It was again past 7 pm by the time the office was empty enough for Alison to nervously scurry through the corridors in her half-dressed state to attend his office. She stood in front of him, looking like a complete fuckdoll in the see-through white shirt, blushing, and holding her report on how she had wet herself in her hand.
He took it from and looked it over, while she cast nervous looks at the doorway, hoping no one would walk past and see her mostly-exposed body. The report was a minor work of creative genius. Alison had instinctively known she couldn’t say anything about how he had locked her office door, or taken her skirt, so she had had to act as if losing control of her bladder was all her own fault – and that her decision to likewise strip nude and mop up the piss with her clothes was something she had decided to do by herself.
The report made her look stupid, irresponsible, and slutty, and it was perfect. He filed it with her other incriminating admissions, then went and closed his office door and shut the blinds.
“Good girl,” he said. “Give me back my shirt.”
Her mouth opened – and closed. Questioning him hadn’t gone well for her today. She didn’t want to give up the shirt – but after all, it *was* his, and anyway, he still had her house keys, wallet, phone, and skirt. She wasn’t going anywhere without his help.
She slowly unbuttoned the shirt and removed it, exposing her tits to his gaze for the second time today. She tried to cover them with one arm while she passed the shirt back with the other.
Once again she was making herself more vulnerable on his command, without any promise that he would make her safer again afterwards. He liked it.
“Good girl,” he told her. “Here you go.” He passed her her skirt.
She put it on hurriedly – then looked up at him expectantly.
“You can go now,” he told her.
“I’m still…” she began. “I mean, I don’t have a shirt…”
He looked at her, saying nothing.
“I catch the train,” she said. “I can’t go home on the train without a shirt. It’s public. It was bad enough last night when my skirt fell off…” She trailed off.
“Would you like me to drive you home, Alison?” he asked her.
Her eyes flicked to the shirt she had just given him. Clearly she wanted it back. “No,” she said. “I just…”
“Then good night, Alison,” said Ciaran, turning away from her, and back to his computer screen.
She stood there, fidgeting awkwardly. He ignored her.
It took her almost five minutes to ask.
“Yes, please,” she said.
He looked up. “What?”
“Could you drive me home?” she asked.
He just looked at her, and waited.
She blushed. “Could you drive me home, please, sir?” she asked.
“Oh, very well,” he said. He turned off his computer, gathered his belongings – and Alison’s – and stood to leave. “Come on,” he said, opening the door.
She looked disinclined to leave. She looked nervous.
“Oh, stop being a prude,” he told her. “Everyone else has gone home. Cover your udders with your hands and you’ll be fine.”
He honestly would have preferred her not to cover her tits at all, but the process of trying – and largely failing – to modestly cover her boobs with her hands would heighten her sense of anxiousness and shame, so it was for the best, really.
They moved through the empty corridors to the lift. When the lift carriage arrived, the both got in. Ciaran pressed the button for the parking basement.
On the second floor, the lift dinged, and the doors opened. Alison almost shrieked with fright, trying to stand behind Ciaran to conceal her topless state.
It was Dave Sanders who got in. He chuckled as he saw Alison. “Oh, hey, it’s the workplace culture bitch,” he said. “Nice fuckbags. What happened to her shirt?”
“She pissed on her office floor and used her shirt to mop it up,” said Ciaran bluntly. “I’m driving her home.”
Dave burst into open laughter, staring unabashedly at Alison’s tits as he laughed. Alison turned redder and redder until finally the lift reached the ground floor and Dave got out. The doors closed, and the lift continued down to the parking garage.
“Did you have to tell him that?” Alison hissed when Dave was gone.
“What story were *you* going to tell him?” asked Ciaran.
Alison was silent, because she clearly had no idea.
The parking garage was mostly empty too, and they stepped out into an echoing concrete space, brightly lit and smelling of gasoline. Ciaran walked Alison to his car, an expensive Audi parked in a remote corner of the building.
When he got there, he stopped, turned to Alison, and said, “Go piss in the corner.”
Alison’s eyes bulged. “What?” she said.
“This is an expensive car,” said Ciaran, “and I’m not having a repeat of your little accident on the upholstery. Make sure your bladder is empty before you get in. Go piss in the corner over there.”
“I’m not going to the toilet in a parking lot!” she said. “Just drive me home!”
Ciaran’s face went cold. “I have done *so much* for you today, Alison – not to mention yesterday. I don’t think it is too much to ask for a little co-operation and a little gratitude, instead of this constant bitchy, slutty attitude.” He unlocked the car, and got in, locking it again before Alison could reach the passenger door. He rolled down the driver’s side window. “If you don’t want my help, you can get home yourself.” Then he closed the window again.
Alison’s face went white. Ciaran still had her phone, keys and wallet. She didn’t even have her pass to get back in the building – or out of the parking garage – let alone unlock her home. If Ciaran drove off without her, she would be stuck half-nude overnight in the garage until the first workers discovered her in her bare-titted state the next morning.
Alison pulled at the handle of the passenger’s side door in vain. It was locked.
Ciaran started the engine.
“All right!” said Alison, teary-eyed. “All right.” She walked over towards the corner of the garage.
Ciaran rolled down the window. “Take off your skirt and panties and give them to me,” he told her. “We don’t want them getting wet.”
Alison looked at him suspiciously. She knew how this went by now. She would be at his mercy to give them back to her. But what else could she do? Reluctantly she uncinched her skirt again, then pulled down her panties. She was nude but for her high heels and earrings. She passed Ciaran the two items of clothing.
“Good girl,” he told her. “Now piss.” And he very deliberately got out his phone and pointed it at her.
Alison did not like pissing on camera while a man watched her. She did not like the fact that Ciaran could see she was obviously still aroused – her nipples were perky, her cunt lips were puffy, and when she squatted in the corner and parted her pussy lips with her fingers to pee, the camera could see the sticky ropes of cunt-nectar dripping from her labia. Ciaran thought that Dave’s humiliation of her in the elevator might have even made her more aroused than she already had been.
And she was getting wetter by the second. The process of preparing a report on her urination had, by the action of her hypnotic watch program, conditioned her to sexually fixate on the experience, and further humiliation of the same type was getting her hot, even as her brain told her she was a slut and begged her to behave normally.
She moaned as she began to piss on the ground, her face twisting into a slutty mask of lust and humiliation. Ciaran captured every moment of it on camera – including the part where she tried to surreptitiously rub her clit as she pissed, before controlling herself, deciding that was too slutty even for her under this level of close scrutiny.
When she was done, Ciaran said, “Good girl.” It was the voice of man praising a pet – an animal – and it still gave Alison that hypnotic thrill of pleasure. Then he added, “Come here.”
She did, standing, walking to his side of the car, in front of the rolled down window.
“Spread your legs,” he told her – and she did, parting them slightly. Her cunt was near his head height, and he loved its shaved hairless slutty symmetry.
He reached out of the window, holding her skirt and panties in his hand – and used them to wipe her cunt clean. He rubbed them between her legs, up the long gash of her sex, soaking them in her sex juices and stray drops of piss – and then, before she could react with anything but a slutty moan, he pushed them up inside her fucktunnel. The skirt and panties vanished up her spread, eager pussy, leaving only a thread of fabric dangling outside. He left his hand there, cupping her pussy, so she couldn’t immediately remove them.
“Leave them there,” he told her. “Then get in.” He unlocked the doors.
Humiliated, Alison walked around the car and got into the front passenger seat, her clothes still plugging her fuckhole. She sat next to him awkwardly.
“I have done so much for you, Alison,” said Ciaran again. “I have a file full of reports detailing how you’ve sexually harassed your co-workers and behaved like a disgusting slut, and instead of having you investigated, fired, and jailed, I’m protecting you. All I ask is a little cooperation and gratitude. Are you going to give me cooperation and gratitude, Alison?”
Her eyes were downcast, looking at her feet. “Yes, sir,” she mumbled.
“Well?” he asked her. “Where’s the gratitude?”
“Thank you, sir,” she said in a quiet voice.
“For what?” he asked her.
“For driving me home,” she said.
“And?” he asked.
“For…” she paused. “For covering up what a slut I’ve been.”
“And?” he continued.
“For…” she didn’t know what to say. “For making me piss in the corner.”
He let his silence prompt her on.
“And for stuffing my skirt and panties in my pussy,” she finished.
“Why are you grateful for that, Alison?” he asked.
There was a pause. Then an answer – the only answer that made sense. “Because I deserved it,” said Alison, softly. “Because I’m a perverted little slut.”
“Good girl,” he told her. “Now, let’s get you home.”
Although, of course, he had other plans for her first.
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