A stolen prototype headset turns proper $name1 into an office fucktoy who spreads for every colleague while her blank smile begs for more cock.
The prototype was supposed to stay in R&D. $name1 only put the slim silver headset on because Tom from engineering dared her after drinks — “Just ten seconds, see if the focus mode works” — and the soft click behind her ears felt like sinking into warm bathwater.
Then Tom said, “You want to be a slut.”
And suddenly she did.
The thought arrived fully formed, sweet and absolute. $name1, twenty-eight, accounts manager, always neat blouses and closed knees, felt her cunt flood as the headset whispered obedience through her nervous system. Shame tried to surface and dissolved into warm static. Tom’s grin was sharp. “Take off your knickers and put them on my desk.”
She did. Silk puddled beside his keyboard. Cool air kissed her bare pussy under her pencil skirt. Her face stayed politely blank even as her nipples hardened to diamonds against her bra. She stood waiting for the next instruction like a good employee.
“Good girl. Now go into the copy room, bend over the machine, and wait. Anyone who finds you can use you. You will thank them. You will ask for more.”
$name1 walked the corridor on steady heels, mind soft and humming. The copy room was empty and smelled of toner. She bent over the warm machine, skirt flipped up onto her back, arse presented, cunt glistening under the strip lights. Time stretched. She dripped onto the plastic housing and felt only calm hunger. Her ID badge swung under her chin. Her wedding-band-free finger twitched against the glass.
Dave from sales found her first. “Jesus Christ — $name1?”
“Please fuck me,” she said in her normal polite voice. “I need cock. Use my cunt. Thank you in advance.”
He locked the door with shaking hands, freed a half-hard dick that stiffened fast at the sight of her, and pushed into her from behind. $name1 moaned softly, grateful, and thanked him every time he bottomed out. “Thank you for fucking me. Thank you for using your office slut.” Dave lasted three frantic minutes and came inside her with a startled groan. She clenched to keep it in, thanked him again, and stayed bent when he fled red-faced into the corridor.
Sarah from marketing came next for paper and froze. The headset made $name1 flexible about gender, about dignity, about everything. “You can sit on my face,” she offered blankly. “Or fuck me with anything you like. I am for use. I am company property tonight.”
Sarah’s eyes went dark. She shoved $name1 to her knees, yanked her own tights down, and ground her cunt against $name1’s mouth until she came shuddering. Then she found a thick highlighter in the supply drawer, pushed it into $name1’s already-creampied hole, and fucked her with it while fingering her own clit again. $name1 came around the plastic, quiet and obedient, come and spit shining on her chin. “Thank you, Sarah.”
Tom arrived last, headset remote in hand. He dialled intensity up. Desire roared like a server farm. $name1 crawled to him, unzipped his trousers with her teeth, and deep-throated his cock until her mascara ran. He fucked her throat, then her cunt, then — after more lube from his pocket, clearly planned — her tight arse on the break-room table while two night-security guards watched through the glass and stroked themselves.
“You will remember wanting this,” Tom murmured, slamming into her arse. “When I take the headset off, you will still be my office slut. The programming sticks if the subject enjoys it enough. Say it.”
“I am your office slut,” $name1 gasped, stuffed and radiant. “I want to be used. Please come in my arse. Please share me with them.”
He did. Hot and deep. She thanked him. The guards were invited in; she sucked one while the other fucked her messy cunt, and the headset made every load feel like a performance review she had aced. They painted her tits. She smiled blankly and asked if anyone needed coffee.
At midnight Tom removed the device. $name1 blinked, bruised-lipped, come drying on her thighs and tits where someone had finished. The craving did not leave. It had sunk teeth into her. She looked at Tom, at the wrecked conference table, at her own reflection in the dark window — blouse open, skirt gone, the picture of a ruined professional — and smiled a real smile that was somehow filthier than the blank one.
“Same time tomorrow,” she said, voice hers again but filthy now. “Leave the headset in my drawer. I might put it on myself. And Tom — schedule me as a recurring resource. I want the whole floor to know accounts is open late.”
Tom laughed, kissed her messy mouth, and promised. $name1 walked to the lifts barefoot, knickers forever lost, mind clear and cunt aching, already drafting the email that would call an “optional late strategy session” for anyone who wanted to use the new office amenity: her.
In the morning she arrived early in a shorter skirt and no knickers, headset tucked in her handbag like a lipstick. Tom found a note on his keyboard in her neat handwriting: *Optional. If you want the old $name1 back for meetings, ask nicely. If you want the slut, put this on me at 5pm and open the calendar.* Beside the note sat the silver headset, polished, waiting. Tom smiled at the empty office and booked the boardroom for after hours under the title “Accounts Resource Allocation.” $name1, sipping tea at her desk with a pleasant ache in every hole, already knew how the allocation would go — and how many colleagues would RSVP yes.
