Sarah

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You start walking, the sharp clack-clack-clack of your 15 cm platforms echoing down the corridor like a fucking alarm bell. No way to be stealthy. Every step screams “look at me, I’m the office slut.” So you do the only thing you can: speed up. The faster you reach dispatch, the less chance some horny futa stops you for “quick service.”

Halfway there, your feet already burn. These heels are **** devices—balancing on them while your skirt rides up and your collar jingles is a nightmare. You’re almost at the dispatch door when a tall, dark-skinned woman in a crisp white button-up and tight black skirt steps right into your path. You stumble, nearly twisting an ankle, arms flailing.

You look up. Sarah. Fuck.

“H-hi… hi, Mistress Sarah! Sorry for bumping into you!” Your voice shakes.

She’s trouble. Always has been. Last time you “serviced” her, you couldn’t sit for two days—your ass felt like it had been reamed with a baseball bat.

Her hand cracks across your face—hard. Stars explode behind your eyes. Before you recover, she spits right in your face, thick glob landing on your cheek and dripping down.

“Don’t think running’s gonna save you, you filthy little bitch.”

You avert your eyes, trying to avoid her gaze, but end up staring at her skirt instead. The outline is obscene: a massive bulge, thick as a soda bottle, straining the fabric. Your stomach drops.

“Sorry, Mistress!”

Sarah points one manicured finger at the floor.

“Kiss my heels. Show me how sorry you really are.”

No hesitation. You drop to your knees, ass up, skirt flipping to expose everything. You press trembling lips to her shiny black pumps—kissing, licking, murmuring apologies between each peck.

“Sorry, Mistress Sarah… I’m so sorry…”

She watches, smirking. Then her eyes narrow.

“Oh? What’s this? You forgot something, slut. That tight little hole of yours is empty. We can’t have that.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a fist-sized anal plug—black, ridged, flared base. She hawks a thick glob of spit onto the tip, smearing it roughly.

Before you can react, her heel plants on the back of your head—grinding your face into the carpet, ass hiked high.

“Hold still, receptacle.”

No warning. She lines it up and shoves—hard. The plug stretches you brutally, dry ridges scraping your walls. You cry out, muffled against the floor, but she doesn’t stop until the base pops in with a wet thunk, sealing you full.

“There. Now you’re ready for work, cum dump.”

She steps off your head. You stay frozen in position—ass plugged, burning, throbbing—waiting for her to leave.

She finally walks away, heels clicking. You push yourself up slowly. The plug shifts with every move, pressing deep, making your legs shake. But there’s no time to recover. You hobble the last few meters to dispatch and slip inside, shutting the door behind you.

“Argh! This thing’s fucking huge!” you hiss, reaching back to pull it out. Your fingers grip the base and tug—your hole stretches painfully around it—but then you hear the camera zoom in. Loud. Obvious.

Rule #1: Never remove anything inserted during your shift. Violation = immediate punishment, usually broadcast on the office monitors.

“Fuck… damn camera,” you mutter, letting go. The plug settles deeper, a constant, humiliating pressure.

You turn to the task board on the wall and the TV screen listing your “errands” for the day:

Deliver reports to Bety’s office, 5th floor

Hand-deliver package to Mrs. Lisa, 3rd floor

Refill coffee machine in the break room

Clean the employee locker room

Return to supply room for next assignment

You know exactly what each one really means:

Get throat-fucked and ass-**** by Bety while she makes you clean her smegma-crusted cock with your tongue

Ball **** and rough pounding from Lisa until you’re crying

Gangbanged by whoever’s in the break room—probably bent over the counter while they take turns

Brutal locker-room bukkake and hole-stretching from the futas changing shifts

Back to square one for whatever fresh hell they invent next

You sigh, adjust your skirt (pointless), and grab the first stack of reports. The plug shifts again, sending a jolt up your spine.

Another day of being the building’s communal fucktoy begins.

No escape. No mercy. Just fifty meters of corridor hell, one humiliating “task” at a time.