You work from home. Time for a team meeting.

The video call flickers to life, your bedroom’s soft lighting a stark contrast to the corporate grid of faces now staring at their screens. Your boss kneels on the carpet, bare-assed and stuck fast to your cock like some obscene human lollipop—her lips sealed around you with supernatural adhesion, the magic ensuring she isn’t going anywhere until you decide otherwise.

"Apologies for the delay," you say, adjusting the laptop angle to capture her frantic blinks. The CFO’s opening remarks about synergy drown under the wet, rhythmic *schlick* of her struggle. You click through the slides with one hand while the other idly palms the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair.

"[Ariana’s] *indisposed*," you add, emphasizing the word with a shallow thrust that makes her nostrils flare. The chat explodes—

**[Tom P.]: IS THAT HER KNEE IN THE CORNER??**

**[Lisa R.]: why does it sound like a clogged drain**

You smirk and lean back in your gaming chair, the leather creaking as your boss’s throat works in helpless suction. The HR director’s eye twitches when her gag echoes through your mic, perfectly timed with the pie chart on screen. "Fascinating metrics," you muse, scrolling with your free hand.

Her bare thighs tremble, sweat gleaming under the dim lamplight. Every slide transition punctuates with a muffled whimper, her reflection warped in the monitor’s gloss. You take a lazy sip of coffee, stirring it just to watch her flinch at the clink of the spoon. "Could someone clarify the Q3 projections?" you ask, dragging her forward until her nose presses into your pelvis. The CFO coughs, suddenly engrossed in his notes.

Twenty minutes in, her mascara streaks down her cheeks, her bare breasts heaving against your shins. The IT guy drones about firewalls while her tongue flickers weakly against your shaft. You unmute abruptly. "Let’s circle back post-lunch," you announce, ending the call mid-gurgle.

The screen goes black, revealing your boss still glued to your cock, her smeared lipstick giving her the look of a rabid clown. You tap her forehead with your pen. "Next time, maybe *pre-read* the materials."

She groans. The Slack notifications pile up. And somewhere in a virtual HR meeting, someone whispers, *"Are we positive this isn’t a deepfake?"*

The call reconnects after lunch—same grid of horrified faces, same PowerPoint purgatory. Ariana’s still on her knees, one stiff nipple brushing your calf as she whimpers around your cock. You sip your second coffee, idly scrolling the chat log with your free hand.

**[Mark T.]: bro are her TITS out now or am I hallucinating**

**[Priya L.]: HR just left the meeting. Literally walked out.**

“Alright, team,” you say cheerfully, clicking to the next slide—a dense spreadsheet. Ariana gags as you shift, her drool pooling on your thigh. “Let’s drill down on these KPIs.” You emphasize *drill* by hauling her head down until her throat bulges. The CFO’s voice wavers as he stumbles through his talking points.

A notification pings. The IT admin’s private message blinks onscreen:

**[IT_Steve]: dude your mic’s picking up *slurping* noises**

You grin and adjust the volume. “Apologies for the audio feedback,” you deadpan, palming Ariana’s head to keep the rhythm loud and wet. Her eyes roll back as you bottom out again, her fingers clawing at your desk chair. The marketing VP’s frozen mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open.

“Something wrong, Greg?” you ask, mock-concerned. Ariana’s moan vibrates through the mic. Greg mumbles something about a *family emergency* and disconnects.

A new chat message flashes—

**[Anonymous]: is this a fucking HR test**

You chuckle and grab Ariana’s hair, tilting her face up to the camera. Her smeared lipstick glistens, her breath coming in ragged huffs. “Any questions before we wrap?”

Silence. Then, from Sales:

**[Carlos]: …can she even breathe?**

You look down at the CEO who has is currently gurgling around your cock. “Ariana? You good?”

She blows spit bubbles into your balls.

“She said she’s good,” you announce, patting her head like a well-trained pet. “*Loving it*, actually.”

**[Jenna H.]: BULLSHIT**

**[Tom P.]: bro I can see her crying**

You nudge Ariana’s chin up—her cheeks are flushed, tears cutting through what’s left of her mascara, but her lips stay locked around you, her tongue working in frantic little circles.

“See? That’s her happy face,” you lie smoothly, dragging your thumb along her lower lip just to watch her shudder. The CFO’s cursor hovers over the “Leave Meeting” button like he’s debating life choices.

Ariana whines, high and strained, when you rock your hips up. The mic picks up every wet sound.

**[IT_Steve]: ok I’m muting you for ‘background noise’**

Your screen flickers—audio cut. Perfect. You grab Ariana’s hair and fuck her mouth in earnest now, her gagging drowned out by the sudden silence. The chat explodes with question marks, but you’re too busy watching her throat bulge to care.

She claws at your thighs, her nails leaving red streaks. You lean into the camera and type. “Sorry, technical difficulties,” you say, not sorry at all. “Ariana was just *agreeing* we should extend this quarter’s deadlines.”

She makes a noise like a drowning cat. You nod solemnly and continue typing.

“*Passionately* agreeing.”

Someone’s status changes to *Offline — Permanently*.

The CFO finally unmutes. “We’re done here.” The call disconnects.

Ariana collapses against your leg, gasping, her lipstick a ruined crimson smudge. You flick a notification from HR—*Investigation Pending*—and smirk. It's not like anything will come of it.

"What do you think, Ariana? I personally think I deserve a raise. Suck once for yes, and hmm... two hundred times for no.”

Her response is another slurp, **** and messy. The Slack channel implodes.