Chapter 5

The Monday meeting room stank of sweat and sex before Priyanka even stumbled in on her knees, those ridiculous oversized fake tits wobbling like cheap silicone balloons with every shuffle forward. Her chains jingled—nipple rings connected by steel links, labia piercings swinging between her thighs like some demented windchime—as the board members watched their former CEO crawl toward the conference table.

“Good fucking morning, cumbucket,” sneered Heffner, the towering ebony HR director who’d personally overseen Priyanka’s “retraining.” The bitch’s tattoo glistened under the fluorescent lights, her tramp stamp peeking above the micro mini skirt. “You know the drill.”

Priyanka didn’t hesitate. Her painted lips parted for the first cock, a thick black shaft already dripping pre-cum onto the mahogany table. The board members chuckled as she deepthroated it mechanically, her nose pressing against wiry pubes that smelled like last week’s humiliation.

Across the table, muscular female execs spread their thighs, their cunts glistening with anticipation. “Lick deeper, snowflake,” growled a dreadlocked VP, yanking Priyanka’s hair so hard her clit bell chimed pathetically. The white slut whimpered but obeyed, her tongue lapping at dark folds while her own denied cunt throbbed—Heffner’s orders meant no orgasms unless the Black staff permitted it.

By the time she reached the last director, Priyanka’s mascara ran in streaks down her face, her tattoo pulsing above her soaked pussy. The board erupted in laughter when she accidentally came from grinding against the table leg. “Disgusting,” Heffner muttered, backhanding her across the tits hard enough to make the piercings jangle. “Clean that mess up before we start the real work.”

“Revenue’s up 300% since we ... acquired your little white-girl company,” Heffner drawled, his gold-capped teeth glinting as he eyed the way Priyanka’s thighs clenched together. The bells on her labia piercings tinkled with every squirm—a sound the board had grown accustomed to during these humiliating meetings. “But let’s discuss your growth, Priyanka.” He licked his lips slowly. “Like how your tattoo’s healing right above that tight cunt we stretched last Thursday.”

Priyanka’s bladder burned as the financials droned on, her once-arrogant CEO facade crumbling like the white powder she used to snort off these men’s dicks. The tramp stamp itched under her pencil skirt, a constant reminder of the contract she’d signed in cum and shaky handwriting. When Heffner finally paused, she whimpered—a sound drowned out by the clinking of her tit chain—before whispering, “Sir ... may I ... use the restroom?”