Submission and spanking in Sacramento part five
The week passed in a blur of meticulous routine—Phillip waking before dawn to ice the lingering bruises, mixing aloe vera with lime juice into a paste that stung just enough to feel purifying. By Wednesday, he'd lined his bathroom shelf with small amber bottles labeled in precise handwriting: *Oatmeal & Buttermilk Compress (20 min max), Cocoa Butter Blend (post-shower), Eucalyptus Cream (nightly).* Each evening, he presented himself at Hinagiku's office door with the same quiet request: "Miss Sairo, would you...?" She never refused. Her fingers, always warm despite the air-conditioned chill, worked the mixtures into his skin with a mortician's precision, kneading until the swelling surrendered.
On Friday, she arrived with a stainless steel cooler. The ice cubes inside clinked like wind chimes as she upended the bag over his bare thighs. Phillip's scream bounced off the soundproofed walls as the frozen cubes seared his freshly healed skin—a sharp, crystalline pain that melted almost instantly into numbness. Hinagiku caught his wrist before he could brush them away. "Wait," she murmured, watching the water droplets carve paths through the kiwi hair grease she'd applied earlier. When the last cube dissolved, she pressed her palm flat against the angry pink skin and sighed. "Perfect canvas."
The call came at 3:17 PM on the eighth day. Phillip memorized the way her voice curled around the words *"my place"* before hanging up. He chose the dark blue ensemble deliberately—the jacket cut to emphasize his shoulders, the tie a silent promise of formality—knowing it would all end up pooled around his ankles within minutes.
Her condo smelled of bergamot and something sharper, medicinal. Hinagiku stood in the foyer wearing a lab coat over a lace camisole, stethoscope dangling like an avant-garde necklace. "Pants. Down. Now," she said, snapping latex gloves over her slender fingers. Phillip obeyed, the wool sliding down his thighs to reveal skin so meticulously cared for it glowed under the recessed lighting. Her gasp was theatrical, hands clapping like a delighted child. "Not a single blemish!" she crowed, tracing the flawless curves with a gloved fingertip. "I’ll have to fix that."
The kitchen drawer screeched open. Phillip kept his spine arched, forehead pressed to the cool leather of her chaise lounge, until her heels clicked back into the room. "Look," she commanded. The marker cap popped off with a sound like a guncock. Phillip turned just enough to see the thick black Sharpie in her hand, its tip hovering an inch from his left cheek. The scent of alcohol-based ink cut through the bergamot haze. Hinagiku's tongue peeked between her teeth as she began writing—not in English, but in precise kanji strokes that bloomed across his skin like a forbidden contract.
"私の所有物," she murmured, blowing on the wet ink. The cold air made him shiver. "My property." Each character stung faintly, a phantom pressure as the marker dragged. Phillip moaned despite himself, the vibration traveling up his thighs when she dotted the final stroke with a flourish. She capped the marker with a decisive click and patted his flank. "There. Now even the grocery bagger will know who you belong to. Now, go back home and get ready for work, and if you don't do a good job—" Her palm cracked down on the fresh ink, the smack echoing. "Your butt's gonna be sore within hours, honey!"
Hours later, when it was lunchtime, Philip left his cubicle and headed for the elevator. But he patched us supply office. A door opened in three hand suddenly grabbed him and pulled him in. He recognized the three women: Martha Shōuchéng, A 40 year-old Chinese woman with black hair done into two Chinese style buns who’s wearing a dark green suit, dark green pants and a white silk shirt with translucent buttons beneath it and lime heeled sandals. Macadamia Kemet, a Malian American, born in Florida even though her parents had fled from Mali to escape poverty, with milk-chocolate colored skin, hazel eyes, and a dark blue suit and matching dark blue ski skirt with black heeled sandals. Finally there was the olive-skinned plump Artemisia Cavalla, who came along generation of American born in Italians was originally from go old New York City. She wore a silver office suit with a gray skirt and had brown heeled sandals, while her eyes were a vibrant Shamrock color. Martha’s eyes were amber color and macadamia‘s eyes were a rare hazel.
The metal chair screeched against the tile as Martha wedged it beneath the doorknob with practiced precision—one sharp kick to ensure it wouldn't budge. Phillip's back hit the southern wall of the storage closet with a thud, Macadamia's hands pinning his shoulders while Artemisia's fingers twisted into his belt loops. The scent of toner cartridges and stale cardboard filled his nostrils as Martha stalked forward, her lime sandals clicking like a metronome counting down to his doom.
"We *all* know," Martha purred, tapping a manicured nail against his clavicle, "that your little *chat* with the boss lady wasn't exactly... workplace appropriate." Her amber eyes glinted under the flickering fluorescent light.
"The curiosity's eating us alive, honey. Time to spill."
Macadamia's lips brushed his ear, her hazel gaze locking onto his reflection in the supply shelf's glass door. "You can be a good boy and tell us *voluntarily*," she murmured, her knee sliding between his thighs, "or we can extract it." Her teeth grazed his earlobe. "And trust me, we've got *very* persuasive interrogation tactics."
Artemisia's shamrock eyes softened as she pressed a plump hand against his racing heart. "Don't stress, sugar," she soothed, her Brooklyn accent thickening. "We'd never embarrass you or Miss Sairo. We're just..." Her fingers trailed down to his belt buckle. "*Dying* to know what that violet-clad demoness does to you behind soundproofed doors."
“There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I would be too. But this is private business between me and the boss. I’m not going to tell you anything, no matter what you do to me,” Philip replied in an implacable tone of voice.
Martha’s grin widened, her amber eyes glinting like polished tiger’s eye under the flickering storage closet light. “I was *really* hoping you’d say that,” she purred, snapping her fingers at Macadamia and Artemisia. “Hold him tighter, girls. This just got fun.” Phillip’s muscles tensed as Martha’s fingers danced over the translucent buttons of his khaki suit, popping them open one by one with deliberate slowness. The fabric parted like a curtain, revealing the crisp white silk beneath. Her nails—painted a venomous lime green to match her heels—skimmed the black buttons of his shirt next, each *snick* of release making his breath hitch.
The shirt fell open, exposing the sculpted planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the sheer *bulk* of his pectorals glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. Martha let out a low whistle, dragging the suit and shirt down his arms while Macadamia and Artemisia adjusted their grip, pinning his biceps like vises. The fabric pooled around and slid off his wrists. Martha pulled it from around his butt and hips, throwing it behind her on the floor.
Phillip’s struggle became more frantic as She first unbuttoned and then unzipped his tan khaki long pants, with both a zipper, and the buttons being made of bronze. Macademia and Our media tightened their grip so he couldn’t escape. Martha yank down his pants and smiled upon seeing the Tiger striped-designed tight underwear.
“It fits you, honey, cause you’re strong!” she complimented before pulling his pants off his feet along with his timberland boots in American flag-designed socks Then she put her hands under the waistband of his underwear and yanked them down as well.
Martha's amber eyes widened, her cheeks flushing crimson as she took in Phillip's throbbing erection. Macadamia's hazel gaze darkened with hunger, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“I'd love to suck on that sausage!" she breathed, fingers tightening around Phillip's biceps. Artemisia's shamrock eyes gleamed as she pressed closer, her plush thighs bracketing his legs. "I'd like to feel that monster in my pussy tunnel between my legs!!" she moaned, her Brooklyn accent thickening with desire.
Martha leaned forward, her nose brushing the tip of Phillip's cock as she inhaled deeply. The scent—musky, warm, unmistakably male—made her lips curl into a devilish smirk. Phillip's entire body flushed crimson, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. "Last chance, baby," she purred, her breath ghosting over his throbbing length.
"Talk now, or I’m gonna lick your peepee and your nuts until they’re so sore and sensitve, then you’ll feel like your soul’s leaving your body when I suck every drop of boy cream from your man meat."
Phillip gritted his teeth, his resolve hardening even as his cock twitched against her cheek. He wouldn’t betray Hinagiku—not even under torture this sweet.
Noticing his silence, Martha shrugged, her smirk widening.
"Have it your way, honey."
She straightened, wiggling her lime-green-tipped fingers near his armpits. Phillip’s breath hitched, his muscles tensing in anticipation.
"First, I’ll make you laugh then I’ll make you cry!" she declared, plunging her fingers into the sensitive hollows beneath his arms. Phillip’s laughter erupted—raw, uncontrollable, bordering on hysterical—as Martha scrubbed mercilessly, her nails raking over the ticklish flesh. Macadamia and Artemisia tightened their grip, their laughter mingling with his as he bucked uselessly against their hold. Sixty seconds of torment passed before Martha paused, ignoring his gasped pleas.
Without warning, she ducked her head, her lips closing around his left nipple. Phillip’s scream was high-pitched, his back arching as she alternated between gentle licks and sharp nibbles. The sensation was unbearable—hot, wet, and unbearably intimate—leaving him thrashing like a pinned butterfly. She moved to his right nipple, her teeth grazing the peak just enough to make him whimper. When she finally pulled back, his chest glistened with saliva, his breathing ragged.
Martha lowered herself to her knees, her smirk widening as she took a deep breath and blew a raspberry into the taut plane of his stomach. Phillip’s reaction was instantaneous—a full-body jerk, followed by a strangled squeal. "Feels like lightning!" he gasped, his abs quivering beneath her relentless assault. She repeated the torture every seven seconds, pausing only to catch her breath before diving back in, her tongue wiggling into his belly button for added torment.
After another merciless minute, she gave him twenty seconds of reprieve—just long enough for him to register the humiliation—before her nails lightly scraped down his abdomen.
Phillip's laughter dissolved into a choked gasp as Martha's tongue plunged into the delicate slit of his urethra—an electric, liquid heat that made his vision blur. His thighs trembled violently, toes curling in his American flag socks as she wriggled the tip of her tongue like a live wire inside him. "M-MARTHA!" he howled, the name tearing from his throat in a ragged crescendo. Above him, Macadamia and Artemisia burst into giggles, as did Martha herself, the vibrations of her laughter of traveling down his penis and giving him even more pleasure.
Martha's tongue was a relentless artist, painting every inch of him with slow, deliberate strokes. She lifted his balls with two fingers, her breath warm against the sensitive skin of his perineum before her tongue dragged upward in one unbroken motion—base to tip, underside to crown, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. Phillip's thighs jerked against Macadamia and Artemisia's grip, his breath hitching as she repeated the torment on each side, her tongue swirling around the ridges of his cockhead with surgical precision. The air in the supply closet grew thick with the scent of musk and the sound of wet, rhythmic lapping punctuated by Phillip's fractured whimpers.
"P-please—" he choked out, but Martha paused only to exhale a stream of cool air across his slicked skin. The sudden chill made him gasp, his hips bucking involuntarily as the contrast of cold against wet heat sent sparks up his spine. She timed each exhale—seven seconds on, seven seconds off—while Macadamia and Artemisia giggled into their fists, their nails digging into his shoulders to keep him pinned against the wall.
"You know exactly what you have to do to make me stop, baby," Martha murmured, her lips brushing the flushed tip. Her amber eyes flicked up, locking onto his with predatory amusement.
"You’re the one prolonging this—not me."
Then she took him into her mouth with a wet, deliberate swallow that made his thighs shake. Phillip's head thudded back against the epoxy resin wall as she hollowed her cheeks, the suction tight enough to draw a ragged moan from his chest.
The rhythm was merciless—three quick, shallow bobs followed by one deep, lingering descent that threatened to unspool him entirely. Martha's fingers tightened around the base of his cock, her thumb pressing insistently against the frenulum on every upstroke while her tongue swirled counterclockwise. Phillip's breath came in fractured gasps, his fingers scrabbling against the wall behind him as the pleasure built to a white-hot crest.
One minute and twenty seconds into Martha's relentless suction, she started making loud slurping noises, sending vibrations much stronger than the ones from her laughing for breeding through his penis. Philip could endure her ministrations no longer, and suddenly his cock exploded into her mouth with such force that she actually choked—just for a second—before resuming with even more enthusiasm. Martha’s moans vibrated against his oversensitive flesh as she kept sucking, determined to drain every last drop. Phillip's legs shook violently, his vision whiting out as she worked him through the aftershocks, her lips sealed tight around his pulsing cockhead.
When he finally went limp in her mouth, Martha pulled off with a wet *pop*, his softening cock slipping free. Then she squeezed the base of his shaft and slid her fingers upward five times in quick succession, milking out translucent spurts that dribbled onto her wrist. She tried a sixth stroke, but nothing came out.
Martha’s wink was a slow, deliberate thing—like sunlight glinting off a blade. "Did you enjoy the ride, honey?" she purred, her lips still glistening. Phillip’s legs trembled, his cock throbbing against his stomach, oversensitive and aching from her relentless attention. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, as if he’d been stripped down to the wiring. The urge to surrender—to spill every secret just to make the torment stop—pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. But beneath it, stubborn as a root, was the unshakable knowledge: betraying Hinagiku wasn’t an option. Not like this. Not ever.
Martha sighed, rolling her shoulders as she peeled off her dark green jacket. The silk shirt beneath followed, sliding down her arms with a whisper until she stood there in nothing but a black lace bra that cupped her breasts like a promise. She arched an eyebrow, fingers trailing along the satin edge. "Does this look sexy on me, honey?" Phillip’s brain short-circuited.
“Hell yes!” he blurted, and the closet erupted with laughter—Macadamia’s rich chuckle, Artemisia’s giggle, Martha’s own delighted snort. She unhooked the bra with a flick, letting it fall to the floor.
"What about my mammaries?" she asked, squeezing them together with a mischievous grin.
Phillip could only manage a dumbfounded "Uh-huh," which sent the women into another round of laughter.
Martha's wink lingered, slow and deliberate, like sunlight glinting off a blade.
“Did you enjoy the ride, honey? Are you ready to be a good boy and tell mommy the truth?"
Phillip's legs trembled, his cock still throbbing against his stomach, oversensitive and aching from her relentless attention. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, as if he'd been stripped down to the wiring. The urge to surrender—to spill every secret just to make the torment stop—pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. But beneath it, stubborn as a root, was the unshakable knowledge: betraying Hinagiku wasn't an option. Not like this. Not ever.
Martha sighed in an exaggerated manner before saying, “Fine, since you’re still being stubborn and won’t talk, your little man is going to get acquainted with my boobies!” She pulled her breasts apart with both hands and slowly moved forward, pressing Phillip’s sensitive cock into the warm crevice between them. The sudden heat made his breath hitch—his flesh still throbbing from her earlier assault—but before she could fully envelop him in pillowy warmth, a sharp *rap* at the door froze them all.
The sound was unmistakable—three precise knocks, followed by a voice that sent chills down all three women’s spines. " **Martha. Artemisia. Macadamia. I know you're in there**." Hinagiku’s words were quiet, almost conversational, yet they carried the weight of a guillotine blade poised to drop.
“Open the door. Now.”
Martha's fingers twitched against the doorknob before she turned it with exaggerated slowness. The door creaked open to reveal Hinagiku standing there in her violet dress, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. The silence stretched—long enough for Phillip to feel the sweat trickling down his spine—before Hinagiku's gaze flicked from Martha to the spectacle behind her: Phillip pinned to the wall, bare as the day he was born, Macadamia and Artemisia still gripping his arms with predatory glee.
"Miss Sairo," Martha began, her voice steadier than she felt. Hinagiku held up her hand to stop her employee from speaking further, as it was already clear what it happened. She looked at the three women with a mixture of admiration and irritation—impressed by their boldness, angry at their interference. Her gaze flicked to Phillip, still pinned against the wall, flushed and trembling. A slow smirk curled her lips.
"What happened in demanding town?" Hinagiku asked, though her tone suggested she already knew. Martha exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
"We wanted to know what kind of relationship he has with you," Martha admitted, her amber eyes unflinching.
"The curiosity was killing us. We asked nicely—promised not to tell anybody—but he wouldn’t talk. So we tried... more persuasive methods."
She gestured to Phillip’s exposed, abused form.
"If you didn’t want anyone else touching him, you should’ve at least told us *something*—whether you two were dating, just hanging out, friends with benefits—*anything*."
Hinagiku’s lips twitched. She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head.
“You do have a point," she conceded.
"I can’t get mad at you for playing with my sexy, adorable little puppy."
She tapped a finger against her chin.
"If I refused to let anyone even know we were having fun..." Her violet gaze flicked to Phillip, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as Martha’s breasts pressed tighter around him.
"However," she continued smoothly, "I can’t let you get off without a bit of revenge. Which Phillip will witness."
The three women exchanged glances—equal parts trepidation and acceptance. They’d essentially kidnapped him; this was fair.
Hinagiku’s smile widened.
"But I’ll also give you permission to finish your little game. I’m curious how lon
On Friday, she arrived with a stainless steel cooler. The ice cubes inside clinked like wind chimes as she upended the bag over his bare thighs. Phillip's scream bounced off the soundproofed walls as the frozen cubes seared his freshly healed skin—a sharp, crystalline pain that melted almost instantly into numbness. Hinagiku caught his wrist before he could brush them away. "Wait," she murmured, watching the water droplets carve paths through the kiwi hair grease she'd applied earlier. When the last cube dissolved, she pressed her palm flat against the angry pink skin and sighed. "Perfect canvas."
The call came at 3:17 PM on the eighth day. Phillip memorized the way her voice curled around the words *"my place"* before hanging up. He chose the dark blue ensemble deliberately—the jacket cut to emphasize his shoulders, the tie a silent promise of formality—knowing it would all end up pooled around his ankles within minutes.
Her condo smelled of bergamot and something sharper, medicinal. Hinagiku stood in the foyer wearing a lab coat over a lace camisole, stethoscope dangling like an avant-garde necklace. "Pants. Down. Now," she said, snapping latex gloves over her slender fingers. Phillip obeyed, the wool sliding down his thighs to reveal skin so meticulously cared for it glowed under the recessed lighting. Her gasp was theatrical, hands clapping like a delighted child. "Not a single blemish!" she crowed, tracing the flawless curves with a gloved fingertip. "I’ll have to fix that."
The kitchen drawer screeched open. Phillip kept his spine arched, forehead pressed to the cool leather of her chaise lounge, until her heels clicked back into the room. "Look," she commanded. The marker cap popped off with a sound like a guncock. Phillip turned just enough to see the thick black Sharpie in her hand, its tip hovering an inch from his left cheek. The scent of alcohol-based ink cut through the bergamot haze. Hinagiku's tongue peeked between her teeth as she began writing—not in English, but in precise kanji strokes that bloomed across his skin like a forbidden contract.
"私の所有物," she murmured, blowing on the wet ink. The cold air made him shiver. "My property." Each character stung faintly, a phantom pressure as the marker dragged. Phillip moaned despite himself, the vibration traveling up his thighs when she dotted the final stroke with a flourish. She capped the marker with a decisive click and patted his flank. "There. Now even the grocery bagger will know who you belong to. Now, go back home and get ready for work, and if you don't do a good job—" Her palm cracked down on the fresh ink, the smack echoing. "Your butt's gonna be sore within hours, honey!"
Hours later, when it was lunchtime, Philip left his cubicle and headed for the elevator. But he patched us supply office. A door opened in three hand suddenly grabbed him and pulled him in. He recognized the three women: Martha Shōuchéng, A 40 year-old Chinese woman with black hair done into two Chinese style buns who’s wearing a dark green suit, dark green pants and a white silk shirt with translucent buttons beneath it and lime heeled sandals. Macadamia Kemet, a Malian American, born in Florida even though her parents had fled from Mali to escape poverty, with milk-chocolate colored skin, hazel eyes, and a dark blue suit and matching dark blue ski skirt with black heeled sandals. Finally there was the olive-skinned plump Artemisia Cavalla, who came along generation of American born in Italians was originally from go old New York City. She wore a silver office suit with a gray skirt and had brown heeled sandals, while her eyes were a vibrant Shamrock color. Martha’s eyes were amber color and macadamia‘s eyes were a rare hazel.
The metal chair screeched against the tile as Martha wedged it beneath the doorknob with practiced precision—one sharp kick to ensure it wouldn't budge. Phillip's back hit the southern wall of the storage closet with a thud, Macadamia's hands pinning his shoulders while Artemisia's fingers twisted into his belt loops. The scent of toner cartridges and stale cardboard filled his nostrils as Martha stalked forward, her lime sandals clicking like a metronome counting down to his doom.
"We *all* know," Martha purred, tapping a manicured nail against his clavicle, "that your little *chat* with the boss lady wasn't exactly... workplace appropriate." Her amber eyes glinted under the flickering fluorescent light.
"The curiosity's eating us alive, honey. Time to spill."
Macadamia's lips brushed his ear, her hazel gaze locking onto his reflection in the supply shelf's glass door. "You can be a good boy and tell us *voluntarily*," she murmured, her knee sliding between his thighs, "or we can extract it." Her teeth grazed his earlobe. "And trust me, we've got *very* persuasive interrogation tactics."
Artemisia's shamrock eyes softened as she pressed a plump hand against his racing heart. "Don't stress, sugar," she soothed, her Brooklyn accent thickening. "We'd never embarrass you or Miss Sairo. We're just..." Her fingers trailed down to his belt buckle. "*Dying* to know what that violet-clad demoness does to you behind soundproofed doors."
“There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I would be too. But this is private business between me and the boss. I’m not going to tell you anything, no matter what you do to me,” Philip replied in an implacable tone of voice.
Martha’s grin widened, her amber eyes glinting like polished tiger’s eye under the flickering storage closet light. “I was *really* hoping you’d say that,” she purred, snapping her fingers at Macadamia and Artemisia. “Hold him tighter, girls. This just got fun.” Phillip’s muscles tensed as Martha’s fingers danced over the translucent buttons of his khaki suit, popping them open one by one with deliberate slowness. The fabric parted like a curtain, revealing the crisp white silk beneath. Her nails—painted a venomous lime green to match her heels—skimmed the black buttons of his shirt next, each *snick* of release making his breath hitch.
The shirt fell open, exposing the sculpted planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the sheer *bulk* of his pectorals glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. Martha let out a low whistle, dragging the suit and shirt down his arms while Macadamia and Artemisia adjusted their grip, pinning his biceps like vises. The fabric pooled around and slid off his wrists. Martha pulled it from around his butt and hips, throwing it behind her on the floor.
Phillip’s struggle became more frantic as She first unbuttoned and then unzipped his tan khaki long pants, with both a zipper, and the buttons being made of bronze. Macademia and Our media tightened their grip so he couldn’t escape. Martha yank down his pants and smiled upon seeing the Tiger striped-designed tight underwear.
“It fits you, honey, cause you’re strong!” she complimented before pulling his pants off his feet along with his timberland boots in American flag-designed socks Then she put her hands under the waistband of his underwear and yanked them down as well.
Martha's amber eyes widened, her cheeks flushing crimson as she took in Phillip's throbbing erection. Macadamia's hazel gaze darkened with hunger, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“I'd love to suck on that sausage!" she breathed, fingers tightening around Phillip's biceps. Artemisia's shamrock eyes gleamed as she pressed closer, her plush thighs bracketing his legs. "I'd like to feel that monster in my pussy tunnel between my legs!!" she moaned, her Brooklyn accent thickening with desire.
Martha leaned forward, her nose brushing the tip of Phillip's cock as she inhaled deeply. The scent—musky, warm, unmistakably male—made her lips curl into a devilish smirk. Phillip's entire body flushed crimson, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. "Last chance, baby," she purred, her breath ghosting over his throbbing length.
"Talk now, or I’m gonna lick your peepee and your nuts until they’re so sore and sensitve, then you’ll feel like your soul’s leaving your body when I suck every drop of boy cream from your man meat."
Phillip gritted his teeth, his resolve hardening even as his cock twitched against her cheek. He wouldn’t betray Hinagiku—not even under torture this sweet.
Noticing his silence, Martha shrugged, her smirk widening.
"Have it your way, honey."
She straightened, wiggling her lime-green-tipped fingers near his armpits. Phillip’s breath hitched, his muscles tensing in anticipation.
"First, I’ll make you laugh then I’ll make you cry!" she declared, plunging her fingers into the sensitive hollows beneath his arms. Phillip’s laughter erupted—raw, uncontrollable, bordering on hysterical—as Martha scrubbed mercilessly, her nails raking over the ticklish flesh. Macadamia and Artemisia tightened their grip, their laughter mingling with his as he bucked uselessly against their hold. Sixty seconds of torment passed before Martha paused, ignoring his gasped pleas.
Without warning, she ducked her head, her lips closing around his left nipple. Phillip’s scream was high-pitched, his back arching as she alternated between gentle licks and sharp nibbles. The sensation was unbearable—hot, wet, and unbearably intimate—leaving him thrashing like a pinned butterfly. She moved to his right nipple, her teeth grazing the peak just enough to make him whimper. When she finally pulled back, his chest glistened with saliva, his breathing ragged.
Martha lowered herself to her knees, her smirk widening as she took a deep breath and blew a raspberry into the taut plane of his stomach. Phillip’s reaction was instantaneous—a full-body jerk, followed by a strangled squeal. "Feels like lightning!" he gasped, his abs quivering beneath her relentless assault. She repeated the torture every seven seconds, pausing only to catch her breath before diving back in, her tongue wiggling into his belly button for added torment.
After another merciless minute, she gave him twenty seconds of reprieve—just long enough for him to register the humiliation—before her nails lightly scraped down his abdomen.
Phillip's laughter dissolved into a choked gasp as Martha's tongue plunged into the delicate slit of his urethra—an electric, liquid heat that made his vision blur. His thighs trembled violently, toes curling in his American flag socks as she wriggled the tip of her tongue like a live wire inside him. "M-MARTHA!" he howled, the name tearing from his throat in a ragged crescendo. Above him, Macadamia and Artemisia burst into giggles, as did Martha herself, the vibrations of her laughter of traveling down his penis and giving him even more pleasure.
Martha's tongue was a relentless artist, painting every inch of him with slow, deliberate strokes. She lifted his balls with two fingers, her breath warm against the sensitive skin of his perineum before her tongue dragged upward in one unbroken motion—base to tip, underside to crown, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. Phillip's thighs jerked against Macadamia and Artemisia's grip, his breath hitching as she repeated the torment on each side, her tongue swirling around the ridges of his cockhead with surgical precision. The air in the supply closet grew thick with the scent of musk and the sound of wet, rhythmic lapping punctuated by Phillip's fractured whimpers.
"P-please—" he choked out, but Martha paused only to exhale a stream of cool air across his slicked skin. The sudden chill made him gasp, his hips bucking involuntarily as the contrast of cold against wet heat sent sparks up his spine. She timed each exhale—seven seconds on, seven seconds off—while Macadamia and Artemisia giggled into their fists, their nails digging into his shoulders to keep him pinned against the wall.
"You know exactly what you have to do to make me stop, baby," Martha murmured, her lips brushing the flushed tip. Her amber eyes flicked up, locking onto his with predatory amusement.
"You’re the one prolonging this—not me."
Then she took him into her mouth with a wet, deliberate swallow that made his thighs shake. Phillip's head thudded back against the epoxy resin wall as she hollowed her cheeks, the suction tight enough to draw a ragged moan from his chest.
The rhythm was merciless—three quick, shallow bobs followed by one deep, lingering descent that threatened to unspool him entirely. Martha's fingers tightened around the base of his cock, her thumb pressing insistently against the frenulum on every upstroke while her tongue swirled counterclockwise. Phillip's breath came in fractured gasps, his fingers scrabbling against the wall behind him as the pleasure built to a white-hot crest.
One minute and twenty seconds into Martha's relentless suction, she started making loud slurping noises, sending vibrations much stronger than the ones from her laughing for breeding through his penis. Philip could endure her ministrations no longer, and suddenly his cock exploded into her mouth with such force that she actually choked—just for a second—before resuming with even more enthusiasm. Martha’s moans vibrated against his oversensitive flesh as she kept sucking, determined to drain every last drop. Phillip's legs shook violently, his vision whiting out as she worked him through the aftershocks, her lips sealed tight around his pulsing cockhead.
When he finally went limp in her mouth, Martha pulled off with a wet *pop*, his softening cock slipping free. Then she squeezed the base of his shaft and slid her fingers upward five times in quick succession, milking out translucent spurts that dribbled onto her wrist. She tried a sixth stroke, but nothing came out.
Martha’s wink was a slow, deliberate thing—like sunlight glinting off a blade. "Did you enjoy the ride, honey?" she purred, her lips still glistening. Phillip’s legs trembled, his cock throbbing against his stomach, oversensitive and aching from her relentless attention. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, as if he’d been stripped down to the wiring. The urge to surrender—to spill every secret just to make the torment stop—pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. But beneath it, stubborn as a root, was the unshakable knowledge: betraying Hinagiku wasn’t an option. Not like this. Not ever.
Martha sighed, rolling her shoulders as she peeled off her dark green jacket. The silk shirt beneath followed, sliding down her arms with a whisper until she stood there in nothing but a black lace bra that cupped her breasts like a promise. She arched an eyebrow, fingers trailing along the satin edge. "Does this look sexy on me, honey?" Phillip’s brain short-circuited.
“Hell yes!” he blurted, and the closet erupted with laughter—Macadamia’s rich chuckle, Artemisia’s giggle, Martha’s own delighted snort. She unhooked the bra with a flick, letting it fall to the floor.
"What about my mammaries?" she asked, squeezing them together with a mischievous grin.
Phillip could only manage a dumbfounded "Uh-huh," which sent the women into another round of laughter.
Martha's wink lingered, slow and deliberate, like sunlight glinting off a blade.
“Did you enjoy the ride, honey? Are you ready to be a good boy and tell mommy the truth?"
Phillip's legs trembled, his cock still throbbing against his stomach, oversensitive and aching from her relentless attention. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, as if he'd been stripped down to the wiring. The urge to surrender—to spill every secret just to make the torment stop—pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. But beneath it, stubborn as a root, was the unshakable knowledge: betraying Hinagiku wasn't an option. Not like this. Not ever.
Martha sighed in an exaggerated manner before saying, “Fine, since you’re still being stubborn and won’t talk, your little man is going to get acquainted with my boobies!” She pulled her breasts apart with both hands and slowly moved forward, pressing Phillip’s sensitive cock into the warm crevice between them. The sudden heat made his breath hitch—his flesh still throbbing from her earlier assault—but before she could fully envelop him in pillowy warmth, a sharp *rap* at the door froze them all.
The sound was unmistakable—three precise knocks, followed by a voice that sent chills down all three women’s spines. " **Martha. Artemisia. Macadamia. I know you're in there**." Hinagiku’s words were quiet, almost conversational, yet they carried the weight of a guillotine blade poised to drop.
“Open the door. Now.”
Martha's fingers twitched against the doorknob before she turned it with exaggerated slowness. The door creaked open to reveal Hinagiku standing there in her violet dress, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. The silence stretched—long enough for Phillip to feel the sweat trickling down his spine—before Hinagiku's gaze flicked from Martha to the spectacle behind her: Phillip pinned to the wall, bare as the day he was born, Macadamia and Artemisia still gripping his arms with predatory glee.
"Miss Sairo," Martha began, her voice steadier than she felt. Hinagiku held up her hand to stop her employee from speaking further, as it was already clear what it happened. She looked at the three women with a mixture of admiration and irritation—impressed by their boldness, angry at their interference. Her gaze flicked to Phillip, still pinned against the wall, flushed and trembling. A slow smirk curled her lips.
"What happened in demanding town?" Hinagiku asked, though her tone suggested she already knew. Martha exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
"We wanted to know what kind of relationship he has with you," Martha admitted, her amber eyes unflinching.
"The curiosity was killing us. We asked nicely—promised not to tell anybody—but he wouldn’t talk. So we tried... more persuasive methods."
She gestured to Phillip’s exposed, abused form.
"If you didn’t want anyone else touching him, you should’ve at least told us *something*—whether you two were dating, just hanging out, friends with benefits—*anything*."
Hinagiku’s lips twitched. She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head.
“You do have a point," she conceded.
"I can’t get mad at you for playing with my sexy, adorable little puppy."
She tapped a finger against her chin.
"If I refused to let anyone even know we were having fun..." Her violet gaze flicked to Phillip, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as Martha’s breasts pressed tighter around him.
"However," she continued smoothly, "I can’t let you get off without a bit of revenge. Which Phillip will witness."
The three women exchanged glances—equal parts trepidation and acceptance. They’d essentially kidnapped him; this was fair.
Hinagiku’s smile widened.
"But I’ll also give you permission to finish your little game. I’m curious how lon
31-35, M
