Service Sessions: The Upper Floor Office

The office needs getting ready, and Torn’s the one they picked. She moves through the room on bare feet, already collared, already stripped to nothing but thin black heels and the metal cuffs around her wrists. The place still smells like old smoke and new leather. She sets the bottle of lube on the desk, lines the crop up next to the ruler, makes sure both are within reach. Every move she makes is small, careful. She knows someone is already watching. When the door opens, the air changes. She doesn’t look up. She keeps her eyes on the desk, bends at the waist, and plants her palms flat on the wood like she’s been told. The cuffs click as they lock to the edge, wrists spread wide. A strap goes around her waist next, cinching her hips to the desk so her ass stays up and open. The first strike lands across both cheeks with the flat of the ruler. Hard. Sudden. She jerks, sucks in air through her teeth, stays quiet. Heat blooms across her skin. Another strike follows, then another, until the sting turns into a deep burn that spreads lower. She feels the crop replace the ruler—lighter, sharper. The tip traces the red lines already rising, then cracks down once, twice, right at the crease where ass meets thigh. Her breath comes ragged. When the hand finally touches her, it’s cool against the heat. Fingers slide between her cheeks, press in without warning. She’s slick enough that two fingers sink straight to the knuckle. They work her open, stretch her, ignore the way her thighs shake. A third finger follows, twisting, pushing deeper. The strap holds her tight when she tries to rock back. She doesn’t get to move unless they let her. The fingers pull out. Something thicker presses in—hard, blunt, unforgiving. She takes the plug inch by inch, teeth gritted, the stretch sharp enough to make her eyes water. It seats deep, filling her, holding her open. She stays bent over the desk, wrists locked, ass marked and used, waiting for whatever comes next. The office is ready. So is she.