I sat in my high-backed leather chair, the heavy silence of the office underscored by the faint, electronic thrum of the Technique’s machinery. My mind was still tracing the intricate cognitive architecture Mary had revealed yesterday. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since she had bounced out of my office to meet Amy for lunch, but I remained captivated by the “Lover vs. Fuckmeat” framework she had constructed.

It was a sophisticated piece of psychological engineering—a loophole that allowed her 19-year-old brain to reconcile my commands with her innate need to be a “good person.” She hadn’t just accepted the corruption; she had civilized it, wrapping the depravity in the protective layer of a romantic relationship. I’d need to question Amy very thoroughly during her appointment tomorrow to see if her reality matched Mary’s romanticized version of their date.

A light, sharp knock at the door broke my concentration. Emily entered, her face a mask of professional poise that was betrayed only by the slight, rhythmic twitch of her jaw. She looked a world away from the frantic, messy relief I’d taken from her on the bathroom floor after Mary’s departure the day before, yet I could still see the secret, knowing glint behind her glasses.

“Doctor,” she said, her voice steady. “Angela Simpson just pulled into the parking lot. She’s currently inspecting her reflection in the visor mirror, and judging by the flush on her neck, she isn’t here for a simple consultation. She’ll be up in a few minutes. Are you... ready to proceed with the special protocol?”

“Is everything prepared, Emily?” I asked, leaning back into the leather.

She nodded, a small, dark smile touching her lips as she adjusted her bun. “Yes. I’ve laid out the... equipment in the back. I’m ready to play my part.”

“Excellent. Go get into position.”

Ten minutes later, Angela Simpson strode into the office, and the room seemed to shrink around her vibrant presence. She was a vision of high-powered corporate thirst, dressed in a cream-colored silk top so tight it looked like a second skin, the fabric stretched dangerously thin over the firm, high-profile hemispheres of her artificial breasts. Below, she wore a charcoal grey pencil skirt that gripped the curve of her hips with surgical precision, paired with sheer black pantyhose that gave her long legs a shimmering, polished luster.

The moment she stepped across the threshold, the “Funbag Fantasy” trigger seemed to vibrate in the air. Her pupils dilated instantly, swallowing the blue of her irises, and her breathing became a series of shallow, audible hitches. She didn’t bother with the pleasantries of an old friend.

“John,” she purred, her voice a low, vibrant rasp as she closed the door with a lingering, possessive click. “I couldn’t stay away. I’ve been sitting in board meetings all morning, feeling the way my silk blouse rubs against my nipples, just thinking about this place. Thinking about what you did to my ass last time. I’m so tight, John... I’m so incredibly ready for you to put something back inside me.”

I adopted my most clinical, detached mask, steepled my fingers, and looked at her over the rim of my glasses. “Angela, please. This is a medical facility. We have strict procedures to follow for follow-up assessments. Are you experiencing any... neurological discomfort or residual sensitivity from our last session?”

She let out a throaty, appreciative laugh, moving toward my desk with a predatory, swaying grace that made those massive globes of silicone bounce with a rhythmic heaviness. “The only ‘neurological discomfort’ I have, John, is that I’m not currently being used. I can feel my pussy pulse every time I think about your hand inside me. Forget the procedures. I want to be your slut again. I want to be stretched until I can’t think straight. I want you to ruin this skirt.”

I held up a hand, stopping her just inches from the desk. “If you truly are as insatiable and depraved as you claim, Angela... if you really want to be treated like the office slut you’ve become... then I have a very special kind of therapy for you today. A correction for your lack of restraint.”

I reached over and pressed a button on the intercom. “Come in, Correction.”

The hidden bathroom door swung open, and Emily stepped out. Angela’s jaw dropped, her eyes widening behind her expertly applied mascara. Emily was transformed. She was dressed in full, black leather bondage gear—a spiked collar, a harness that pushed her modest breasts up into a tight cleavage, and tall, stiletto boots that clicked sharply against the floor. She carried a short, braided riding crop in one hand, tapping it rhythmically against her thigh.

“What is... Emily?” Angela stammered, a delirious, high-pitched laugh escaping her. “John, what is this? Some kind of roleplay? Is the receptionist joining in?”

“In this room, she isn’t my office manager,” I said, my voice dropping into a cold, commanding register that silenced the room. “She is the authority you require. She is the correction for your vanity. Now, on your knees, Angela. And close your mouth.”

The hypnotic “truth” I’d implanted—the mandate that she would accept any sexual act in this room—kicked in with the force of a physical blow. Angela’s knees hit the rug with a heavy, muffled thud. She looked up at Emily with a mixture of shock, confusion, and a burgeoning, desperate arousal.

Emily stepped forward, her face a cold, unyielding mask as she affected a sharp, dominatrix tone. “You have some very loud tits, Angela,” Emily sneered, using the tip of the riding crop to lift Angela’s chin. “Big, expensive whore udders that you love to show off. They’re a distraction to the practice. Take off that top. Let me see the merchandise the Doctor has been sampling.”

Angela’s fingers flew to the buttons of her cream silk shirt, her breathing a series of frantic, wet gasps. “Oh god, Emily... you’re so serious,” she panted, her voice thick with the thrill of the submission. “Do you like them? Do you want to see what thousands of dollars of silicone looks like? I bought them to be stared at, you know. I wanted them to be the first thing anyone noticed about me.” She stripped the shirt off, tossing it aside to expose her massive, high-profile implants. They were already red-tipped and straining, the skin stretched taut over the hard mounds.

“Look at them,” Emily commanded, leaning in to slap the side of the left mound with the flat of the riding crop. The sound was a sharp, stinging crack, the firm silicone vibrating under the blow like a drum. Angela let out a sharp, ragged cry—part pain, part pure, bone-deep pleasure. “You’re just a pair of tits on legs, aren’t you? A big, blonde cow for the doctor to milk.”

“Yes! Slap them again!” Angela wailed, her head tossing back and forth, her expensive hair becoming a blonde mess. “They’re so sensitive... I love the way they jiggle when you hit them! I’m just your toy, aren’t I? Use the crop on my nipples, Emily! Make me scream for you!”

Emily spent the next several minutes systematically torturing Angela’s nipples with the crop, alternating between light, agonizingly slow strokes and sharp, stinging cracks that left vivid red welts on the pale, stretched skin. Angela was vocal, her voice a constant stream of moans, gasps, and frantic pleas for more, her professional persona melting away into the rug.

“Skirt off. Now,” Emily barked, her voice brooking no argument.

Angela scrambled to obey, her corporate poise utterly vanished. She kicked the charcoal pencil skirt away, leaving her in just her sheer black pantyhose. Emily didn’t let her take them off. Instead, she reached out and hooked her fingers into the delicate gusset of the hose, yanking downward with a violent, sudden force. The fabric groaned, the sheer mesh straining until it gave way with a sharp, visceral rrip, leaving a jagged, gaping hole that exposed Angela’s bare, dripping pussy and the tight, puckered ring of her anus.

“Oh! My stockings!” Angela laughed breathlessly, looking down at the ruin. “You’re a mean one, Emily. I love the way the air feels on me now. I feel so exposed... so filthy. Is this how you treat all the patients?”

“On all fours,” Emily ordered, ignoring the commentary.

As Angela complied, her heavy breasts swaying like pendulums, Emily hiked herself up, sitting astride Angela’s back and riding her around the rug like a horse. She used the crop on Angela’s pale, shimmering thighs, the “horse” whinnying and sobbing in a daze of total, animalistic submission.

“Giddy-up, blondey!” Emily hissed, snapping the crop against Angela’s hip.

“Yes, Mistress! Ride me!” Angela gasped, her hands digging into the carpet as she crawled. “I’m just your beast of burden! Use me! Gallop me into the floor!”

“Time for the next step, Emily,” I said, standing and unzipping my fly. My erection was a dark, throbbing weight, ready for the culmination of the scene.

Emily stood up, her breathing ragged, but she wasn’t finished. She stepped forward and placed the sole of her leather-clad boot directly onto Angela’s face, pressing her cheek firmly into the plush rug. Angela groaned into the carpet, her muffled voice still sounding delighted by the degradation, her rear presented high and helpless toward us. Emily reached under the couch and pulled out a large jar of specialized, thick fisting lube. She slathered both of her hands in the translucent gel, the sound of her rubbing her palms together a wet, ominous squelch.

“Look at this hole,” Emily whispered, leaning over Angela’s hips. “I’m going to see just how much of a container you really are.”

Emily began by gathering the fingers of her right hand into a tight, tapered cone, the thick gel squelching between her knuckles as she pressed against Angela’s opening. Even with the excessive lubrication, the initial resistance was profound. Angela’s body was already conditioned to crave the stretch, but the sheer volume of a human hand was a different beast entirely. Emily had to apply a slow, relentless torque, twisting her wrist with a focused strength that made the muscles in her own forearm cord and jump under her leather harness. Every inch gained was a battle of physics against anatomy, the wet, heavy sound of the lube filling the small room as Angela’s cunt was forced to concede.

As the widest part of her hand began to push through, Angela let out a sharp, ragged gasp that quickly dissolved into a delirious, high-pitched keening. The skin of her vulva was stretched so taut it turned white, a thin, translucent veil holding back the intrusion. Emily didn’t stop, her face a mask of cold determination as she leaned her weight into the effort, using the leverage of her position to pop through the last of the resistance. When her hand finally disappeared inside, the sound was a visceral, liquid thump that echoed against the floorboards.

But the work was only half done. Without allowing Angela a second to recover, Emily began the same grueling process with her left hand, targeting the tight, puckered ring of Angela’s anus. This entry was even more difficult, requiring a delicate but forceful persistence. Emily’s breath was coming in ragged hitches as she managed both entries at once, her arms spanning the narrow bridge of Angela’s perineum, which looked dangerously overextended. Angela’s body went rigid, a muffled, high-pitched scream vibrating through the rug as her core was systematically raided. The sheer volume of Emily’s hands filling her simultaneously was an absolute violation of her physical limits, yet her hips bucked in a frantic, uncoordinated hunger for the agonizing fullness of the stretch.

“Oh... oh god! John! Emily!” Angela shrieked, her voice a distorted, ecstatic rasp. “You’re... you’re filling everything! I’m so stretched... I feel like I’m going to burst! Put more in! Fill me up until there’s nothing left of me but your hands!”

I stepped over, my hard cock pulsing as I stood over Angela’s pinned face, the thick veins throbbing with a dark, heavy heat. I reached down, my fingers tangling in her short, blonde hair to wrench her face up from under the weight of Emily’s leather boot. Angela’s eyes were wide and glassy, her face a mask of sweat and desperate arousal as she looked up at me. I didn’t give her a second to breathe; I shoved myself deep into her mouth, my shaft disappearing past her lips and burying itself in her throat, cutting off both her oxygen and her ability to articulate her depravity.

As I established a relentless, bone-deep rhythm against her teeth, Emily began a brutal, plunging cadence with both fists, her arms working like rhythmic pistons as she churned through Angela’s distended core. The room was filled with the sloppy, rhythmic squelching of the lubricant behind combined with the meaty, thud of my hips hitting Angela’s chin. Every thrust from my end was met with a frantic, internal squeeze from Emily’s hands, trapping Angela in a vice of human meat and synthetic gel. Her muffled moans were reduced to a series of wet, bubbling gurgles as she fought to maintain her grip on reality while being systematically raided at both ends.

I watched Angela’s eyes bulge, her face flushing deep red as I skullfucked her while Emily fucked her insides. Angela’s hands were clawing at the rug, her body twitching in a state of sensory overload that her programmed mind could only interpret as pure, bone-deep bliss.

The ecstasy hit us all at once—a triple-point of release. I felt the final surge and erupted, spraying thick, hot ropes of seed all over Angela’s face and into her gasping, welcoming mouth. At the same moment, Angela’s internal muscles clamped down in a massive, shattering orgasm from the double-fisting, her body thumping against the floor in a series of violent spasms. Emily, caught in the sheer, dark perversity of the act, let out a ragged cry as she too reached her climax without even touching herself, her hands still buried deep in the older woman’s furnace.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by our ragged breathing. Emily slowly withdrew her fists, the ropy strings of fluid stretching like spiderwebs between her fingers and Angela’s used, distended holes. Angela lay prone on the floor, looking utterly destroyed, her massive breasts flattened against the rug.

“My god,” I murmured, looking down at her. “You are beautiful like this, Angela.”

She was painted in my cum, the white fluid dripping down from her cheeks and mixing with the lubricants coating her ruined pantyhose and her wide-open, weeping cunt.

“John...” she whispered, a dazed, dreamy smile on her messy face as she blinked up at me. “That was... that was incredible. Emily, you have... amazing hands. I feel like a hollowed-out shell. I feel perfect.”

“Clean her up, Emily,” I said, adjusting my tie. “But tell her to put her skirt back on over those pantyhose. I want her to feel the jagged rip against her skin for the rest of the night. A little secret for her to take home.”

“I’ll feel it with every step, John,” Angela giggled, her voice returning to its vivacious, flirtatious tone even as she lay there in a pool of fluids. “I’ll think of Emily’s boots on my face every time I sit down.”

I watched as Angela, dazed and smiling, dressed herself, the jagged hole in her hose a secret reminder of her usage.

The session had taken us to the end of the day. Angela and I left the building at the same time, the parking lot cast in the long, orange shadows of a winter dusk. As I walked toward my car, a prickle of unease touched the back of my neck. I thought I saw a shadow move along the side of the building—a silhouette that didn’t belong, tall and still. I stopped and turned, squinting into the gloom, but the area was empty, the only sound the distant hum of the highway.

“Just nerves,” I whispered to myself, clicking my car remote. “The technique is perfect. The subjects are secure. The kingdom is mine.”

But as I drove away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.