Clarice

You grab the stacks for Bety and Lisa, heart pounding, and bolt straight for the elevator. No detours, no eye contact, no slowing down. Miraculously, when the doors slide open, it’s empty. No futas lurking inside. You exhale sharply—maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it to the 5th floor without incident.

You jab the button for floor 5 and step back as the doors begin to close. Then—click-click-click—the unmistakable sound of high heels racing across the lobby tile. Your pulse spikes. You slam the close button repeatedly, but it’s too late. A glossy black stiletto with a red sole wedges between the doors, forcing them open.

Clarice.

1.95 meters of pure intimidation: fiery red hair cascading down her back, massive tits straining her tight blouse, curves poured into a pencil skirt that hugs her like a second skin. She steps in with that predatory smile, eyes raking over you like you’re fresh meat.

“Good morning, Scribbles. Turn around and show me that ass. Now.”

You don’t hesitate. You spin, press your back to the mirrored wall, and wait. The doors close behind her with a soft ding.

“Lucky for you, I’ve got a meeting in five. Otherwise we’d be having some real fun, haha!” She reaches past you and mashes every single button from ground to 5th floor. The elevator jerks upward—slow, torturously slow—stopping at every damn level.

“Arch that back, slut. Stick it out.”

You obey instantly, bending forward, hands braced on the wall, skirt riding up to expose your plugged ass and the red welts already forming from earlier.

“Which cheek first this time?” Clarice purrs, flipping your skirt fully up. Your pale cheeks are on full display, the massive plug stretching you obscenely.

“Right side, Mistress Clarice,” you whisper, voice cracking with dread.

She doesn’t answer with words. Her palm cracks down—hard—right on your right cheek. The sound echoes in the tiny metal box.

“Thank you, Mistress Clarice!”

Another slap—harder, faster. Left cheek this time.

“Thank you, Mistress Clarice!”

She doesn’t stop. From floor 1 to 5, it’s nonstop: rhythmic, brutal spanks that build in speed and ****. Each one lands with a wet smack, your skin blooming red to purple, the plug shifting deeper with every impact. Your legs shake in the heels; tears prick your eyes. The elevator dings at every floor—doors opening to empty hallways, thank fuck—but Clarice doesn’t pause. She just laughs.

“Count them, bitch. And thank me properly.”

“One… thank you, Mistress Clarice!”

SMACK!

“Two… thank you, Mistress Clarice!”

By the time the doors finally open on the 5th floor, your ass feels like it’s on fire—swollen, throbbing, every nerve screaming. You’re panting, forehead pressed to the cool mirror, mascara starting to run.

“Looks like this is your stop, slut. Hahahaha.”

You straighten as best you can, voice hoarse: “Th-thank you, Mistress Clarice. Every slap helped me remember my place. Thank you for making my ass red.”

She grabs your chin, forcing you to look at her reflection in the mirror—your tear-streaked face, her satisfied smirk.

“Filthy cock-addicted whores like you need constant reminders of where you belong in this office, haha. Now what are you waiting for, bitch? GET THE FUCK OUT!”

She shoves you forward. You stumble out into the hallway, doors sliding shut behind you with a final ding.

“AAARGH! Crazy bitch—my ass is fucking killing me!” you hiss under your breath, rubbing your burning cheeks through the skirt. The plug grinds deeper with every step, a constant reminder. “Goddamn it… if I didn’t need this paycheck so bad, I’d have quit ages ago.”

You limp toward Bety’s office, each movement sending fresh jolts of pain up your spine. Your ass is already bruised purple under the skirt—visible if anyone flips it up—and the plug makes walking feel like you’re being fucked with every stride.

Bety’s door looms ahead. You know what’s waiting: more “reports” to deliver, more degradation, more of her filthy cock down your throat or up your already wrecked hole.

Another floor, another round of hell.