Ciaran checked on Alison in her locked office when he returned to the building, and found her sobbing pathetically.
It only required him to cross to her side of the room and see the puddle on the tiles beneath her chair to realise what had happened.
He had left her locked in a bare-bones office containing little except a computer, a chair, and some pens, naked from the waist down. She could have called for help by email – but that would have involved someone discovering her in her bare-cunted state and asking questions.
As the hours had passed she had felt the pressure in her bladder building. She couldn’t leave the room – couldn’t even really stand up without exposing herself to people in the open-plan area outside through the glass panelling across the front. There were no containers, no padding.
Eventually, she had had no choice but to wet herself.
The surveillance cameras Ciaran had installed would show it, of course – the desperate look on Alison’s face as she realised what was about to happen; the way her eyes had darted around the room looking for a way out of her trap; and then finally the humiliated, broken look on her face as she gave in and began to piss, sitting at her desk in a public office.
The slanted nature of her chair had ensured that it all ran off onto the floor, and luckily the floor was tile, not carpet. But Alison simply had no way to clean it up, and nowhere to hide her nudity except by sitting at her desk, and so she had sat there, her feet in the puddle of her shame, and begun to cry.
And in time her watch had flashed, and she had gone blank, and her eyes had drifted back to rape videos on her screen, and without thinking about it she had begun to masturbate again…
This was the state that Ciaran found her in. She clearly wanted to hide her humiliation from Ciaran, but there was simply no way for her to do so. She looked up at him with big, pathetic, tearful eyes.
He took out his phone and snapped a picture. It was all on his surveillance tapes, of course, but he wanted Alison to *know* that her degradation was being recorded. And besides, she was offering him an excellent view of her pussy, and that broken look on her face was intensely erotic.
“You dumb big-titted baby,” he said, slowly and deliberately, and watched the beautiful flinch as his words collided with the same phrase – implanted in her mind by the hypnosis – and reinforced it.
“I’m sorry,” she said – seemingly the only words she knew how to say today. She was getting into the habit of apologising to him, which was good.
“Stay here,” he told her – as if she had a choice.
He hadn’t planned for this – perhaps foolishly – but he knew how to make it work for him. He went to the toilets and got a stack of paper towels, then went past his office and got one of his spare white shirts from his office cupboard – and also grabbed his office’s wastepaper bin while he was there, as Alison didn’t have one.. Then he returned to Alison, placing the shirt on the floor near the door before she could think about it too much. He closed her office blinds, then closed the door, giving them privacy.
“Stand up,” he told her, and she did. He walked her around the desk to its far side, away from the puddle of piss, and then turned her back to face the desk.
“Bend over,” he told her, and pushed her down by the back of her neck before she could object.
She whimpered. She was now bent at the waist, her ass out. She was in the perfect position for him to fuck her, and perhaps she thought that was what was going to happen. If so, she was compliant – he tapped her inside thigh lightly, and she parted her legs for him without having to be told.
“We’re going to clean you off, baby,” he said, in a soothing voice, and then took a paper towel and began to wipe it carefully between her legs. He started on her legs and inner thighs, capturing where her piss had run down from her groin towards her toes, and then moved up. She made a sharp intake of breath as the paper towel touched her pussy for the first time – and then moaned as he began to rub and squeeze at her cunt with the towel.
He did it slowly, and relatively gently. He wanted to give her the image of a baby having her nappy changed. He wanted her to feel ashamed, humiliated, infantilised – but also grateful to have someone fixing her mess, cleaning up her dirty mistake.
And of course, he wanted it to be sexual. His hand would go to her cunt, then up to wipe her anus, then down her legs, and back to her cunt, squeezing her public mound, teasing her cunt lips, rubbing over her clitoris, until finally she gave him what he wanted – an orgasm.
She shuddered, bucked against his hand, moaned – and then squirted, just a little into his paper towel. He didn’t think she’d even realised she’d expelled the liquid. Something to note for later, perhaps.
“Alison,” he said, in a disgusted voice, and heard her start to cry again.
“Do you want me to pinch your clitoris, to punish you for that?” he asked.
Alison made a choked, ashamed sound. “Yes,” she said.
“Good girl,” replied Ciaran. But instead of reaching between her legs and pinching her clitoris with his fingers, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a black metal triangle – a bulldog clip, designed to bind thick wads of paper together. He took this, squeezed it open, put it between her legs, and let it close on her clitoris.
Alison went wild. She screamed, out loud – and then choked off her own scream by putting a hand across her own mouth. Her eyes were bulging, wild. She struggled to get up, while simultaneously trying to reach her cunt and remove the wicked device.
Ciaran held her hands, and held her down. “Ssh,” he said. “Sssh, baby. It won’t damage you. It just hurts you, a lot. As much as you deserve.”
Alison was sobbing. Her tears had long ago ruined her mascara. She was weeping uncontrollably. “It hurts!” she moaned. “It hurts!”
“I know,” said Ciaran. “And you deserve it, don’t you?”
Alison made an incoherent noise.
“For pissing on the floor? For being a slut?” prompted Ciaran. “For being a dumb big-titted baby?”
“Yes,” whispered Alison, broken. “Yes.”
“Good girl,” said Ciaran, and to his surprise and amusement, Alison orgasmed again at the words, squirting a little more. The hypnotic pleasure of his approval must have short-circuited her pain-pleasure wires. Good.
“I’m going to let you up now, and you’re not going to remove it,” said Ciaran, and then released her arms.
Alison straightened up. Her hands twitched – she wanted to protect her pussy, to remove the clip, but she was willing herself not to.
“Now take off your shirt and bra,” he told her.
Her lips moved now. There was an unformed question there – “why?” – but every moment she delayed by asking questions was another moment that the evil clamp would stay on her clitoris. She closed her mouth, and hurriedly pulled her shirt and bra up over her head.
Her tits, Ciaran thought, were truly magnificent. Not as big as they could be, but – very pleasing.
“Use them to mop up the mess on the floor,” he told her.
“But… what will I wear?” she asked.
He was tempted to tell her she’d be putting them back on again afterwards – but that wasn’t his plan for her.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Just start mopping.” He wanted her to commit to ruining her clothes and leaving herself vulnerable before knowing that she would be safe afterwards. It was a good precedent.
Still sniffling and crying a little, Alison got down on all fours and began to rub her shirt and bra in the puddle of piss. Ciaran used his phone to film her again. She looked good, on all fours, her ass and pussy winking up at him, her tits hanging down beneath her. He watched as she rubbed at the puddle of urine until her clothes were soaked with it, but the floor was clean.
“Put your clothes in the bin,” he told her, indicating the wastepaper bin. She did so – and then stood naked before him.
It was hard – very hard – to not just rape her there and then. But Ciaran was playing a longer game than that.
He passed her his white shirt. “Wear this,” he said.
She put it on quickly – and it was immediately apparent that the shirt made her look, if anything, more nude than when she had been naked. He was taller than her, and the hem of the shirt came down far enough to hide her pussy and ass – just. But her tits pressed tightly against the front of the shirt, distorting it lewdly, and the thin white material became basically transparent under the pressure. The dark areolae of her nipples were clearly visible through the material. She was still wearing the bulldog clip, and squirming erotically from the pain.
“I can’t wear this!” she objected, once the shirt was buttoned and she realised how it looked.
“Well, you can wear your other clothes if you really want,” he said, gesturing at the bin. “Or you can go naked.”
“Can’t I…” she paused. She had remembered that he had her skirt – her clean skirt. “Can’t I have my other clothes?”
He was silent, as if he was thinking. Then he said, “Wait here. Don’t remove the clip.” He opened the office blinds again – enjoying the way that Alison quickly sat back down on the cruel office chair to conceal her lower half from sight – and then left the room.
He didn’t actually need to go anywhere. What he needed was in his pocket. But he wanted to reinforce Alison’s vulnerability. He wanted to make her regret asking for more clothes. He wanted her to sit there, completely dependent on him, eager for him to come back and solve her problems, feeling like a dirty slut, her clitoris in agony even though her pussy was still wet.
He went back to his office, sat at his desk – and proceeded to kill time. Half an hour should be enough. She couldn’t very well leave her chair wearing nothing but a see-through shirt and with a bulldog clip on her clitoris. Neither would she remove the clip – she wanted more clothes, and disobeying his instruction wouldn’t help her get them.
He answered a few emails, played a game of computer solitaire, and then slowly made his way back to Alison.
“Where were you?” she asked frantically when he returned.
His eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you wanted my help. I can leave again?”
She blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m sorry, *sir*,” he corrected.
She hesitated. This was in some ways harder for her than needing his help to clean up her piss. She wasn’t a woman who called men “sir”. She had rejected the notion at every step of her life to date. He wasn’t her superior, even – not really.
She was silent, her face red.
He turned to leave.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she blurted hurriedly.
“That’s better,” said Ciaran. He walked over to her side of the desk, and reached down between her legs. “Time to take this off,” he said.
She opened her mouth to say something, but he had no interest in what she might say. He unclamped her clitoris.
She would have screamed, right then and there. The pain in her cunt before was nothing compared to the feeling of bloodflow rushing back into her abused clit. Her whole mind turned to pure agony, and she would have shouted it for the whole office to know – except that Ciaran leaned down and kissed her on the lips.
She moaned into his mouth. He dropped the clip on the floor and rapidly rubbed her exposed cunt – and felt her almost immediately start to orgasm against his hand, shaking, shuddering.
When she was done, he broke off the kiss – and slapped her hard across the face.
“I can’t believe you did that again,” he hissed. “What does it take to make you stop being a sexual molester?”
Her mouth was open in shock. Slapping her had felt good. In fact, it had felt so good, that he gave in to temptation, and slapped her again.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She sounded like she meant it – even though it had been him who kissed her, rather than the reverse. Too much shame and embarrassment had happened to her today, and she was quick to accept his assertion that she was a disgusting whore.
“Don’t do it again,” he told her, whispering himself. “I’m your only friend here, understand? Without me you’d be fired and in jail from all the stuff you’ve done this week. Stop being a whore and just be a good girl.”
She started to cry, which was good. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her pink panties. “Here you go,” he said.
She looked at them. “What about my skirt?” she asked.
“What skirt?” he asked – loudly.
The door to her office was still open. There were people working in the open plan outside. Alison looked nervously in that direction.
“You know…” she said.
He took a step backwards, so she would have to speak louder to talk to him. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” he said. “Explain it to me.”
She opened her mouth – and closed it, looking at the door again.
He waited, to make sure she wasn’t going to speak, and then said, “This morning you gave me something and said you wanted me to keep it until you went home. I don’t intend to break my promise, Alison.” He paused again, and then added, “Write me up a report about how you pissed on your office floor and cleaned it up using your shirt and bra. I want it on my desk before you go home.” And then he turned and left.
He hoped she might be so confused that she actually believed the business with the skirt could have happened that way – that putting her clothing in his control had been *her* idea – but even if she remembered it correctly, it would do her good to know that she was powerless to refute his version of events.
He didn’t bother to close the door of her office. In this case, embarrassment would keep her pinned to her desk more powerfully than a door lock ever could.
And of course, when she put on the panties, she would discover that the hot pink lingerie showed through the white of the shirt far more clearly than her pussy had ever done, and that she looked more like a stripper wearing underwear than she had done with a bare cunt.