Office Disgrace
Copyright© 2026 by Susmitha Saran
Chapter 8
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 8 - 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 AI Generated
Priyanka Chopra waited until the last subordinate had left the corporate headquarters—her empire of glass and steel—before letting her fingers dance across the keyboard. The glow of the monitor reflected in her icy blue eyes as she typed “best tattoo artists for humiliation ink” with deliberate slowness, her French-manicured nails clicking against the keys. The search results made her pulse quicken: a dimly lit parlor in the industrial district known for specializing in ... unconventional requests. She bit her lower lip imagining the thick-necked Black artist she’d seen in the gallery photos bending her over his workbench.
Her second search—”latex business attire for corporate sluts”—yielded even more delicious results. A boutique near the docks carried imported European designs with strategic cutouts and built-in restraint points. Priyanka’s thighs pressed together as she envisioned walking into her own boardroom next week, the leather straps of her new outfit creaking audibly beneath her skirt while her CFO pretended not to stare at the fresh tattoo.
The brunette executive stood abruptly, smoothing her already impeccable pencil skirt. Her stilettos echoed through the empty executive floor as she strode toward the elevator, already composing tomorrow’s memo about “workplace dress code revisions” in her head. The gold-plated elevator doors slid shut on her smirk—she’d make damn sure every employee knew exactly whose corporation this really was.
The appointment was at 6, but Priyanka wanted to be there at perfect time so as not to get punished. She was once an arrogant CEO, now just a playtoy for the same employees whom she humiliated.
She reached the place at 5.45 and waited for the clock to turn 6. At 6 she pressed the entry button just outside the door of the building that had a bright neon sign “Brown’s Parlor”. The automatic door opened and she walked in.
A bald tall and masculine black man walked towards her.
“Miss Priyanka?” His deep voice dripped with amusement as her heels clicked nervously.
“Ye-Yes...” she stammered, the scent of antiseptic and musk made her insides growl.
“I know why you are here” he smirked, “but I want to here from you” he said and smiled.
Priyanka was shocked, she was breathing heavily and was uncomfortable and felt humiliated.
“I ... I want some modifications and art to be done on my body” she said nervously.
“Hmm ... can you elaborate, a CEO like you can do better” he mocked.
“I ... I want a tattoo ... a queen of spades logo and the text ‘Blacked Owned Fucktoy’ just above my pussy” she said shyly and hung her head. But was shocked when he slapped her.
“Hmm ... I never though a slut like you have pussy” he mocked and smiled.
Priyanka knew that she made a mistake “sorry sir, above my cunt” she corrected.
“Good, then what else?”
“Also, ‘Fuck me here’ with arrow pointing to my cunt just below the previous tattoo”
“Interesting, is that all?”
“No sir, also a tramp stamp on my lower back, with the queen of spades logo in a tribal pattern” she added.
“Is that all the tattoos?”
“Just one more sir, a tattoo to show everyone that I am a property of BBC, a queen of spades logo on my chest, just above my cleavage”
“Is that all, or any more tattoos are there?”
“No! no sir, that is all the tattoos”
“I hope you haven’t cum just for the tattoos? is it Priyanka” he mocked her.
“I ... I ... as a property of BBC, I want to enhance and adore my body with gold, sir.”
“What would that be”
“They ... they want my tits inflated,” she whispered, thighs squeezing together as humiliation burned through her. “From 34B to 36DD - oversized fake bimbo tits that’ll make my suits strain at the buttons. I’m to look like the corporate slut I am.”
Priyanka Chopra’s knees trembled against the cold concrete floor, her designer silk blouse ripped open to expose pale breasts already marked with thin red welts from the cane. The once-arrogant CEO kept her eyes downcast as she addressed the dark-skinned man standing before her, his muscular frame barely contained by the tailored suit. “Th-they want my sensitivity increased, sir,” she stammered, flinching when he yanked her backwards.
A jeweled nipple clamp suddenly pinched her right breast without warning, drawing a sharp gasp. “Medium titanium rings,” Priyanka continued through gritted teeth, “soldered shut through my nipples ... with a gold chain connecting them.” Her voice cracked as she pictured the humiliation - the delicate chain dangling just above her navel, visible beneath sheer office attire during board meetings.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she stared at the floor. The cold metal examination table bit into her thighs through the torn stockings. “I ... I need a belly button piercing. With the queen of spades charm dangling from it. So everyone knows what I am now.” Her manicured fingers twitched toward the aftercare instructions before the tattoo artist slapped her hand away.
The burly man wiping down a tray of surgical steel didn’t look up. “Is that it, cunt?” His gold tooth glinted when he smirked at the way she flinched at the word.
“No, sir.” A tear splashed onto her exposed stomach as she spread her legs wider on command. “Pornstar gauges for my ears—the big ones that stretch the lobes. And a nose pin. Also...” Her throat worked around the words. “A tongue stud. To make cock sucking easier for your friends.”
Behind the curtain, two of her former female executives giggled while taking photos of their ex-boss’s humiliation.
Priyanka sobbed as she lifted her skirt higher. “Two more, sir. A vertical clit hood piercing...” She gasped when he pinched the swollen flesh between gloved fingers. “With a golden bell on a chain that hangs between my legs. So clients hear me coming down the hall at the office.” The leather cuffs around her ankles clicked as she squirmed.
The artist nodded toward the stainless steel display case. “And? Is that it”
“No, sir!” Priyanka blurted, flinching as he twisted the chain connecting her nipple clamps. Between choked sobs, she described the final degradations: twin titanium rings through her inner labia—which could be used to clip her leash and pull her around the office.
The sterile white walls of the private tattoo studio reflected the fluorescent lights overhead, casting harsh shadows across Priyanka Chopra’s naked, trembling body. Once the haughty CEO of a billion-dollar tech empire, she now lay spread-eagle on the cold steel table, her pale skin slick with nervous sweat. Mr. Brown, a towering Black man with thick muscles and a smirk that never left his lips, circled her like a predator sizing up his prey.
The stainless-steel table felt ice cold against Priyanka Chopra’s naked back as she reluctantly climbed onto it. Her perfectly manicured fingers gripped the edges, her French tip nails digging into the metal as she laid down. The once arrogant CEO now found herself completely exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights of Mr. Brown’s private tattoo studio.
Mr. Brown smirked as he returned with an armful of thick leather restraints. “Spread ‘em wide, slut,” he commanded in his deep baritone. Priyanka shuddered but obeyed, allowing him to buckle her wrists and ankles to the table’s corners, leaving her arms stretched out like a sacrifice. The additional straps around her thighs forced her legs apart immodestly, her smooth pussy glistening under the lights.
“First, we mark you proper,” Mr. Brown growled, powering up the tattoo gun. The buzzing sound made Priyanka’s stomach tighten. She squeezed her eyes shut as the needle pierced her flawless skin right above her perky tits. The pain was sharp, relentless—just like the humiliation of having the Queen of Spades logo permanently inked onto her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t dare protest. She knew better now.
Once the chest tattoo was done, Mr. Brown grabbed her by the hips and roughly flipped her onto her stomach. “Your tramp stamp’s gonna be special,” he chuckled, tracing the design with his thick fingers. The tattoo gun buzzed again as he etched “Black Owned” in elegant script on either side of another Queen of Spades emblem. Tribal patterns snaked down the curves of her lower back, branding her as property of black masters.
When he turned her onto her back again, she shuddered as the needle descended toward her most intimate area. Just above her shaved cunt, another Queen of Spades took shape, followed by the words “Fuck Here” and an arrow pointing downward. Priyanka’s thighs trembled, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.
Mr. Brown chuckled, admiring his work. “Now everyone will know exactly what you are,” he murmured, running a thumb over her fresh ink. “A white bitch who belongs to Black men.”
Priyanka didn’t argue. She couldn’t. The tattoos were just the beginning.
“And now we decorate your slut body,” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. A chrome ring gag dangled from his fingers, its metal glinting under the harsh surgical lights. Priyanka clenched her teeth, but when he pinched her nose shut, she gasped—just enough for him to wedge the gag between her lips. The straps cinched tight behind her head, forcing her mouth into a lewd, permanent O.
“We’ll work our way down, cunt,” he promised, lifting a sterilized needle from the tray beside them. Before she could flinch, he drove it through her left nostril in one sharp thrust. Priyanka’s body arched against the restraints as fire erupted in her face, her scream muffled by the gag. With practiced ease, he slipped a tungsten ring into the fresh hole and soldered it shut, the sizzle of hot metal mingling with her choked whimpers.
Next came her ears—thick silver hoops shoved through without warning; each piercing accompanied by a degrading slap to her flushed cheeks. “Stick that privileged tongue out,” he ordered, and when she hesitated, he pulled her tongue out using clamp and didn’t wait. The needle pierced her tongue clean through, followed by the cold slide of a barbell. The click of the locking mechanism sealed her fate.
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