Submission and sex Sacramento part seven
er work.”
Phillip felt the heat crawl up his neck like a living thing as Sommerfugul's fingers lingered on his wrist. Her eyes—bright with curiosity and something darker—never left his face as he swallowed hard and nodded. "I, uh... appreciate you asking directly," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "It started when she called me in for a performance review..."
The words tumbled out in a rush—Hinagiku's commanding presence, the humiliation of stripping bare under her amused gaze, the burning stripes left by her acrylic ruler. His throat tightened as he described how she'd soothed the welts afterward, her fingers slick with aloe vera tracing patterns that made him shudder. Sommerfugul's lips parted slightly when he admitted to their after-hours meeting at her house, how she'd bound him to her bedposts with bungee cords before taking him apart with her mouth. The most embarrassing details spilled out unbidden: the vitamin injections, the dildo, the way she'd threatened him with the curtain rod if he dared peek while she showered.
But it was the closet incident that made Sommerfugul's eyebrows shoot up—Martha, Macadamia, and Artemisia cornering him, their hands roaming until Hinagiku intervened with brutal efficiency. Phillip's voice cracked as he recounted their punishment, the ruler's sharp cracks echoing in his memory alongside their screams.
Then when Phillip finished recounting the details, Sommerfugul's face broke into a huge grin—the kind that made her freckles dance. She clapped her hands together once before leaning in close enough that her vanilla shampoo overwhelmed the office smells.
"I *knew* it! I knew the boss liked you!” she whisper-cheered, bouncing slightly on her heels.
Sommerfugul's grin turned positively wicked as she leaned in closer, her fingers still brushing Phillip's wrist. "Even though she punished you," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear, "she still gave you pleasure in the end. That's... *hot*."
Sommerfugul's grip tightened suddenly, her fingers pressing just enough to make Phillip gasp. "Listen," she murmured, her voice suddenly serious despite the playful glint in her eyes. "Don't you *dare* screw this up. Women like Miss Sairo don't hand out second chances—or first ones, really." Her thumb rubbed slow circles over his racing pulse. "I'm going to ask her if I can play too."
Phillip's stomach dropped. "Wait, no—she already punished three people today for—"
"And *I* won't be sneaking around like those idiots," Sommerfugul interrupted, rolling her eyes. "I'll walk right into her office and say 'Miss Sairo, your secret's safe with me, but gods above, let me in on it.’ “
“You’re going to get me in so much trouble!“ Philip responded in a worried tone of voice.
Sommerfugul's grin softened into something dangerously reassuring as she squeezed Phillip's wrist one last time.
"Relax, Papyra," she murmured, her thumb tracing slow circles on his skin.
"I'll handle Miss Sairo— *professionally*. Unlike those three idiots, I know how to ask nicely." Her smirk returned, sharp as a blade.
“Besides, she won't blame you. Truth tastes better when it's served voluntarily to someone who's genuinely curious, right?"
Phillip opened his mouth to protest, but Sommerfugul's gaze flicked downward, her smirk deepening. "Speaking of *serving*," she purred, nodding pointedly at his trousers, "you might want to take care of that before someone less discreet notices." Before he could react, her hand darted out and cupped him through the fabric—just long enough to feel him twitch against her palm. Phillip choked back a whimper as she giggled, withdrawing with a wink. "Bathroom's down the hall, tiger."
He didn't remember sprinting to the men's room. The stall door slammed behind him, the lock clicking with frantic urgency. Phillip fumbled with his belt, his fingers trembling as he shoved his trousers down just enough to free his aching cock. The overhead fluorescents hummed like a swarm of wasps, casting harsh shadows across his thighs—still faintly striped from Hinagiku's earlier attention.
The first stroke was involuntary, his hips jerking forward into his own grip. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images came anyway: Hinagiku's ruler rising in that perfect arc, Martha's ass blooming crimson under each strike. The way Macadamia's thighs had quivered when the ruler landed on the same welt twice. Artemisia's choked sobs as her skin darkened to an angry purple. His hand moved faster, the friction almost painful in its intensity.
Phillip bit his lip hard enough to taste copper as his climax built—a jagged, guilty thing. He came with a strangled gasp, his seed splattering against the porcelain in uneven spurts. For three ragged breaths, he simply stared at the evidence of his shame swirling in the toilet bowl before flushing it away.
Phillip stared at his trembling hands under the icy bathroom tap, watching soap bubbles swirl down the drain like the remnants of his dignity. He briefly considered soaking paper towels to clean himself properly, but the thought of cold water against his still-sensitive skin made him wince. Instead, he adjusted himself hastily, the fabric of his trousers clinging uncomfortably as he exited the sterile fluorescent glow of the restroom.
He rushed back to his cubicle as fast as he could, ignoring the glances from knowing colleagues that came his way. Philip pulled out his swivel chair, sat down in it and started typing on his computer again. sometime later, Sommerfugul came to him again, deliberately sitting on the edge of his desk near the cubicle entrance to fluster him. She crossed her legs, the hem of her skirt riding up just enough to make Phillip's throat go dry.
"The boss wasn't angry," she murmured, leaning in close enough that he could smell her vanilla shampoo.
Sommerfugul's lips curved into a knowing smile as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger.
"Miss Sairo knows I'm persuasive—just like Martha and the others," she murmured, her knee brushing against Phillip's thigh.
"But unlike them, I asked nicely instead of cornering you in a closet."
Her fingers traced idle patterns on the edge of his desk.
"She *appreciated* that. Said it was clever how I threatened to go straight to her if you didn't talk."
Phillip swallowed hard as her foot hooked around his ankle beneath the desk.
"And... she agreed to let you—?"
"Join? Oh yes. After I promised not to blab to the whole office, of course. Though she did warn me..." he leaned in, her whisper a warm caress against his ear, "one slip-up, and she'll use a curtain rod on my ass so hard I won't sit for a month."
Sommerfugul's fingers drummed a playful rhythm on Phillip's desk as she swung her crossed leg idly, her ballet flat grazing his thigh with each motion.
“The boss has decided that, just like it is with you and her, if you want my body then I get your sexy ass. And I promise you baby I’m gonna do all I can to spank you harder than Hinagiku does, whether I use my hand or an implement!”
Phillip's fingers twitched against his keyboard as Sommerfugul's words slithered into his ears—each syllable wrapping around his spine like a velvet noose. "She said I could watch," Sommerfugul murmured, her ballet flat dragging up the inseam of his trousers. "Every spanking. Every vitamin shot drilling into that tight ass of yours. Every naked excerise. Every time she sits on your back, grabs your hair and ride you like a horse or slapping your butt. Every time she fucks your butt with a dildo!”
Phillip swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk as Sommerfugul’s words sank in. The thought of her watching—of *anyone* witnessing his degradation under Hinagiku’s ruthless attention—sent a strange mix of dread and arousal twisting low in his belly. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then blurted out the question burning in his throat: "Did you—did you see them? After?" His voice cracked.
"Martha, Macadamia, Artemisia. Did you see them… like that? Naked except for their bras? Or when Miss Sairo was…" He trailed off, unable to finish.
Sommerfugul’s foot stilled against his thigh. She tilted her head, considering him with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something darker.
"No," she said finally, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I waited outside the door until they stumbled out—Martha limping, Artemisia clutching her skirt like a lifeline, Macadamia with tear stains streaking her makeup." Her fingers traced idle circles on the desk.
"I’m not a *peeping Tom*, Phillip. I don’t need to sneak. If I want to see something, I ask." Her smile sharpened. "Or I *negotiate*."
Phillip exhaled shakily, torn between relief and an inexplicable pang of disappointment. The image of the three women—panties around their ankles, skin striped red—flashed behind his eyelids. He blinked it away just as Sommerfugul leaned in, her breath warm against his ear.
"Oh, and one more thing," she murmured, her fingers tracing the edge of his desk like a pianist teasing the keys before a crescendo.
"Miss Sairo has a new... *digestive* policy for you."
Her lips curved into a smirk as Phillip's brow furrowed.
"Starting tomorrow, she'll ask you— *personally*—one hour after every meal if you've had a bowel movement. And if the answer is no...she'll administer an enema."
Phillip's mouth fell open. The blood drained from his face, then surged back in a scalding wave that painted his cheeks crimson. His lips moved soundlessly, forming silent protests that died before they could escape.
Sommerfugul chuckled at the flabbergasted look on Phillip's face, her sapphire eyes glinting with merciless amusement.
"Oh, don't make that face," she teased, leaning so close her vanilla shampoo drowned out the sterile office air.
"Miss Sairo didn't specify exactly *how* shed administer the enema, Whether she use one of those pint sized syringes, a rubber bulb that resembles a rubber, toot, toot, horn, or a big picture with a tube attached to the bottom, and a clamp that could be removed to allow the water to flow into it the anus.”
Sommerfugl's eyes glazed over slightly as she leaned back against Phillip's desk, her fingers drumming an idle rhythm on its surface.
"You know," she murmured in that lilting Danish accent,
"I can just *see* it now—Miss Sairo standing behind you with that look she gets, the one where her eyebrows do that little tilt." She demonstrated, arching one perfect platinum brow.
"Her fingers slick with that kiwi hair grease of hers, working it into you *so* slowly while you squirm against the desk." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
"Then the cold water flooding in, inch by inch, until you're moaning like a broken violin."
Phillip's grip on his chair arms tightened until the faux leather creaked. The image bloomed unbidden in his mind—Hinagiku's clinical precision, the way her nails would surely dig into his hips to keep him still, the unbearable stretch as the nozzle pressed deeper. His breath hitched audibly, earning a delighted giggle from Sommerfugl.
“You know what else the boss lady told me? That your *spermatoza* taste like Ramen noodles and salted pasta. I wanna see if it’s true!” the danish lady continued, her voice and facial expression full of mischief.
Phillip’s chair screeched back so violently it nearly toppled. "Let’s go to another storage closet," he hissed, voice cracking mid-sentence. Sommerfugl’s lips curled into a victorious smirk as she slid off his desk, her ballet flats hitting the carpet with deliberate quiet.
"Knew you wouldn’t last till the end of the day," she purred, snatching his left wrist with her right hand. They moved like conspirators—past smirking secretaries, around a glowering IT guy, through the maze of cubicles where someone muttered "Round two already?"
The storage closet door clicked shut behind them with the finality of a vault sealing. Phillip barely had time to register the shelves of industrial water jugs—their blue plastic gleaming dully under the flickering bulb—before Sommerfugl kicked a stool beneath the handle with practiced ease. Bubble wrap lined the walls like some bizarre soundproofing attempt, its dimpled surface catching the light in odd, refractive patterns as she turned on him with a predator's grin.
"Hold still," she murmured, snatching a roll of bubble wrap from a wall. With a dancer's precision, she drop-kicked it between two shelving units, the plastic unfurling like a runway toward Phillip. Before he could react, she lunged— pushing him down onto the wrap, causing its bubbles to pop.
The bubble wrap exploded beneath Phillip's back with a rapid-fire staccato of pops as Sommerfugl straddled his knees and started frantically removing his clothes, desperate to expose his nude body. She was careful not to go too fast and accidentally rip his garments or caused the buttons to be come detached.
Sommerfugul's fingers worked with methodical precision, looping Phillip's own silk shirt around his wrists before cinching it tight with a knot that bit into his skin just shy of pain. The belt came next—cold leather hissing through belt loops— and she quickly secured his ankles together. Then the danish woman stared genitals and lick her lips.
Sommerfugul's tongue darted out to wet her lips as she knelt between Phillip's thighs, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his trembling stomach. "Time to sample the wares," she murmured, her Danish accent curling around the words like smoke. The overhead bulb flickered, casting jagged shadows across his bound form—the bubble wrap beneath him still popping intermittently as he shifted.
Her first lick was a slow, experimental thing—just the flat of her tongue dragging from base to tip in one unbroken motion. Phillip jerked against his restraints, a strangled gasp escaping his throat as her breath ghosted over oversensitive flesh. "Oh?" Sommerfugul arched a brow, her fingers tightening around his hips. "Miss Sairo didn't mention you'd be this reactive." Her chuckle vibrated against him as she leaned in again, this time swirling the tip of her tongue around the swollen head with agonizing precision.
Phillip felt the heat crawl up his neck like a living thing as Sommerfugul's fingers lingered on his wrist. Her eyes—bright with curiosity and something darker—never left his face as he swallowed hard and nodded. "I, uh... appreciate you asking directly," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "It started when she called me in for a performance review..."
The words tumbled out in a rush—Hinagiku's commanding presence, the humiliation of stripping bare under her amused gaze, the burning stripes left by her acrylic ruler. His throat tightened as he described how she'd soothed the welts afterward, her fingers slick with aloe vera tracing patterns that made him shudder. Sommerfugul's lips parted slightly when he admitted to their after-hours meeting at her house, how she'd bound him to her bedposts with bungee cords before taking him apart with her mouth. The most embarrassing details spilled out unbidden: the vitamin injections, the dildo, the way she'd threatened him with the curtain rod if he dared peek while she showered.
But it was the closet incident that made Sommerfugul's eyebrows shoot up—Martha, Macadamia, and Artemisia cornering him, their hands roaming until Hinagiku intervened with brutal efficiency. Phillip's voice cracked as he recounted their punishment, the ruler's sharp cracks echoing in his memory alongside their screams.
Then when Phillip finished recounting the details, Sommerfugul's face broke into a huge grin—the kind that made her freckles dance. She clapped her hands together once before leaning in close enough that her vanilla shampoo overwhelmed the office smells.
"I *knew* it! I knew the boss liked you!” she whisper-cheered, bouncing slightly on her heels.
Sommerfugul's grin turned positively wicked as she leaned in closer, her fingers still brushing Phillip's wrist. "Even though she punished you," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear, "she still gave you pleasure in the end. That's... *hot*."
Sommerfugul's grip tightened suddenly, her fingers pressing just enough to make Phillip gasp. "Listen," she murmured, her voice suddenly serious despite the playful glint in her eyes. "Don't you *dare* screw this up. Women like Miss Sairo don't hand out second chances—or first ones, really." Her thumb rubbed slow circles over his racing pulse. "I'm going to ask her if I can play too."
Phillip's stomach dropped. "Wait, no—she already punished three people today for—"
"And *I* won't be sneaking around like those idiots," Sommerfugul interrupted, rolling her eyes. "I'll walk right into her office and say 'Miss Sairo, your secret's safe with me, but gods above, let me in on it.’ “
“You’re going to get me in so much trouble!“ Philip responded in a worried tone of voice.
Sommerfugul's grin softened into something dangerously reassuring as she squeezed Phillip's wrist one last time.
"Relax, Papyra," she murmured, her thumb tracing slow circles on his skin.
"I'll handle Miss Sairo— *professionally*. Unlike those three idiots, I know how to ask nicely." Her smirk returned, sharp as a blade.
“Besides, she won't blame you. Truth tastes better when it's served voluntarily to someone who's genuinely curious, right?"
Phillip opened his mouth to protest, but Sommerfugul's gaze flicked downward, her smirk deepening. "Speaking of *serving*," she purred, nodding pointedly at his trousers, "you might want to take care of that before someone less discreet notices." Before he could react, her hand darted out and cupped him through the fabric—just long enough to feel him twitch against her palm. Phillip choked back a whimper as she giggled, withdrawing with a wink. "Bathroom's down the hall, tiger."
He didn't remember sprinting to the men's room. The stall door slammed behind him, the lock clicking with frantic urgency. Phillip fumbled with his belt, his fingers trembling as he shoved his trousers down just enough to free his aching cock. The overhead fluorescents hummed like a swarm of wasps, casting harsh shadows across his thighs—still faintly striped from Hinagiku's earlier attention.
The first stroke was involuntary, his hips jerking forward into his own grip. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images came anyway: Hinagiku's ruler rising in that perfect arc, Martha's ass blooming crimson under each strike. The way Macadamia's thighs had quivered when the ruler landed on the same welt twice. Artemisia's choked sobs as her skin darkened to an angry purple. His hand moved faster, the friction almost painful in its intensity.
Phillip bit his lip hard enough to taste copper as his climax built—a jagged, guilty thing. He came with a strangled gasp, his seed splattering against the porcelain in uneven spurts. For three ragged breaths, he simply stared at the evidence of his shame swirling in the toilet bowl before flushing it away.
Phillip stared at his trembling hands under the icy bathroom tap, watching soap bubbles swirl down the drain like the remnants of his dignity. He briefly considered soaking paper towels to clean himself properly, but the thought of cold water against his still-sensitive skin made him wince. Instead, he adjusted himself hastily, the fabric of his trousers clinging uncomfortably as he exited the sterile fluorescent glow of the restroom.
He rushed back to his cubicle as fast as he could, ignoring the glances from knowing colleagues that came his way. Philip pulled out his swivel chair, sat down in it and started typing on his computer again. sometime later, Sommerfugul came to him again, deliberately sitting on the edge of his desk near the cubicle entrance to fluster him. She crossed her legs, the hem of her skirt riding up just enough to make Phillip's throat go dry.
"The boss wasn't angry," she murmured, leaning in close enough that he could smell her vanilla shampoo.
Sommerfugul's lips curved into a knowing smile as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger.
"Miss Sairo knows I'm persuasive—just like Martha and the others," she murmured, her knee brushing against Phillip's thigh.
"But unlike them, I asked nicely instead of cornering you in a closet."
Her fingers traced idle patterns on the edge of his desk.
"She *appreciated* that. Said it was clever how I threatened to go straight to her if you didn't talk."
Phillip swallowed hard as her foot hooked around his ankle beneath the desk.
"And... she agreed to let you—?"
"Join? Oh yes. After I promised not to blab to the whole office, of course. Though she did warn me..." he leaned in, her whisper a warm caress against his ear, "one slip-up, and she'll use a curtain rod on my ass so hard I won't sit for a month."
Sommerfugul's fingers drummed a playful rhythm on Phillip's desk as she swung her crossed leg idly, her ballet flat grazing his thigh with each motion.
“The boss has decided that, just like it is with you and her, if you want my body then I get your sexy ass. And I promise you baby I’m gonna do all I can to spank you harder than Hinagiku does, whether I use my hand or an implement!”
Phillip's fingers twitched against his keyboard as Sommerfugul's words slithered into his ears—each syllable wrapping around his spine like a velvet noose. "She said I could watch," Sommerfugul murmured, her ballet flat dragging up the inseam of his trousers. "Every spanking. Every vitamin shot drilling into that tight ass of yours. Every naked excerise. Every time she sits on your back, grabs your hair and ride you like a horse or slapping your butt. Every time she fucks your butt with a dildo!”
Phillip swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk as Sommerfugul’s words sank in. The thought of her watching—of *anyone* witnessing his degradation under Hinagiku’s ruthless attention—sent a strange mix of dread and arousal twisting low in his belly. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then blurted out the question burning in his throat: "Did you—did you see them? After?" His voice cracked.
"Martha, Macadamia, Artemisia. Did you see them… like that? Naked except for their bras? Or when Miss Sairo was…" He trailed off, unable to finish.
Sommerfugul’s foot stilled against his thigh. She tilted her head, considering him with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something darker.
"No," she said finally, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I waited outside the door until they stumbled out—Martha limping, Artemisia clutching her skirt like a lifeline, Macadamia with tear stains streaking her makeup." Her fingers traced idle circles on the desk.
"I’m not a *peeping Tom*, Phillip. I don’t need to sneak. If I want to see something, I ask." Her smile sharpened. "Or I *negotiate*."
Phillip exhaled shakily, torn between relief and an inexplicable pang of disappointment. The image of the three women—panties around their ankles, skin striped red—flashed behind his eyelids. He blinked it away just as Sommerfugul leaned in, her breath warm against his ear.
"Oh, and one more thing," she murmured, her fingers tracing the edge of his desk like a pianist teasing the keys before a crescendo.
"Miss Sairo has a new... *digestive* policy for you."
Her lips curved into a smirk as Phillip's brow furrowed.
"Starting tomorrow, she'll ask you— *personally*—one hour after every meal if you've had a bowel movement. And if the answer is no...she'll administer an enema."
Phillip's mouth fell open. The blood drained from his face, then surged back in a scalding wave that painted his cheeks crimson. His lips moved soundlessly, forming silent protests that died before they could escape.
Sommerfugul chuckled at the flabbergasted look on Phillip's face, her sapphire eyes glinting with merciless amusement.
"Oh, don't make that face," she teased, leaning so close her vanilla shampoo drowned out the sterile office air.
"Miss Sairo didn't specify exactly *how* shed administer the enema, Whether she use one of those pint sized syringes, a rubber bulb that resembles a rubber, toot, toot, horn, or a big picture with a tube attached to the bottom, and a clamp that could be removed to allow the water to flow into it the anus.”
Sommerfugl's eyes glazed over slightly as she leaned back against Phillip's desk, her fingers drumming an idle rhythm on its surface.
"You know," she murmured in that lilting Danish accent,
"I can just *see* it now—Miss Sairo standing behind you with that look she gets, the one where her eyebrows do that little tilt." She demonstrated, arching one perfect platinum brow.
"Her fingers slick with that kiwi hair grease of hers, working it into you *so* slowly while you squirm against the desk." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
"Then the cold water flooding in, inch by inch, until you're moaning like a broken violin."
Phillip's grip on his chair arms tightened until the faux leather creaked. The image bloomed unbidden in his mind—Hinagiku's clinical precision, the way her nails would surely dig into his hips to keep him still, the unbearable stretch as the nozzle pressed deeper. His breath hitched audibly, earning a delighted giggle from Sommerfugl.
“You know what else the boss lady told me? That your *spermatoza* taste like Ramen noodles and salted pasta. I wanna see if it’s true!” the danish lady continued, her voice and facial expression full of mischief.
Phillip’s chair screeched back so violently it nearly toppled. "Let’s go to another storage closet," he hissed, voice cracking mid-sentence. Sommerfugl’s lips curled into a victorious smirk as she slid off his desk, her ballet flats hitting the carpet with deliberate quiet.
"Knew you wouldn’t last till the end of the day," she purred, snatching his left wrist with her right hand. They moved like conspirators—past smirking secretaries, around a glowering IT guy, through the maze of cubicles where someone muttered "Round two already?"
The storage closet door clicked shut behind them with the finality of a vault sealing. Phillip barely had time to register the shelves of industrial water jugs—their blue plastic gleaming dully under the flickering bulb—before Sommerfugl kicked a stool beneath the handle with practiced ease. Bubble wrap lined the walls like some bizarre soundproofing attempt, its dimpled surface catching the light in odd, refractive patterns as she turned on him with a predator's grin.
"Hold still," she murmured, snatching a roll of bubble wrap from a wall. With a dancer's precision, she drop-kicked it between two shelving units, the plastic unfurling like a runway toward Phillip. Before he could react, she lunged— pushing him down onto the wrap, causing its bubbles to pop.
The bubble wrap exploded beneath Phillip's back with a rapid-fire staccato of pops as Sommerfugl straddled his knees and started frantically removing his clothes, desperate to expose his nude body. She was careful not to go too fast and accidentally rip his garments or caused the buttons to be come detached.
Sommerfugul's fingers worked with methodical precision, looping Phillip's own silk shirt around his wrists before cinching it tight with a knot that bit into his skin just shy of pain. The belt came next—cold leather hissing through belt loops— and she quickly secured his ankles together. Then the danish woman stared genitals and lick her lips.
Sommerfugul's tongue darted out to wet her lips as she knelt between Phillip's thighs, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his trembling stomach. "Time to sample the wares," she murmured, her Danish accent curling around the words like smoke. The overhead bulb flickered, casting jagged shadows across his bound form—the bubble wrap beneath him still popping intermittently as he shifted.
Her first lick was a slow, experimental thing—just the flat of her tongue dragging from base to tip in one unbroken motion. Phillip jerked against his restraints, a strangled gasp escaping his throat as her breath ghosted over oversensitive flesh. "Oh?" Sommerfugul arched a brow, her fingers tightening around his hips. "Miss Sairo didn't mention you'd be this reactive." Her chuckle vibrated against him as she leaned in again, this time swirling the tip of her tongue around the swollen head with agonizing precision.
31-35, M