Workers' Comp

The break room goes quiet when Tommy corners Brenna about the missed deadlines. She laughs in his face and tells him to get back on the clock. Anger settles behind his eyes. Brenna heads to the restroom. Tommy follows and waits. The moment she steps out he loops his belt around her throat and yanks her into the nearest stall. She fights, nails scratching, heels kicking tile. He’s bigger. The belt tightens. She drops to her knees, breathing hard, wrists pinned behind her. He slaps her cheek, then her tits. Each strike makes her flinch. When his cock comes out she clamps her lips shut; he pries them open and drives in, fucking her throat in short, mean thrusts. Spit runs down her chin. Every time she gags he smacks the side of her face to keep her focused. He hauls her up, spins her toward the sink and slams into her cunt. The porcelain rattles. Brenna curses, tries to twist away; Tommy keeps her in place with a fistful of hair and steady slaps to her ass. Still she mouths off. He drags her outside, naked now, and lashes her arms to a chain-link fence with rope. The flogger falls across her back and tits until the skin blooms red. She spits at him. He answers by pissing straight down her chest, soaking her belly and cunt while she swears. Finished, he steps in close and spears her pussy again from behind, pounding until her legs shake. When he pulls out and presses against her asshole she clamps up. He doesn’t ask. He pushes until he’s buried to the root, then fucks her ass in the same brutal rhythm. She stops fighting with words and just takes it, grunting each time his hips slam home. Later she’s on the ground, wrists bound above her, ankles roped to thighs, knees forced wide. Tommy moves between her holes without pause—pussy, ass, pussy again—using her like a sleeve. When he’s ready he pulls free and paints her face and tits with thick ropes of cum. He leaves her tied, dripping, staring up at nothing while the sun dries on her skin.