Office Disgrace
Copyright© 2026 by Susmitha Saran
Chapter 13
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 13 - An arrogant Nappo CEO is brought to her knees by her own employees. She is taught a lesson that she would never forget in her life. Though reluctant at first, she started accepting her new life.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Celebrity Workplace BDSM MaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Torture Gang Bang Orgy Interracial Black Female Indian Female Anal Sex Facial Oral Sex Scatology Spitting Water Sports Body Modification Needles Public Sex Transformation AI Generated
“Wait, don’t move. If you breathe too loud, I can smell the fear on you.”
The voice didn’t come from the alleyway, but from the shadow of a brick wall that seemed to swallow the moonlight whole. Priyanka froze. She didn’t know who was speaking, but the tone of the voice acted like a physical weight, pressing her down into the pavement. She was trembling, not just from the cold night air, but from a deep, visceral thrill that surged through her veins. Her heart was drumming against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed the loud, rhythmic ‘clack-clack-clack’ of her seven-inch stiletto heels that had brought her to this dead end.
She looked down at herself, feeling the precariousness of her position. She was dressed in a pastel pink one-piece bodysuit, a garment designed for nothing but the gaze of a master. The fabric was thin, almost translucent, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin. It encased her naturally augmented 34DD breasts, which strained against the material with every shallow breath she took. Because the night was chilly, her erotic nipples were hard and prominent, poking through the pink fabric, announcing her arousal and her vulnerability to anyone who looked. The dress was a masterpiece of submission; it featured cross-straps that formed a sharp ‘X’ across her flat, toned stomach, framing her navel and drawing attention to the glittering “slut” dangle that hung from her belly button piercing. The top of the bodysuit looped tightly around her neck, leaving her shoulders and back completely bare, exposed to the biting wind and the predatory eyes of the man pursuing her.
The bodysuit ended barely an inch above her dripping cunt, leaving her practically open to the world. Every step she had taken during her frantic flight had caused her breasts and buttocks to sway and bounce in a hypnotic dance of flesh. But the most humiliating part was the sound. Tucked deep inside her was a heavy butt plug, and attached to it was a small, silver bell. With every desperate stride, the bell had chimed—a tiny, melodic betrayal that told her pursuer exactly where she was. She had been a ringing dinner bell for a predator, and the thought made her thighs rub together in a feverish heat.
In her hand, she clutched a bright pink purse. It was small and dainty, but it carried the tools of her trade and her pleasure: a few lubricated condoms, a variety of butt plugs, heavy-duty clamps for her nipples, and a large, intimidating black dildo. She had been running, but she didn’t know if she was running away from the man or running toward the inevitable moment of his capture.
Suddenly, she had pivoted, taking a sharp left turn into a narrow side alley. She had prayed to a God she no longer believed in that the man would not have noticed her turn. But as she reached the end of the alley, she found herself staring at a towering brick wall. There was no exit. There was no escape. Even with her mind feeling clouded—a side effect of the “bimbo” training she had been undergoing, where complex thoughts were replaced by a shimmering, empty bliss—she knew she was trapped. She spotted a rusted garbage trolley and dove behind it, pressing her back against the cold metal, trying to muffle the sound of her ragged breathing.
She waited. The silence of the alley was suffocating. Then, she heard them. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and heavy. They were coming toward her, the sound of leather boots clicking against the stone. The footsteps stopped abruptly, perhaps only inches from where she hid. Priyanka held her breath, her chest heaving, her nipples rubbing against the pink fabric of her suit. Then, the footsteps receded. She waited for several minutes, her heart slowly returning to a normal pace, though the adrenaline was still screaming in her ears. Believing she was safe, she slowly stepped out from behind the trolley, her high heels clicking softly as she began to walk back toward the main road.
She didn’t even hear him move. In a flash of sudden, violent motion, a powerful hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream. Before she could process the shock, a hard, silicone penis gag was shoved deep into her mouth. It filled her oral cavity completely, stretching her jaw and forcing her tongue down. The strap was locked tight behind her head, pulling her puffy pink lips wide around the edges of the gag. Her screams were reduced to muffled, pathetic whimpers, the sounds of a creature that had been successfully hunted.
Within minutes, she was completely under his control. He had her pinned against the wall, his body a wall of muscle and dominance. He looked down at her, his eyes cold and mocking. He laughed, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down her spine.
“You dumb bimbo bitch,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “Did you actually think you could outrun me in those shoes? Did you think that little bell wouldn’t lead me right to you?”
To emphasize her humiliation, he spat a thick glob of saliva directly onto her cheek. He didn’t let her wipe it away; instead, he used his thumb to smear it across her face, marking her as something less than human. Priyanka’s eyes watered, a mix of fear and an overwhelming, forbidden surge of lust. She loved being degraded; she craved the feeling of being nothing more than an object for someone else’s amusement.
His hand moved upward, gripping the cold metal of her choker collar. He tugged on it, pulling her head back to expose her throat, and looked at the dog tag hanging from the chain.
“Priyanka Chopra,” he mocked, reading the name aloud. “Now that is a pretty name for a bimbo whore like you. A corporate princess turned into a toy.”
He let go of the collar and cupped her ample breasts, squeezing them with a firmness that bordered on pain. Priyanka gasped through the gag, her breathing becoming erratic. The contrast between the pain of the squeeze and the softness of her augmented flesh created a spark of electricity that traveled straight to her core. With his free hand, he reached down and hiked up the bottom of her bodysuit, exposing her dripping, swollen cunt to the midnight air. His fingers began to play with her pussy lips, teasing the sensitive clitoris, circling it but never quite pressing down, driving her to the brink of madness.
In that moment, her fear and her remaining inhibitions vanished. They were replaced by a crushing wave of obedience and raw, animalistic lust. All she wanted—all she could think about—was his cock. She wanted him to fill her, to claim her, to treat her like the mindless doll she was becoming. But as the desire peaked, a flash of ingrained conditioning hit her. She remembered the rules. This man was white. She was an exclusive bimbo for Black men only. To let him inside her was a violation of her contract, a betrayal of the order she had accepted.
The man seemed to sense her inner conflict, or perhaps he simply didn’t care. He undid his pants, and his erect cock sprang out. To Priyanka, it looked small compared to the massive toys and the men she was usually paired with. Yet, the anticipation was agonizing. As he positioned himself, the tip of his cock pressing against the entrance of her cunt, she felt the world begin to blur.
Suddenly, there was a sharp, piercing sound—like a gunshot or a glass vase shattering. A blinding flash of light exploded in her vision, and with a violent jolt of shock, she woke up.
Priyanka’s eyes shot wide open. She wasn’t in a dark alley. She wasn’t wearing a pink bodysuit. She was lying on a hard, cold floor, her naked body sticky and glistening. As she blinked away the remnants of the dream, she looked down at herself. She was covered in dried cum—streaks of white across her stomach, her thighs, and her breasts.
Panic flared for a second, but as she checked her body, she realized something was different. Her breasts were smaller; her lips were not yet the swollen, exaggerated versions from the dream. She hadn’t been fully augmented yet. The “bimbo” she had been in the dream was a version of herself that was still being crafted, a futuristic projection of her own submission.
She realized she had been having an erotic bad dream, or perhaps a prophetic one. She managed to sit up on the floor, her muscles aching. The pain was real. Her body felt heavy and exhausted, the lingering soreness in her hips and lower back a testament to the “festivities” of the previous night. Her ass and her cunt were still filled with the remnants of the men who had used her.
The two men who had spent the night breaking her in were Mr. Heffner, the current CEO of Chopra Corporation, and Mr. Tyrone, the CFO. They were the architects of her new life. They had been “kind” enough to allow her an uncountable number of orgasms, though those pleasures were always wrapped in the context of total ownership. They had treated her body like a playground, a piece of equipment to be used and discarded until the next session.
Priyanka smiled faintly. The new order of her life was becoming clear. The intellectual, high-powered executive she used to be was being erased, replaced by a “dumb bimbo.” That was what they wanted her to become, and she had accepted it with a strange, liberating joy. She no longer had to worry about corporate strategy or stock options; she only had to worry about how to please them and how to keep her skin glowing. However, there were caveats to this arrangement—rules of racial preference and specific protocols of submission that she was slowly learning to navigate.
“Get up, whore, and get ready,” a voice boomed from the doorway.
It was Mr. Heffner. He stood there in a silk robe, looking down at her with an expression of utter boredom and ownership. “Prepare breakfast for us after you clean yourself up. And don’t take too long, or there will be consequences.”
Priyanka didn’t argue. She didn’t even think about arguing. She pushed herself off the floor, her naked skin sticking slightly to the surface. She walked toward the washroom, her gait slightly awkward due to the soreness. The plug she usually wore had been removed before they used all her holes the night before, so she felt a strange emptiness in her rectum that needed to be filled.
In the washroom, she cleaned herself meticulously. She washed away the dried cum from her tits, her ass, and her lips, using a fragrant soap that left her skin smelling like vanilla and orchids. She took care to clean herself inside and out, ensuring that every trace of the night’s activities was gone, though the mental imprint remained. Once she was clean, she began the process of transforming herself for the day.
She applied heavy makeup—thick lashes, shimmering gold eyeshadow, and a glossy pink lipstick that made her lips look pouty and vacant. She stepped into a pair of towering high heels that forced her to arch her back and thrust her chest forward. Finally, she reached for the plug. It was a heavy piece of jewelry for the body, a polished steel plug with a delicate gold chain attached to a small bell. As she slid it back into her ass, she felt a sense of completion. The bell chimed softly as she moved, a constant reminder that she was a pet, a toy, a bell-wearing animal.
She hurried to the kitchen, the bell jingling with every step. She prepared a lavish breakfast—eggs, smoked salmon, fresh fruit, and strong coffee—laying it out on the table with precision. She waited for her owners, Mr. Heffner and Mr. Tyrone, to enter the room and enjoy the feast.
As they sat down to eat, they didn’t invite her to the table. Instead, they pointed to the floor.
“Bowl’s on the tiles, bitch,” Tyrone remarked, his deep voice vibrating through the room.
Priyanka knelt on the cold floor. A simple ceramic bowl of porridge had been placed there for her. She began to eat like a dog, leaning down to lap at the food, her high heels clicking against the floor as she shifted her weight. She felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. This was the life she wanted. This was the peace she had found. By stripping away her dignity and her intellect, they had given her a world where her only purpose was to be desired and used.
As she ate from the bowl, she could feel their eyes on her—the CEO and the CFO of her former company, now the gods of her current one. She was their bimbo, their toy, and as the bell in her ass chimed softly with every movement, she knew she would do anything to keep this state of beautiful, mindless submission.
“Do you think she remembers how to breathe without being told?”
The question hung in the air, cold and mocking, as Mr. Heffner looked at Priyanka. It was the first thing he had said to her since the sun had risen, and it wasn’t a question meant for an answer. It was a reminder. Priyanka didn’t answer. She didn’t dare. She stood perfectly still, her gaze lowered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. To speak without permission was to invite a correction, and in the few weeks she had spent as a slave, she had learned that Heffner’s corrections were never gentle.
“Dress,” Heffner commanded, his voice slicing through the silence of the room. “Put on the professional attire. The suit. The one you wore when you still believed you were in charge of things.”
Priyanka felt a shiver of dread and a strange, twisted spark of anticipation. The professional attire—a crisp white blouse, a tailored dark blazer, and a matching pencil skirt—had once been her armor. As the chairwoman of the Chopra Corporation, those clothes had signaled power, intelligence, and authority. When she wore them, people listened. When she walked into a boardroom, the atmosphere shifted. She had been a queen of industry, a woman of logic and ambition, an MBA graduate from one of the most prestigious institutes in the world.
Now, as she reached for the clothes, they felt alien. They felt like a costume for a woman who no longer existed. For the past few weeks, her wardrobe had been reduced to nothing. Her only consistent “accessory” was the heavy, cold metal plug that remained firmly lodged in her anus, a constant, stretching reminder of who owned her. The plug was a physical anchor to her submission; every step she took, every time she shifted her weight, the metal pressed against her internal walls, whispering to her that she was no longer a person, but a piece of property.
Dressing herself was an exercise in cognitive dissonance. As she slid the silk blouse over her skin, she remembered the feeling of commanding hundreds of employees. As she buttoned the blazer, she remembered the thrill of closing multi-million dollar deals. But as she stepped into the skirt, the metal plug shifted, sending a jolt of blunt pressure through her pelvis, grounding her in her current reality. She was not a chairwoman. She was a slave.
When she finally stepped out of the bedroom, she looked, for all the world, like the powerful woman she had once been. Her hair was neat, her posture was straight, and the suit hugged her curves in a way that was professional yet undeniably feminine. To a stranger, she looked like a high-powered executive on her way to a meeting. But beneath the fabric, she was naked except for the plug. There was no lace, no silk, no modesty—just the cold steel and the crushing weight of her own submission.
Tyrone was leaning against the wall, his eyes roaming over her with a predatory hunger. He didn’t see a business mogul; he saw a broken toy dressed in a fancy wrapper. He smiled, a slow, cruel expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He loved the contrast—the outward image of power masking the inner reality of total defeat.
“Look at her,” Tyrone chuckled, his voice low. “Almost believable. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she still had a brain in that pretty head of hers.”
Heffner didn’t smile. He simply gestured toward the door. “The car. Now.”
Priyanka followed them, her heels clicking on the marble floor. The sound, which used to signal her arrival and command attention, now sounded like a countdown. She was led to the car—her Mercedes. It was a vehicle she had bought for herself, a symbol of her success. Now, it was merely a cage on wheels. She climbed into the back seat, the leather smelling of luxury and old memories. She did not ask where they were going. She didn’t ask why she was dressed in a suit for a trip that felt like a kidnapping. In her new world, curiosity was a luxury she could no longer afford. Information was a gift given by her masters, and until they chose to share it, she existed in a vacuum of ignorance.
The drive began calmly, the city skyline receding in the rearview mirror. For the first hour, they stayed on the highway, the landscape blurring into a smudge of green and grey. Priyanka stared out the window, her mind racing. She tried to cling to the fragments of her old self—the memory of her father’s pride, the feeling of a leather-bound ledger in her hands, the respect of her peers. But the plug in her backside continued to throb, a rhythmic reminder that those memories were ghosts.
Eventually, Heffner signaled a turn. The smooth highway gave way to a winding mountain road. The pavement became narrower, the edges frayed with encroaching weeds. As they climbed higher, the trees began to close in. The forest grew dense, the towering pines blotting out the sun and casting long, jagged shadows across the road. The air inside the car felt heavier, the silence more oppressive.
Priyanka felt a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. This didn’t feel like a trip to another office or a social event. This felt like a journey to a place from which there was no return. She glanced at Tyrone, who was sitting in the co-passenger seat. He was staring at her through the mirror, a smug, knowing grin plastered on his face. He knew exactly where they were going. He knew the horror and the ecstasy that awaited her, and he was savoring her ignorance.
The vehicle finally slowed to a crawl and came to a stop in a secluded, remote clearing. There was nothing around them but the oppressive silence of the woods and the towering walls of greenery. The only sign of human interference was a massive, imposing metal gate that looked entirely out of place in the wilderness. It was a brutalist structure, rusted at the edges but formidable in its strength, acting as a barrier between the natural world and whatever lay beyond.
Heffner didn’t speak. He took out his phone and sent a brief message. A few seconds later, with a loud, mechanical groan that echoed through the trees, the gates slowly swung open. He drove forward, the tires crunching on gravel. Priyanka’s breath hitched. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. She wanted to scream, to beg for an explanation, to fight—but the training of the last few weeks held her fast. She remained silent, a passenger in her own life.
They drove through a narrow corridor of trees until they reached an empty, concrete yard. There were no flowers here, no ornaments—just a stark, grey expanse of pavement. Opposite the yard stood a small, unassuming concrete building. It looked like a utility shed or a pump station, but it had one feature that felt wrong: a heavy, reinforced metal door.