Corporation (2/3)

A girl gets employed for an office job. But the corporate culture there is quite unusual. (More imagination teasing than actual sex scenes.) Part 2/3

My assigned place was in the small room, for just eight coworkers, three men and five women, including myself. They were quite busy, typing on their keyboards and talking in their headsets (those ones just smiled and waved to me, not breaking from their talks). My new direct manager, Sylvia, a woman in her forties, with D-sized breasts that barely fit in her blouse, welcomed me warmly, hugged me, and showed me my place: a standard desk with drawers and a desktop computer, and an already familiar split-seat chair.

"Make yourself comfortable, Maria," she said. "There's your coffee cup in the top drawer. Your login fingerprint is already entered into the system. There are the first tutorial courses shortcuts at the desktop, start with them. And here's your team." She introduced me to a few more women, who were not busy right now. They looked nice and friendly. "Girls - and guys! - make Maria feel at home," and she returned to her own desk. She didn't look any less or more threatening than Linda. More like a kind matron who could be scary when she gets angry.

Settling into the split-seat chair was still a jarring experience. I placed my hands on the cool surface of the desk, my back straight. The posture the chair enforced made me keenly aware of the air circulating between my legs. My butt crack and pussy slit were slightly spread apart, and as I sat there, I could feel the air conditioning draft against my most intimate skin. I forced my attention to the screen, the company logo glowing faintly in the center.

I clicked on the first tutorial. The screen flickered, displaying the video. It was a guide to their internal communications software. Mundane. Normal. A wave of relief washed over me so strongly that it made my muscles feel weak. Maybe it would all be okay. Maybe this was just a... weirdly intense company culture, and I just needed to adapt.

***

I watched for half of hour, answering short quizzes after each section. It was easy. Then my physiological needs reminded me of themselves. I paused the video and turned to the redhead girl on my left.

"I'm sorry, Anya. Could you point me to the restroom, please?"

She smiled. "Of course. Let's combine it with the coffee break. Take your cup, I'll make you coffee while you'll be there. I'll be needing a break, too."

"Sure." I got up, took my cup, and followed her. I could not help but look at her cute, firm butt and pretty, thin feet.

"It's here," Anya pointed me to the door with the combined man/woman sign. "It's a modern unisex one, just take any stall. When you are done, join me in the office kitchen next door."

"O-okay..."

She took my cup and went to the kitchen. I took a deep breath and pushed the door. I was familiar with the gender-neutral restrooms, but when everyone was dressed - or rather, almost undressed - this way... it still felt awkward. And the most awkward was the total lack of doors. All stalls stood open, exposing the toilets and everything. Oh god. Fortunately, all the places were empty.

I strolled through the cool tiled floor, claimed the farthest stall, and sat on the toilet, doing my best to finish as fast as possible. It was nice and clean, but what was weird! There was also no toilet paper. Instead, there was a bidet and the hot air dryer on the wall below waist level. Well... It's okay, maybe, I could get accustomed to it...

Then one detail about the bidet caught my eye. There were not one, but two hoses: one with the usual small shower head, and another with the smooth nozzle that reminded - I tried to get away from the obvious association, but in vain - reminded a moderately-thick dildo. There were illustrated instructions on the wall about it. I looked closer and blushed. I was not mistaken, we were required to not just wash up our outside parts, but the inner cavities as well! The images were quite explicit about that. We were supposed to douche ourselves, both holes. Every. Single. Time. Women and men alike. Rinsing the ass was combined with giving ourselves a small enema cleanup.

My heart thudded against my ribs. This wasn't just about being 'clean' in the conventional sense. This was about being prepared. Available. And the lack of the doors... The thought sent a hot, queasy feeling through me. My earlier hope that this might just be an eccentric dress code evaporated, replaced by a chilling certainty. They weren't just conditioning us to look a certain way; they were conditioning our very bodies. For what? The question hammered in my mind, but a part of me was terrified of the answer. I stared at the nozzle, the sleek, smooth design seeming to mock me.

After I was done with my business and took a thorough look at the instructions, I hesitantly took the nozzle and pushed it against my opening. It was slick and smooth. I gasped at the strange sensation as I slid it in. The cold metal, the unyielding pressure as I guided it deeper, following the anatomical diagram... It was clinical, invasive, and utterly humiliating. I pressed the button and felt the warm water jet inside me, a cleansing flood that was both thorough and deeply personal. It was over in a few moments. Then I repeated it with my ass, several times, defecating in between. It felt wrong, dirty, filthy... and strangely arousing, too. The warmth, the pressure, the fullness... and the emptiness after.

I took a moment to steady my breathing, my face burning with shame. I pressed the button for the hot air dryer. The warm blast dried my outer skin, but did nothing for the dampness I felt deep inside. Then I went to the hand wash and got another revelation. There were two dispensers, one labelled "Soap" and another labelled "Lubricant". Both were half empty and obviously used routinely.

I did my best not to think about possible implications. There were no instructions about the lubricant, so I did not touch it.

I finally emerged from the stall, my legs feeling unsteady, my head swimming. I felt like a different person, someone who had just crossed a line I could never uncross.

***

I walked into the kitchen, my bare feet leaving damp prints on the carpeting. Anya was leaning against a counter, stirring her own cup of coffee. She looked up as I came in, her eyes sweeping over me.

"There you are. Feel better?" she asked, her tone light, casual. She held out a white ceramic mug to me. "Black, no sugar, it's okay?"

"Okay, thank you..."

I took a sip, barely noticing the taste. The kitchen was... just a regular office kitchen, with a refrigerator, several coffee machines, a couple of microwave ovens, and a table for six or seven persons. The only difference was, all workers were half-naked here. But otherwise, it felt strangely normal. Anya saw me scanning the room.

"We spend the coffee breaks here," she explained. "It's a nice gathering place. For the breaks. There are two dining rooms for the lunch breaks, I'll show you later."

She was a small, athletic woman in her early twenties, and we had a small talk. It was about her hobbies (climbing and yoga), her previous work (a competitor firm), and about me. About my college and how I found this job. She never mentioned anything about the corporate specifics. She seemed like a normal, friendly colleague. And she didn't seem to suspect anything suspicious or to expect more. It made me feel more normal and relaxed.

Suddenly a thought came to my mind, and I couldn't get rid of it.

"Anya, forgive me for the subject. How are you dealing with the, um, periods here? In my case, tampons aren't enough, and now I can't use the pads..."

She nodded encouragingly. "It's okay, you are right, that could be a problem. But we have the solution."

She pulled out the cabinet drawer. There was a pile of small one-time syringes inside, really rather tubes with needles, covered with protective caps.

"What's that?"

"Hormonal aids," Anya picked one and handed it to me. "Actually, you can buy them in any drug store; the company just supplies us with them for free. One shot, and your periods stop for about three months. Then you have another shot. It is also a reliable contraception, too. Are you on the pill? You can replace it with that."

I looked at the syringe. It seemed so... normal. Another clinical solution to an intimate problem. Another way to erase a natural, messy, human function and replace it with something clean, controlled, and convenient for the company. Another submission, I thought. My womb will belong to them, too.

"That's... convenient," I managed, my voice a little flat. "I'll keep it in mind." I was going to place it back in the drawer, but then thought, what the hell. I'll start using them sooner or later, like all women here. So why not sooner? "Maybe I'll do it right now."

"Good choice."

Anya helped me to lift my skirt at one side, wipe my buttock with the antiseptic wipe, and showed how to administer the shot. It was easier than I thought, and almost not painful. I threw the empty tube into the waste basket. Did I really feel the heat spreading over my body from the point of injection? Or it was just a feeling that came from my brain.

"Any other cool side effects of this thing?"

Anya shrugged and sipped her coffee.

"Most women get hornier from it, especially during the first month after the shot, until the hormone concentration drops. Suits me. It makes everything so much simpler."

I did my best not to shiver visibly at her words.

***

Our coffee break ended, and we went back to our workspace. The afternoon passed in a blur of tutorials. The software, the project management systems, the interdepartmental communication protocols - it was all dry, corporate material, exactly what I had expected. The sheer normalcy of it was disorienting. I found myself almost forgetting my state of undress, the collar at my neck, the lingering feeling of the cleansing nozzle inside me. Then I would shift in my chair, feel the air on my exposed skin, and the reality of this place would crash back in. The conflict between the mundane work and the bizarre bodily requirements was giving me a low-grade headache.

"Maria, could I ask you for help?" Sylvia placed several large binders on my desk. "Bring them into the archives and put them into their respective shelves. There are alphanumeric codes, see? They correspond to the room-rack-shelf locations. There are signs and labels everywhere, you'll find the places easily. Take the elevator to the basement, floor minus one, there you'll see the archives entrance."

"Of course!" I stood up, locked my computer, and took the binders. They were heavy, so I had to press them to my chest.

The basement. Of course it would be. The classic setting for every horror and suspense story I'd ever heard. The air grew cooler as I descended in the elevator, the low hum of the machinery vibrating through the soles of my feet. The doors slid open onto a corridor lit by flickering fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, their humming sound even more pronounced down here. The floor was bare, polished concrete, cold against my bare feet. Every step I took echoed in the silence, a soft, slapping sound that made me feel profoundly exposed.

The short corridor branched out into three longer ones, going in different directions. From a distance, I saw the entries to the rooms with racks and cabinets, and occasional coworkers bringing binders here and there. I looked at the label on my top binder and turned into the corridor A.

I walked slowly down the dimly lit corridor, looking at the numbers above the doors, so I didn't notice these peculiar details right away. There were steel rings on the walls between the doors, installed at equal intervals at the head level. Short chains were hanging from them, some ending with leather cuffs and others with locks. The sequence was clear: a cuff, a lock, a cuff; a cuff, a lock, a cuff; there were dozens of them. All of them were hanging free, but I was seeing in my head a line of people with their hands cuffed and their collars chained to the wall.

I froze, the binders suddenly feeling like lead weights in my arms. My eyes darted down the corridor. Yes. More rings. More cuffs and locks. They weren't decorative. They were functional, scratched from regular use. There were darker spots on the walls and on the floor below them.

A cold dread, sharp and metallic, flooded my mouth. This was a prison. No, a BDSM dungeon. This whole floor, this entire building, was a beautiful, modern, minimalist torture place. The clean aesthetic, the enforced dress code, the collars... it wasn't just for kink. It was for control. My mind raced, trying to connect the corporate doublespeak to this brutal, concrete reality. 'Within reason.' 'Team-building exercises.' 'Receptivity.'

I felt an overwhelming urge to turn and run, to flee back to the elevator, to pound on the button and escape to the street and never look back. But my feet wouldn't move. I was bound by the contract I'd signed, by the need for this job, by the sheer, paralyzing shock of what I was seeing. I was a cog in a machine, and this was the maintenance bay.

Taking a shaky breath, I forced my legs to move. I looked at the number above the door and turned into it. There was a large room with straight rows of cabinets and racks, filled with binders. And there were... other racks, too. Made from the thick, heavy steel rails, they stood vertically, secured against the walls. Each was equipped with a vast set of rings, chains, planks, blocks, and levers. There was a whole row of these strange steel frames. My blood ran cold. My vivid imagination brought me the picture of myself, naked, stretched in this frame, pulled to painful limits, whipped, violated... I shuddered and turned away from the frames, focusing only on the binders.

I found the correct shelf and started putting the binders on it. I had two for this shelf. My hands trembled as I placed them, one by one, my eyes fixed on their spines, the alphanumeric codes the only anchor in a sea of rising terror. Then I heard a sound.

A sound of unmistakable woman's moans, quiet from the distance, from somewhere down the corridors. She wasn't crying, screaming, begging, or anything. Just moaning in obvious rhythm. It was a sound of pleasure. Of rhythmic pleasure. The sound was... it was intoxicating. It was getting louder as the woman slowly approached her climax. Against my better judgment, against every shred of self-preservation I possessed, my curiosity overpowered my fear. I was sure that if I followed the sound, I would get another piece of the puzzle. Will I manage to fit it into the picture, though?

But... But I had the work to complete. I had four more binders to be placed in other archive corridors. I hesitated. Will I manage to do it in time and return before the woman gets silent? Could I leave them waiting for me here, just run and watch, then return? Then I looked at the stretching frame again and shuddered. No. I was not ready to disobey.

I quickly walked back to the entrance, looking for corridor B, my heart racing, my unsatisfied curiosity burning in my chest. I located the corridor and strode down it, the heavy binders pressing against my chest. Moans were louder here. It had to be somewhere nearby. Or... they were different moans? Right. Now I heard clearly that there were several moaning women in different points of the basement. I put two more binders on their shelves and headed for corridor C.

The moans were so loud there that it was hard to ignore them. I walked, my bare feet silent on the cold floor, towards the sound, towards the room with my last two binders. There was no doubt, it was coming from there. The entrance door to the archive was ajar. I slowed down, my breathing shallow. I put my eye to the crack.

The room was similar to the one I'd just left, with the same document shelves. There were also those steel frames I had seen before, several of them arranged in a circle facing a central dais. In one of the frames, a naked woman was bound. I couldn't see her face, only her back, her hands stretched to the sides high above her head, her legs spread wide and secured at the base. Her bare skin gleamed under the overhead spotlights, shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat. A man stood behind her, methodically thrusting his hips. He was dressed in the company uniform - the kilt lifted at his front, the translucent shirt, the heavy collar - his movements precise, unhurried, like a worker performing a task. His eyes were focused, his expression devoid of passion or cruelty, just a neutral concentration. He wasn't a lover or an attacker; he was an operator.

The woman arched her back, her moans rising in pitch, a desperate, keening sound. I was frozen, the binders heavy in my arms. This was it. This was the 'additional activities' Linda had spoken of. This was the 'fun'. This was happening here, now, during work hours, in what looked like a multi-purpose storeroom.

A hand came to rest on my shoulder, making me jump so hard I almost dropped the binders.

"Peeking, rookie?"

I spun around. It was one of the men from my department, a guy I'd only seen at a distance. He was tall, with a muscular build, his dark hair cropped short. His name tag, embossed on his collar, read 'Jacob'.

"No! I was just... I was about to go in. With these." I gestured with the binders, my voice cracking.

He looked at the binders. "Ah, yes. The work before everything, of course. Let me guide you."

"I can find the shelves by myself, thank you."

"Sure, you can. I'm about what will follow."

My heart sank, I nearly dropped the binders, feeling my knees getting weak. That is. It will happen to me now. The contract, my signature... everything crashed down on me. I started to tremble.

Jacob’s other hand came up, his fingers gently tracing the leather of my collar. "New collar suits you, Maria. You look good in it." His voice was low, calm, devoid of threat, which somehow made it worse. It was a statement of fact, like commenting on the weather.

I flinched away from his touch. "Don't," I whispered, the word barely audible.

He didn't press. He just lowered his hand to my breast. "The rule here is simple. It's about duty. Your primary duty is your work, of course. But your secondary duty... is to make this a productive and pleasant environment for everyone else. A happy workforce is an efficient workforce."

He gestured with his head towards the door. "He's helping her now. She missed a quarterly deadline for a report. This is the corrective procedure. A performance review, you could say."

I stared at him, my mind struggling to grasp the casual horror of his words. "This is... a punishment?"

Jacob chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Punishment? No. It's a way to improve her. Nothing makes you more energetic and motivated like several good forced orgasms." He grinned. "Or even one. Or, you know, being tied up and experiencing pain properly. It resets you. It reminds you where you belong in the structure."

"And she... agreed to this?" The question felt idiotic even as I asked it.

"The moment she signed her contract, she agreed to everything. And him, too." His gaze drifted down, from my face to my bare legs, and back up. "Just like you did." The smile on his face was a mix of amusement and something else, something possessive. "You'll see the 'Correction Room' schedule soon enough. We all rotate. Some of us even volunteer. It's... invigorating."

My stomach churned. The word 'volunteer' bounced around in my head, a meaningless sound in this context.

"I... I have to file these," I stammered, clutching the binders to my chest like a shield. I pushed past him and into the room.

The air inside was thick, humid, saturated with the smell of sex and sweat. I tried to keep my eyes fixed on the shelves, but the sounds were impossible to ignore. The rhythmic slap of skin, the woman's ragged breathing, her cries sharpening with each thrust. I quickly located the correct shelves and put the binders in place.

Then I felt the strong hand pulling my collar from behind, making me choke and cough.

"Perfect," Jacob said from behind me. His other hand worked on my belt, and my skirt dropped to my feet. "You are new here, so it's not a correction. It's an advance bonus."

And he unbuttoned my blouse. I twitched, but it wasn't a resistance. More like a nervous tic, like a muscle spasm. My mind was empty, all thoughts blown away by the raw reality of the situation. He took off the blouse and left me only in the collar they gave me. I didn't even realize I was shaking until he put his large hands on my arms to steady me.

"Jacob, I don't... I just..." I started to protest, but my voice was thin and useless. He wasn't even looking at my face. He was guiding me, turning me, his touch practiced and impersonal, like I was a piece of furniture he was rearranging. He led me to one of the empty steel frames, facing the woman being fucked.

"Arms up," he said.

My body obeyed before my mind could process the command. It was a primal response, a deep, ingrained instinct of obedience to authority, to the physical superiority of a man holding my fate in his hands. I raised my arms, and he secured my wrists into leather cuffs hanging from the frame's top rail. They clicked shut, the sound sharp and final. My ankles came next, my legs stretched wide and locked in place at the base of the frame.

I was now bound, exposed, ready to be used. Like a fucktoy.

The woman before me raised her reddened face with rolled-up eyes. She did not see me. She gave out a hoarse cry, and her body began jerking in the frame. The man pumped his final, powerful thrusts into her and came too. They stood still for several seconds, panting.

Then the man pulled out his cock. It wasn't huge, just medium-sized and clean, and it was now softening. He adjusted his kilt. The woman remained tied, a shudder running through her body.

"We're done for today, Christine. Two more to go today," the man said.

She nodded, not raising her eyes. "Thank you, Mark."

He hugged her from behind, squeezing her breast with his hand. She turned her head, and they kissed. Then Mark left, and another man came, his kilt bulging at the front. Christine gave out a long sigh when he entered her from behind.

"Now it's your turn, too," Jacob said into my ear from behind.

I could not speak. It's happening. He will do it to me. He will use me. And there was no one to help me here.

His hand slid down my stomach, through my pubis, to my slit. I sobbed when I felt his fingers on my vulva.

"Mmm, Maria, you are already wet!" he chuckled. "That's the proper attitude!"

Was I wet? I was. It was all due to the today's shot, it makes me horny, like Anya said. I sighed. Do not lie to yourself, Maria. You are horny from being stripped naked and spread on the frame, from seeing and listening to Christine being fucked by the second man in front of my eyes. From the feeling of Jacob's hard cock sliding by my crotch, probing my entry...

I gasped and arched my body, pushing back my hips, instinctively adjusting the angle of my vagina to his entering. His cock went inside, and I moaned as loudly as Christine did. He didn't do any foreplay or lubrication, except my own arousal, so it went in with a bit of stretch, my tight flesh burning, and yet it was just the perfect amount of pain to mix with the unexpected rush of pleasure. I was filled, completed.

"There's a good girl," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my back. His hands gripped my hips, holding me steady. "Take it all."

He started to move. Slowly at first, a deliberate, rhythmic rocking that pushed against the deepest parts of me. Each thrust was measured, a pressure point sending shockwaves through my core. I was aware of everything - the cool air on my skin, the bite of the leather on my wrists and ankles, the slick sound of our bodies joining, the sight of Christine being taken by another man, her face a mask of exhausted ecstasy. It was a symphony of sensations, overwhelming, and my body responded with an honesty my mind couldn't deny. The heat coiling low in my belly grew tighter with every stroke.

Jacob's rhythm remained constant, a metronome of pure, physical function. He was not fucking me like a passionate lover. He was... it was like jerking off with my vagina. So degrading, and at the same time... it turned my blood to fire. He was using my body for his physical relief, and my body liked to be used. I realized with a jolt that I was moving my hips to his rhythm, meeting his thrusts, pulling him deeper, moaning with his every move. I was an active participant. A willing one.

My mind was a frantic, jumbled mess, trying to reconcile the humiliation with the undeniable pleasure, the horror with the intoxicating need. This was it. The submission they talked about. Not just being tied up, but this mental surrender. My body was his instrument to play, and I could no longer pretend I didn't want to be played. He started to speed up, his breathing becoming harsher. He pulled my hips back, impaling me fully, and I cried out, the sound raw and guttural. He pressed his fingers into my flesh, his movements becoming more erratic, less controlled. He was approaching his peak.

And so was I. The coil of heat in my stomach snapped, releasing a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. It washed over me, stealing my breath, my vision blurring, my muscles clamping down on him as wave after wave of spasms shook my body. It seemed to go on forever, and I cried out and did not care about others seeing and hearing me like that.

When I came to, Christine had also just finished cumming. We both hang on our stretched arms, twitching with orgasmic aftershocks. Jacob gave his last, powerful thrust, and a warm flood filled me. For a moment, his body was flush against my back, his breathing heavy in my ear. The feeling was... shockingly intimate. More intimate than a hug, more intimate than a kiss. It was a mark, a claim.

After he pulled out, a thin line of his cum was trickling down my inner thigh. I watched it, fascinated, a strange sense of peace settling over me. The terror was gone, replaced by a hazy, post-orgasmic languor. The reality of the situation was still there - bound and naked in a basement archive room - but it felt distant, filtered through a warm, pleasant fog.

Jacob moved to my side, reaching up to release my wrists. "You did well, Maria. Very good." His voice was still calm, matter-of-fact, but now there was a note of something akin to approval in it.

As the blood rushed back into my hands, a pins-and-needles sensation pricked my skin. I flexed my fingers, wincing slightly. He knelt and unfastened my ankles. "Stay put for a moment. Let the blood circulate." I reached to wipe the trickle of his cum from my thigh, but he held my hand. "Don't. It's the sign of recognition, of your worth. Women here aren't cleaning them up through the day."

When I was leaving, with my clothes roughly arranged and my mind in total disarray, I heard Christine moaning again with her third man.