retrieving the leather leash in her teeth, then returned, nude and radiant, presenting the leash with practiced elegance.

I took it from her mouth, clipped it to the D-ring of her collar with a satisfying click, and gave it a gentle tug. “Heel, my little slut puppy,” I said, my voice full of amusement.

She let out an enthusiastic, “Woof woof,” hips waggling in the air, utterly shameless, the perfect picture of naked obedience and bratty glee.

Leash in hand, I led her out of the office and down the corridor, her bare skin prickling in the cool air, knees and palms silent on polished concrete. We reached the elevator, the hum of machinery and the quiet click of my shoes the only sounds. I pressed my thumb to the hidden fingerprint pad on the “basement” button, the elevator swallowing us up and rising, not down, carrying us to my private domain.

The doors opened onto a half-lit hallway where the construction crew lingered, last tasks scattered and nearly complete. The foreman, a free man, eyes sharp, looked up as I stepped out, Yoko nude and leashed at my side, crawling without hesitation.

“Taking your pet for a walk, eh, Sir?” the foreman grinned, voice thick with a conspiratorial edge. “Office is finished, all your custom contraptions installed just like you asked. Reckon your girl’s going to enjoy breaking them in as much as you.”

Before I could speak, Yoko, naked as sin and twice as smug, chimed in with a bright, “Woof woof!”, her shamelessness a challenge to anyone watching. She arched her back, posture perfect, skin aglow in the half-light.

The foreman’s grin widened, while the menial slaves in the background didn’t even blink, trained to ignore anything that didn’t concern their orders. He shook his head in amusement. “ Enjoy your night Sir.”

“Thank you, boys,” I replied, voice cool and commanding. “Take the rest of the night off. I’d rather not disturb your craftsmanship with private business.”

He gave a nod, rounding up the last of his men, and soon the hallway was ours, thick with promise and the faint trace of dust and new paint. Yoko looked up at me, cheeks flushed but eyes steady, leashed and naked and ready for whatever I devised.

A light tug on Yoko’s leash set her crawling obediently at my side as I turned the corner and stepped into the sanctum of my new office. The room was grand, almost austere in its symmetry: a wide, imposing desk claimed the center, flanked by two smaller, low-set workstations, one reserved for the head girl, the other for the secretary. I lingered on the thought: the desk to my right was almost ornamental, given that my secretary’s true place would more often be on her knees beneath my own.

On the left, a sprawling leather sofa stretched against the wall, a stage for obedient slaves to pose, display, or demonstrate the more creative dimensions of their training. Across from it, a broad expanse of white wall stood blank, interrupted only by an unremarkable door: a design that hinted at hidden purposes.

Yoko looked around, nose wrinkling, her voice ringing with characteristic irreverence. “That’s... a little bland, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t suppress a small smile. “First impressions can be deceiving. Don’t worry, I asked for more than just paint and polish.”

I led her to the far wall, securing her leash to a polished chrome hook just beside the door, then crossed to my desk. My fingers found the sequence of hidden buttons beneath the desktop, an exact pattern I’d specified down to the last millimeter, safety lockouts and all. I pressed them in order, and with a deep mechanical whir, the “blank” wall split and rotated in three places.

One panel spun aside to reveal a heavy X-shaped cross, dark wood braced in steel, lined with adjustable restraints, perfect for immobilizing a ****, arms and legs spread wide, every inch exposed to discipline, pleasure, or demonstration.

The second segment slid away to expose a tall, narrow cage, bars thick and unyielding, just large enough to **** whoever was inside to either stand or kneel. It was a device for confinement and observation, engineered to deny comfort, emphasizing helplessness and exhibition.

The final section unfolded smoothly to present a polished dance pole, anchored floor to ceiling in gleaming steel—a stage for performance, obedience rituals, or the slow, humiliating tease of **** display, every movement made for my eyes alone.

“There we are,” I said, admiring the precision of the mechanisms. “A few little toys for those in need of my personal attention.” I turned back to Yoko, her eyes wide with a mixture of anticipation and challenge. “See anything you fancy tonight?”

She let her gaze linger over the x-cross, the cage and the pole, her lips curving with something between bravado and hungry curiosity. “You know, I think I’m even more excited by what’s behind that door,” Yoko said, nodding toward the far wall.

I tugged at her leash, unhooking it with a flick of my wrist. “Well, I couldn’t possibly neglect my true craft,” I replied. “Consider this next room a little training shed, something tells me you’ll be spending more than a few nights in here, you brat.” I pressed my palm to the sensor, the door gliding open with a hydraulic sigh.

Inside, the atmosphere changed, cooler, heavier, thick with anticipation and the faint scent of leather and oil. A sprawling bed dominated the center of the space, the sheets pristine and inviting, yet framed by walls crowded with cruel possibilities. Custom-built wooden horses and padded spanking benches lined both sides, each designed for a particular brand of suffering or display. Chains hung from the ceiling, sex swings ready to suspend a trembling body in midair. Mounted above the head of the bed, my arsenal was on full display, whips, paddles, crops, and floggers, each arranged with a collector’s reverence, every handle gleaming with promise, not a single tool out of place.

Yoko’s eyes sparkled as she stepped inside, bare feet silent on the cold tile. She took it all in with the appreciation of a true connoisseur, then shot me a crooked grin. “Now we’re talking. You pretend you’re a visionary, but this” she gestured around, laughter bubbling up, “this is pure pervert. I think your dungeon is bigger than your actual office, Master.”

I allowed myself a thin, amused smile, letting the compliment settle. “What are you talking about? I’m a slaver, this is my office. Everything out there is just paperwork.”

She snorted, shaking her head, but I saw the way her thighs pressed together, tension radiating up her spine as the reality of her predicament settled in.

I stepped closer, voice low and intimate. “Now, I seem to remember a punishment was due for a certain disobedient **** who doesn’t understand how to knock before barging in.”

“Oops.” Yoko’s answer was pure mischief, eyes wide, tongue darting out to wet her lips as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

I tightened my grip on Yoko’s collar, steering her across the room toward one of the wooden ponies, its polished surface glinting under the dungeon lights. “Up you go, riding time,” I mocked.

She rolled her eyes with exaggerated flair but mounted the cruel contraption without hesitation, her naked skin pressing down on the unforgiving edge. I adjusted the height until her toes barely scraped the floor, just enough to let her shift her weight and spare her aching cunt from the sharpest pressure, but never enough for comfort.

A length of rope found its way into my hands; I pulled her arms behind her, binding her wrists and elbows together so her chest thrust forward, shoulders straining. She was **** into a posture of helpless display, her body quivering, every muscle working overtime as she tried to ease the relentless ache.

I took a seat, savoring the view, Yoko stretched over the pony, already whimpering softly, her breath catching every time she pushed up on tiptoe to spare her cunt the worst of the punishment. The trembling grew, sweat prickling on her brow, her smirk finally replaced by open, **** desperation.

“Not so cocky now, are you?” I taunted, watching the fight flicker in her eyes. “Let’s play a little game. You can take an hour on the pony… or buy yourself time. Nipple clamps? That’s ten minutes off. Gagged? Another ten gone. Take twenty stripes from my flogger and you’ll walk after just twenty.”

She grinned, teeth flashing even as she winced. “Bring it on, pervert. I’ll have everything.”

“Daring girl,” I murmured, unclipping a pair of steel clamps from the wall. I fastened them to her nipples, tight enough to make her gasp, each metal bite blooming pink against sensitive skin. She shuddered, the pain radiating through her chest, back arching as her body rebelled. Next came the gag, a glossy red ball slipped between her lips, buckled firm behind her head; her defiance was reduced to a series of muffled sounds, half protest, half plea.

Flogger in hand, I let the strands caress her bare ass, trailing over tense flesh as she writhed in anticipation, every nerve strung tight as wire. I let her feel the weight, the promise, before I brought it down—hard, a crisp thwack echoing through the dungeon, her hips jerking, a muffled yelp squeezed past the gag.

“One,” I counted, my voice calm, clinical. The next stroke landed just beneath the first, twin red lines blossoming on her cheeks. “Two.” Again, I gave her time to tremble, to anticipate, to dread, then the third, fourth, fifth, each lash methodical, measured, painting her skin in vivid streaks. By the tenth stroke, her breath came in frantic little snorts, sweat beading at her temples, toes straining to take the weight.

“Halfway,” I told her, running my fingers over the hot welts, letting her feel the heat radiating from her punished flesh. Her eyes fluttered, pupils blown wide with pain and a ****, forbidden pleasure.

I resumed, strokes eleven through fifteen falling with a steady rhythm, the flogger’s leather tongues biting, then soothing, then biting again. With every lash, her body jerked forward, nipples straining in their clamps, cunt grinding involuntarily against the cruel edge of the pony. The sounds she made were raw, ****, lost in the gag—moans, yelps, whimpers all muffled to a trembling symphony.

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. I let the last stroke fall, harder than the rest, watching her jolt, muscles trembling, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding on.

“Twenty,” I finished, letting the flogger rest against her heated skin. I bent close, unbuckling the gag, fingers gentle as I brushed sweat-soaked hair from her cheek.

“Well, my little show-off, you’ve bought your freedom,” I said, reaching out to undo the clamps with a slow, measured hand.

She gasped sharply, breath hitching as sensation flooded back into her nipples—a pain so sharp it twisted instantly into aching pleasure. “Ohh—” she whimpered, shivering as the throbbing heat pulsed through her chest.

“Up you go,” I commanded, grabbing her collar and hauling her gently but inexorably upright. She teetered for a moment, legs weak from the torment, but I steadied her, guiding her away from the pony and across the dungeon’s tile, still naked, still arms bound tight behind her. I pushed her down onto the broad bed, her body pliant and shuddering, anticipation bleeding through every breath.

“Time for a little reward,” I said, climbing up behind her, positioning myself so she fit perfectly against my body, her ass against my lap, my hand sliding down the trembling plane of her belly, fingers finding her slit. She was drenched, slick, needy, her cunt practically begging for relief. I let my fingers stroke her just enough to make her squirm, then stopped, pressing my palm firmly against her mound.

“You’re soaked already, aren’t you?” I whispered, my breath hot at her ear. “You want release, you’ll have to earn it. Three minutes. If you don’t cum in time, you sleep in heat tonight.” I didn’t move, letting her feel the weight of my hand, the promise and the threat.

She took the hint, grinding back against my fingers, hips rolling, **** little moans spilling from her lips, her bound arms pinning her deeper into the act of surrender. She whined, body moving with shameless urgency, rutting against my still hand as if she could **** her own climax through sheer will.

Her breath grew ragged, moans rising in volume, the bed shaking beneath us as she humped and writhed, every muscle straining, her skin slick with sweat and arousal. But her movements grew erratic, the aftershocks of pain from her tormented nipples and punished ass short-circuiting her focus. I watched the seconds tick by, clinical and unmoved, letting her chase her pleasure as the clock ran down.

At the end of three minutes, she hadn’t cum, only grown more frantic, whimpering in frustration, tears of thwarted need streaking down her face.

“Time’s up,” I said softly, withdrawing my hand and leaving her grinding against empty air. She whimpered, shuddering, a pitiful sound.

“Please, Master, just a little.” she pleaded, voice thick with need.

I shook my head, reaching over to the drawer at the side of the bed and retrieving the polished steel chastity belt. “No. Rules are rules.” I fitted it around her hips, locking it with a quiet, definitive click, a final, inescapable barrier.

She sobbed, frustration and longing mixing with a flicker of pride at her obedience. I lay back, remove her bindings and gathering her into my arms, letting her head rest on my chest. My hand stroked her hair, fingers gentle, voice low and soothing. “Sleep, Yoko. Maybe I'll let Jen finish you off tomorrow morning, but tonight you sleep in heat.”

She curled tighter against me, chastity belt cool against her burning skin, her body wracked by slow, aching aftershocks, but held, finally, in the safety of my arms as the dungeon lights dimmed, the world outside fading into darkness and promise.