The Downfall of an Actress Ceo
Copyright© 2025 by Susmitha Saran
Chapter 20
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 20 - The Story is about how a very powerful and self-made CEO falls to disgrace when she messes with a wrong man. This is a tale of humiliation, transformation and romance.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Ma Fa Mult Blackmail NonConsensual Reluctant Romantic Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Shemale TransGender Fiction Celebrity Workplace Incest Brother BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Spanking Group Sex Interracial Black Male Black Female White Female Indian Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Enema First Facial Food Oral Sex Sex Toys Spitting Water Sports Body Modification Foot Fetish Public Sex Prostitution Revenge Transformation AI Generated
Day 1 of Cumantha Revenge Week began with a tremble in my core as Miss Natasha, the transwoman who had been promoted to Ma’am Isis’ Personal Assistant, led me into a specially designated room on the second floor of the office building. This room was to be my humiliation chamber for the entire week, a place where I would endure the most degrading and painful experiences at the hands of my former subordinates. As I entered, my heart raced, knowing that today’s tormentors were a black couple, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, who had once suffered under my cruel and racist leadership.
The room was cold and unforgiving, with stark white walls and two piece of furniture: a couch placed in the center, where they sat, eager to begin my punishment and a glass topped table. The leash attached to my collar was handed to Mr. Jenkins, who held it tightly as his wife, Mrs. Jenkins, began to recount the injustices I had inflicted upon them. She spoke of my arrogance, my dismissal of their worth, and the meager wages I had paid them. My cheeks burned with shame as she recounted the lack of compassion I had shown when she was pregnant, and how I had favored unskilled white employees over them for promotions.
Mrs. Jenkins stood, revealing a thick, black dildo with a suction cup base. She placed it on the glass table in front of us, the coldness of the room making it even more intimidating. “You will strip,” Mr. Jenkins ordered, and I complied, removing my clothes piece by piece, until I was kneeling before them, naked and exposed.
“Now, climb onto the table,” Mr. Jenkins instructed, his voice firm and commanding. I obeyed, feeling the cool glass against my skin as I straddled the dildo. Mrs. Jenkins leaned in and whispered, “You will not be allowed to cum, no matter how much you beg for it. Your task is to fuck yourself with this dildo while you count each slap you give yourself and apologize for your sins. Do you understand?”
With a heavy heart, I nodded, feeling the weight of their anger and disappointment. They both stepped closer, and without warning, spat into my open mouth. “Swallow it,” Mr. Jenkins barked, and I did, feeling their saliva slide down my throat, mixing with the bitter taste of regret.
The dildo was placed at the entrance of my pussy, and I was told to begin. Each slap to my face resonated through the room, echoing my cries of apology. The pain grew with each hit, and the humiliation washed over me in waves. But it wasn’t just the pain of the slaps; it was the pain of knowing that every word they said was true. I had been a monster to them, and now, I was theirs to do with as they pleased.
Mrs. Jenkins began to count, her voice cold and detached. “One ... Two ... Three...” With every number, my hand flew up to slap my face, the sound of flesh against flesh a stark reminder of my past transgressions. The dildo slid in and out of me, stretching me, filling me, as I worked to hold back the orgasm that desperately wanted to consume me.
“Keep going, slut,” she said, her eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure. “You’re not sorry until we say you are.”
The hours passed, and my face grew red and swollen, my eyes watering from both the pain and the effort of not crying. My pussy was slick with my own juices, the dildo moving in and out of me with a rhythm that was both torturous and strangely arousing. The room was filled with the sound of my sobs, my apologies, and the occasional crack of the leather paddle Mr. Jenkins had produced to add to my punishment.
Finally, after what had felt like an unending stretch of time, Mr. Jenkins broke the silence with a chilling tone of sadistic satisfaction. His words sliced through the air like a cold knife. “Very good whore,” he praised, “you may cease your performance now.” My cheeks were aflame with embarrassment, and a river of tears had painted a sorrowful canvas upon my face.
As I was instructed to descend from the table, the dildo that had been so rudely inserted into me slid out, leaving my aching, needy cunt craving more. My body quivered from the intense pleasure that had been forced upon it, and a layer of sweat glistened over my skin like a treacherous sheen of defeat.
Mr. Jenkins, not one to waste a moment, immediately pulled down his trousers, revealing his swollen member. “Lick it,” he commanded, his voice a thunderclap in the quiet room. I obeyed without hesitation, eager to avoid any further punishment. As he grew harder beneath my ministrations, I was forced onto all fours, my body contorted into the most degrading of positions, reminiscent of a submissive animal.
Mrs. Jenkins, equally as cruel, lifted her skirt and presented her sex to me, demanding that I clean her with the same enthusiasm and vigor. She pushed my face into her crotch, the scent of her arousal overwhelming as I lapped at her.
Her husband, meanwhile, approached from behind, his thick, black cock slick with the juices from my pussy. He didn’t bother with pleasantries; he simply pushed into my tight, unprepared asshole, making me cry out in a mix of agony and pleasure. The pain was intense, even for someone as well-trained in the art of anal submission as I was. Each thrust brought a fresh wave of humiliation and a new understanding of my place as their plaything.
Their dominance was unyielding as Mr. Jenkins pounded into me, slapping my ass cheeks with a fervor that echoed in the room. Mrs. Jenkins took delight in my suffering, twisting my nipples until I thought they would snap. The combination of pain and pleasure was almost too much to bear, but as a slave, my only option was to endure and serve.
After what seemed like an eternity of being used, Mrs. Jenkins reached her peak, her body convulsing as she climaxed. She didn’t bother to pull away; instead, she held my face firmly in place, forcing me to drink the essence of her release. I had no choice but to swallow every drop, my mouth a mere receptacle for her pleasure.
When Mr. Jenkins finally pulled out, my asshole gaped open, a testament to his brutal treatment. He chuckled at the sight, inserting a vibrating metal butt plug into my abused opening to ensure that none of his cum would escape. The cold, hard metal sent a jolt through my body, and I let out a whimper of discomfort.
With the finality of a judge’s gavel, he ordered me to clean his cock, still slick with my ass juices. It was a task that filled me with revulsion, but as a slave, I had no right to refuse. I complied, my tongue moving over his shaft as if my very life depended on it.
They both stood, rearranging their clothes with the nonchalance of those who had just enjoyed a particularly satisfying meal. “You’ve done well, Cumantha,” Mr. Jenkins said, his voice dripping with condescension, “you’ve managed to satisfy us without climaxing yourself. That’s quite the feat.”
Mrs. Jenkins’ voice was like a thunderclap, leaving no room for argument. “It’s time for our lunch break,” she announced, “but don’t you dare clean up. You have a shift to finish at Angel’s pub, serving as their Glory Hole Whore. Be back here by 2:30, your next round of punishments will begin promptly.”
And with that, they left the room, leaving me kneeling in a puddle of their combined cum, my body a canvas of sweat and degradation. I knew what awaited me at the pub, and the thought sent a shiver down my spine. But I had no choice; I was theirs to do with as they wished. And so, I dressed, the fabric sticking to my damp skin, and made my way to my next appointment, ready to endure whatever humiliations they had planned for me.
Feeling utterly degraded and exposed, I took both of my identification cards, one belonging to my mundane office life and the other to the dark, sinful realm of Angel’s pub, and began the treacherous journey to the latter. My body was a complete wreck, with the scanty outfit sticking to my sweaty, used flesh. The large plug lodged in my ass, filled with my Mr. Jenkins hot cum, made each step a struggle, but I managed to drag myself to the back entrance of the pub.
Upon reaching, the bouncer, a man who had witnessed my descent into the abyss of BDSM and slavery, couldn’t hold back his amusement at my pathetic state. He glanced down at me, the picture of submission and humiliation. I could see the twinkle in his eye as he informed me that my old ID card had been rendered useless once I had signed the contract that made me a permanent property of the sadistic Master Kevin and the cruel Mistress Nina. He handed me a new ID card, the sight of which made me cringe in embarrassment. On it was a full-frontal nude photograph of me, my face smeared with a thick, sticky layer of cum.
“Welcome back, Cumantha. As you are well aware, your status has been updated. You are no longer allowed to wear any clothing while inside the premises of the pub. Strip and crawl in, and only when your shift is over, can you put back on your garments,” he instructed with a smug smile, clearly enjoying the power he had over me. I obeyed without question, my cheeks burning with shame as I removed every piece of clothing and got onto my hands and knees. The plug in my ass made it difficult to crawl, and with each movement, I was acutely aware of the cum stains that marked my passage.
Once inside, my handler, Trina, another one of the pub’s Glory Hole Whores, attached a leash to my collar. She led me to the toilet area where I would be spending the next hour or so, catering to the unending stream of anonymous cocks that awaited me. The thought of being used and abused in such a degrading manner was something I had come to accept, even crave, in my new life.
After what felt like an eternity, my training session on the Bimbo machine began. Trina secured me to the contraption, ensuring that my mouth was occupied with a dildo filled with the sticky residue of previous patrons’ pleasure. As I obediently sucked, my body was bombarded with vibrations and painful stimulations from the butt plug, ben-wa-balls, and the relentless squeezing of the breast pumps. The VR headset played a continuous loop of scenes that reinforced my new identity—a mindless, sexual plaything, eager to serve and be used by anyone and everyone.
Once the training was over, I crawled out of the pub, my body bruised and exhausted, but knowing that my ordeal was far from complete. Dressing quickly, I returned to the office where another round of punishment awaited me, courtesy of Cumantha Revenge Week. The designated punishment room was where the leadership team would take turns in degrading and humiliating me for the amusement of all.
Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins were my tormentors for the day. As I knelt before them, naked and exposed, I kissed their feet in a desperate bid to show my contrition. But my submission did not soften their hearts. Mrs. Jenkins sat heavily on my face, her scent filling my nostrils as I was forced to worship her sex, while her husband inserted a mercilessly vibrating toy into my already sore cunt. Each time I approached the edge of climax, he would strike me with a cane, the pain and humiliation mixing into a cocktail of agony that I could not refuse.
My cries for mercy fell on deaf ears, their laughter echoing through the room as I begged them to stop. They took turns with the cane, ensuring that every inch of my flesh was marked with their anger and frustration. It was only when they were satisfied with their cruel games that they allowed me to crawl away, my body trembling with pain and tears streaming down my cheeks.
Miss Natasha, the cold-hearted secretary, found me lying on the floor, sobbing in despair. She tugged at my leash, pulling me towards Ma’am Isis’ cabin. She informed me that my owners had granted permission for my punishment to extend beyond office hours, a notion that filled me with dread.
Ma’am Isis, the woman who now took over my company, looked down upon me with a mix of amusement and disdain. She told me that the video of my first day of Revenge Week would be a source of great entertainment for them. The idea of my suffering being used as entertainment made me feel even more degraded.
The final blow came when Miss Natasha revealed my sleeping arrangement for the week—a cage in the corner of the room, symbolizing my animalistic state. I crawled into the tiny space, the bars closing with a finality that made me realize the depths of my new reality.
To add insult to injury, I was given food and water in dog bowls, which I consumed with a mix of hunger and despair. As I curled up in the cage, the cold metal biting into my skin, I realized that this was my fate until the end of the week.
The second day of Revenge week dawned, and with it, a new chapter of my degradation. After enduring a thorough cleaning, which was the only semblance of mercy in my schedule, I was led to the punishment chamber on all fours. The anticipation of my fate had me trembling with a mix of fear and arousal, knowing that the leadership team had planned something even more diabolical than the previous day.