I groaned, my head lolling back against the headrest of my leather chair as Emily’s mouth worked with a rhythmic, wet devotion beneath my desk. Her hands were braced against my thighs, her fingers digging into my slacks with a desperate grip. This was her reward. She had moved heaven and earth to get Angela Simpson back into a “follow-up” slot less than forty-eight hours after our first encounter, and she deserved a prize for her efficiency.

“That’s it, Emily,” I hissed, my eyes half-closed. “Good girl.”

I reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, steering her with a possessive authority. I could feel the tension building, the same pressure that had been eating at my gut since Angela walked out of here unprogrammed. As I neared the edge, I pulled her back just enough to see her flushed, expectant face emerging from the kneehole of the desk.

“Open your blouse,” I commanded.

She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers, trembling slightly, undid the buttons of her sensible office shirt. She pulled the fabric aside, exposing her simple, functional white bra. I reached down, unzipped my fly fully, and let out a guttural growl as I erupted. I painted her lace-covered chest with thick, hot ropes of semen, the white fluid soaking into the fabric and pooling in the shallow valley between her breasts.

“Now, button it back up,” I said, my voice returning to a cold, clinical tone. “Don’t you dare clean it. I want you to feel it cooling and sticking to your skin while you sit at the front desk. It’s a reminder of who you work for.”

Emily’s eyes were alive with a mixture of arousal and total obedience. She buttoned her shirt over the wet mess, her breath hitching as the cool fluid smeared against her skin. “Yes, Doctor,” she whispered, smoothing her hair before retreating to her post.

I marveled at how little I actually had to do with Emily to get her to this point. Aside from the occasional command to ensure her loyalty and silence, she was a self-sustaining system of perversion. She was the perfect gatekeeper.

Ten minutes later, Angela Simpson strode into the office.

She looked even more radiant than before, wearing a form-fitting wrap dress that made those massive, artificial globes of hers the center of gravity in the room. She didn’t wait for me to speak; she closed the door and leaned against it, a playful, predatory smirk on her face.

“So, John,” she purred, her voice dripping with a casual, flirtatious charm. “You called me back awfully fast. I assume that ‘medical assessment’ from the other day needs a second opinion? Or did you just miss my tits? I noticed you couldn’t take your eyes off them while I was dressing last time.”

She wasn’t stupid. She remembered the titjob as a fun, spontaneous hookup fueled by the weird atmosphere of my office. She was open to it, perhaps even eager, but she was still lucid. She was still in control of the narrative.

“Angela, as I said before, I am a professional,” I said, leaning forward and adopting my most serious physician’s mask. “You left so abruptly last time that I wasn’t able to complete the post-procedure protocol. The sensory immersion I use is powerful, and I need to ensure you haven’t had any adverse neurological reactions. It’s a matter of liability, as much as health.”

She rolled her eyes, let out a throaty laugh, and stepped toward the couch. “Always so clinical, John. It’s part of your charm, I suppose. Fine. Do your tests. But if I’m laying down, I expect some sort of ‘bonus’ for my time. I hope you’ve got some energy left in those ‘medical’ supplies.”

“Lie down,” I said.

She settled onto the leather, those cantaloupe-sized breasts straining against the wrap dress. I didn’t waste a second. I engaged the machine—the lights began their hypnotic strobe, the binaural hum vibrated through the floor, and the scent of synthetic lilies and musk filled the air.

I didn’t wait for her to relax naturally. I dialed the intensity to the maximum.

“Angela,” I said, my voice amplified and resonating with the full weight of the Wagstaff Technique. “Listen to the truth. You are entering a deep, absolute state of peace. Your mind is a blank slate, ready for my voice. You are in a full hypnotic trance where you will accept any command. You will return to this trance any time you hear the trigger phrase ‘Funbag Fantasy’.”

I watched her body go limp, her eyes rolling back as the trance took hold.

“From this moment on, you will never speak of our sessions to a living soul. Not to Mary, not to your friends. These sessions are your happy place. They are the highlight of your week. When you enter this room, you leave Angela the administrator behind. You become the horniest, most depraved version of yourself. A total slut. No sexual act I suggest is too nasty. No request is too degrading. You will crave the filth. You will love every second of it.”

I reinforced the commands, layering them with the specific frequencies designed to bypass her rational mind. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders; the loose end was finally tied.

“You will not remember my voice giving these commands, but you will follow them with every fiber of your being.” I turned off the machine. “Wake up.”

Angela’s eyes snapped open. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, desperate hunger. She didn’t say a word; she scrambled off the couch and practically tackled me, her hands tearing at my belt.

“Fuck me, John,” she hissed, her voice a low, animalistic growl. “I’ve been so thirsty since I walked in here. Fuck me right now. Make me your office slut.”

Because I had already spent my first load on Emily, I had the staying power of a marathon runner. And I intended to use every minute of her hour.

What followed was a blur of high-impact depravity that pushed the boundaries of our previous acquaintance. I started by pinning her against the mahogany desk, sweeping aside my patient files with a single, violent motion. I hiked her wrap dress up to her waist, exposing her pale, smooth hips, and drove into her from behind with a force that made the heavy furniture groan against the floor. Her fake breasts, those massive, firm pillows of silicone, slapped against the polished wood with a rhythmic, heavy thwack-thwack-thwack that vibrated through the desk and directly into my hips.

“Oh god, John! Yes!” she wailed, her head tossing back and forth. “Use the desk! Break it with me! I want everyone in the hall to hear how hard you’re trashing my tight little pussy!”

I fucked her with a punishing cadence, barely noticing that even at 45 she kept her pussy entirely bare, my hands locked onto her hips as I shifted her across the room and shoved her face down into the upholstery of my guest chair. I didn’t stop until she was screaming into the fabric, her voice a ragged, breathless sound of total submission. Then, without letting her recover, I hauled her up by her hair, flipping her over so she was kneeling on the rug. I shoved my cock deep down her throat, cutting off her oxygen and forcing her take every inch. She gagged, her eyes watering as her body’s natural reflexes fought the intrusion, but the conditioning held her steady. Her manicured hands clawed at my thighs, leaving faint red marks, a silent testament to the intensity of the “medical” stimulation I was providing.

“Show me those tits, slut,” I barked as my dick popped out of her mouth.

She sat up with a predatory grace, peeling the rest of the silk dress off her body until it pooled like a discarded skin on the rug. “Look at them, John,” she panted, her voice thick with vanity and lust. “Look at what I bought for you. Don’t they look delicious? Don’t you just want to ruin them?” She reached out, her fingers digging into the sides of her massive, high-profile implants, and squeezed the pale globes together with a firm, practiced strength until they completely swallowed my shaft in a valley of hot, synthetic flesh. I leaned in and slapped them—hard, stinging blows that left vivid red marks on the stretched skin.

“Yes! Slap them harder!” she encouraged, a delirious laugh escaping her. “Make them jiggle! I’m just a pair of tits for you, aren’t I? A big, expensive pair of funbags!”

The sound of my palms hitting the firm silicone was sharp and hollow, echoing through the quiet office. I reached down and wound a handful of her short, bleached blonde hair around my fist, yanking her head back until her neck arched taut and she was gasping for air. Then, with a grunt of exertion, I drove my cock back into her waiting, eager mouth, burying myself to the hilt.

The rest hour was a relentless cycle of usage.

I decided I needed to fist her. I began by gathering my fingers into a tight, tapered cone, slicking my hand with a generous amount of her own overflowing juices. I pressed the tip of my fingers against her opening, and with a slow, relentless torque, I began to force my way past her pelvic floor. I could feel the incredible resistance of her ring as it fought to accommodate the intrusion, the pink flesh turning white and taut as it stretched to the absolute limit of its elasticity.

“Oh... oh my god, John...” she whimpered, her eyes wide. “You’re... you’re taking so much room. Please... stretch me out. Make me big enough for you. I want to be wide open for my favorite doctor.”

My knuckles followed, one by one, popping through with a series of wet, heavy thuds that echoed the frantic beating of her heart. Angela’s response was immediate and violent; she let out a sharp, ragged gasp that quickly dissolved into a delirious, high-pitched keening as her back arched so sharply her heels left the floor.

Once my widest part—the span of my hand—was fully engulfed, I drove my arm forward until my entire fist was buried deep in her furnace, my wrist disappearing into her core. I began to pump my arm in a brutal, plunging rhythm, the sound in the room becoming a sloppy, heavy squelching as my hand churned through the thick, frothy lubrication. Angela was thrashing beneath me, her eyes rolled back so far that only the whites showed, her head tossing from side to side as her hands clawed desperately at the leather cushions.

“Yes! Fuck my insides with your hand!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “Tear me apart, John! I’m so full... it feels so good to be so stretched! Look at me! I’m just your toy!”

I twisted my fist inside her, feeling her internal walls clamp and writhe around my knuckles, a visceral display of total violation that her programmed mind now interpreted as pure, bone-deep bliss. She wasn’t fighting the invasion; she was leaning into it, her hips bucking with a frantic, uncoordinated hunger, her voice a raw, repetitive chant of “Yes... more... please, more...” every time my knuckles ground against her cervix. Every pulse of her inner muscles, every desperate squeeze of her body against my intrusion, was a direct result of the profound, ecstatic release I had commanded her to crave under the “Funbag Fantasy” protocol. As I yanked my fist out of her she came with a scream and a spray of juices.

After that, I stood up, adjusting my stance, and ordered her to her knees. I turned my back to her, presenting my rear, and commanded her to show me just how much of a slut she had become. Without a second of hesitation, Angela leaned in, her tongue darting out to explore my asshole with a frantic, wet enthusiasm.

“I’ll clean you up, John,” she murmured against my skin, her voice wet and eager. “I’ll do anything you want. I love being down here. I love how powerful you are.”

The sensation was electric, a sharp, jolting pleasure that made my toes curl into the plush rug. Her tongue was incredibly soft and impossibly wet, working with a focused intensity that bordered on worship. I could feel the hot, humid puffs of her breath against my skin as she lapped at me, her tongue tracing the rim of my pucker before diving deep, its tip flicking and swirling against the sensitive nerves. As she worked her tongue into me, her manicured hands reached around my thighs, her fingers finding my pulsing length and wrapping around it with a firm, proprietary grip. She began to stroke me with a frantic, expert rhythm, her palms slick with the lubricants of our marathon, pulling my skin taut and then sliding back down to my base.

The dual sensation—the wet, probing heat of her tongue behind and the tight, rhythmic friction of her hand in front—was almost more than I could bear, forcing a low, involuntary groan from my throat. The wet, rhythmic slurping sound filled the room—a sloppy, unapologetic noise that underscored her total degradation—as she licked me clean, her breathing ragged and heavy against my skin. She wasn’t just doing it; she was savoring it. I looked down over my shoulder at her, watching her massive, artificial breasts swing and sway with every eager movement of her head, the sight of her expensive bob brushing against my thighs as she worked, and felt a surge of absolute, god-like power.

I didn’t want to waste a single drop of my seed on the floor, and I could feel my climax approaching with the relentless force of a freight train. I pushed her head away from my rear, and Angela immediately scrambled to her hands and knees, her massive breasts swaying like pendulums as she waited for the next command.

“Put it in my ass, John!” she begged, her voice a frantic rasp. “I want to feel you stretch my other hole! Fill me up back there!”

I stepped behind her, the air in the office thick with the scent of our combined fluids and the ozone of the machine. Without a word of warning or a single drop of lubricant other than the frothy pussy juice still coating my shaft, I drove into her tight, unyielding anus.

She let out a muffled, strangled cry as her sphincter was forced to its absolute limit, the ring of muscle white-hot and stretching to accommodate my girth. I began to fuck her with a punishing, rhythmic intensity, her body bucking and convulsing under the strain of the invasion. I reached forward, my fingers wrapping around her slender throat and squeezing with a calculated pressure as I arched her head upsidedown to meet her eyes. I watched with clinical fascination as the light in her eyes flickered, her pupils dilating as I cut off her breath just enough to make her eyes bulge and her face flush a deep, dark red.

“Yes... choke me...” she gasped, the words barely audible. “I... I can’t breathe... it feels so good... fuck me harder... kill me with it...”

The lack of oxygen seemed to heighten her sensitivity, her internal muscles clamping down on me in desperate, rhythmic spasms that felt like a thousand tiny mouths sucking at my length. She was trapped in a cycle of sensory overload, her mind unable to process anything but the physical reality of the stretch and the crushing weight of my hands, yet her programming ensured she met every thrust with a submissive, frantic tilt of her hips.

As the clock neared the end of the session, I felt the final surge. I buried myself balls-deep in her ass, my hips snapping forward with a final, violent rhythm. I erupted, filling her rectum with a massive, hot deposit of seed.

She collapsed forward, her face buried in the cushions, panting like a dying animal.

“Don’t let it go to waste,” I commanded, my voice cold and authoritative. “Fart it out. Every drop.”

She obeyed with a submissive alacrity, her body twitching as she positioned herself, her pale hips hovering over the leather. With a series of wet, stuttering sounds—low, rhythmic pops of air forcing their way through the thick sludge of my cum—she began to expel the mixture of my cooling seed and her own viscous juices out of her distended anus. The noise was vulgar and heavy, a sequence of liquid splatters and wet gasps from her bowels that echoed in the quiet office. It came out in messy, ropy strings, splattering heavily onto her cupped hand with a distinct, sloppy plap-plap sound. She didn’t look away; instead, she watched with a fascinated devotion as the white fluid pooled against her manicured fingers, the only other sound in the room being her own ragged, appreciative panting.

“Look at it, John,” she whispered, her voice a ragged, breathless rasp. “Look at how much of you I kept inside. It’s so thick... so hot. I love the way it feels sliding out of me. I love being your container. I want to keep every drop of you.” She squeezed her sphincter one last time, a final, wet fart of fluid escaping to coat her palm in a shimmering, pearlescent mess.

“Eat it,” I said. “And finish yourself off. I want to see you cum another time while you taste me.”

Angela didn’t hesitate for a single heartbeat. She brought her mess-slicked hand to her face and she began to lick her palm clean with a methodical, predatory focus, her tongue swiping across her skin to collect every ropy strand of my cooling seed and the pungent, viscous sludge of her own juices.

“Mmm, you taste so good, John,” she moaned between licks, her eyes rolling back. “So salty... so thick. I could eat you all day. You’re my favorite snack.”

I watched as she savored the taste, a low, appreciative hum vibrating in her throat as she consumed the evidence of her own use. While her mouth worked, her other hand descended to her groin, her fingers finding her swollen, over-stimulated clit. She began to rub with a frantic, blurring speed, her touch devoid of any finesse, seeking only the raw, explosive release she had been promised.

The sound of her hand (a rapid, wet slapping against her own thighs) was the only thing that broke the heavy silence of the office. Her body arched, her muscles cording in her neck and back as the tension reached a fever pitch.

“Oh! Oh! I’m coming again! Look at me, John! Watch your slut explode!”

Finally, she let out a final, ragged scream that tore through the quiet, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that seemed to shatter whatever was left of her dignity. Her entire frame convulsed in a massive, prolonged orgasm, her hips bucking uncontrollably as a fresh wave of pussy juice flooded out of her, soaking the dark leather of the couch for a second time, leaving a shimmering, steaming stain that marked the end of her hour.

“Session’s over, Angela,” I said pointing at the clock as I stood up and straighten my clothes.

She laughed, a wet, breathless sound that dissolved into a heavy, unladylike burp, a visceral reminder of the viscous cocktail she had just consumed. She looked utterly dazed, her face a grotesque mask of sweat and fluids, her eyes glazed with a shimmering, post-hypnotic sheen that made her look more like a satisfied animal than a high-ranking professional. Semen matted her blonde hair and spit ran down her chin, yet she wore the mess with a look of pure, primitive satisfaction.

“God, John...” she whispered, her voice a ragged, contented rasp as she blinked slowly, trying to process the sheer volume of pleasure I had forced into her. “That was... unbelievable. You really are a miracle worker. I feel... absolutely amazing. So perfectly used. When can I come back? I think I need another ‘assessment’ very soon.”

“I’m glad,” I smiled. “Go to the bathroom in the back and clean yourself up. Emily will see you out, and set you up for your next appointment.”

As she disappeared into the secret bathroom, I sat at my desk and organized my notes. The anxiety of the past few days had vanished, replaced by a profound, dark sense of peace. The experiment was secure. Now I needed to get Emily to clean my couch again.