I had to call Daphne on the carpet. She had fucked up and the client was refusing to pay. We were already barely in the black and nowhere near making our quarterly projections. So I made her come to the office at the end of the day and now she was sitting on the edge of my guest chair, waiting for the ax to fall.

I was surprised by how old and frumpy she looked. Granted, I hadn't seen her for decades. We had stayed connected on LinkedIn, but she had been happily employed every time I tried to recruit her.

When I hired her the first time, she was fresh out of Community College, so probably twenty. She had learned COBOL and graduated just in time for Y2K. Young and cute and terribly shy. But she was a good programmer and learned fast. I remember thinking she was a bit odd; she always seemed a little too eager, too agreeable, too quick to make assurances that all was well with her project.

I studied her surreptitiously as I steeled myself to deliver the bad news. Her hair, still thick and straight, was shorter and its warm brown had turned a dark grey with streaks of white. Her oval face had become round, fleshy. So had her figure. She had possessed a trim body with enough of the zig and zag to advertise her healthy femininity. Now all that nubility was gone, despite an ass and tits that had grown large and soft.

She sat, waiting nervously, her hands in her lap. The skirt of her hausfrau-dowdy summer dress was just short enough to display her fat knees tightly pressed together. She was watching me too, but averted her eyes every time I looked her way.

"So, what happened, Daphne?" I began at last. She already knew that her client had terminated her contract. "Kumar said you missed your deadline twice and that there's virtually nothing to show for the last two weeks."

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Peabody, I guess I just got behind..." She was twisting her fingers in her lap and looking miserable.

What the hell, I thought. Nobody calls me by my last name; she had been calling me 'Pete' for thirty fucking years!

"Well, they've terminated you and backfilled with someone from another agency. And they're not paying the last two invoices. That includes seventy-two hours we've already paid you for!" I was sounding pretty angry there at the end, which I had promised myself I wouldn't do.

She stared at me dumbly, shrinking into herself. She looked pitiful. I felt sorry for her, but I had a duty to perform.

"What do you propose we do about this?" I asked, allowing my sympathy to show despite my better judgement.

"I don't know!" she cried plaintively. She leaned forward, opening her hands, palms-up on her knees. She somehow found the wherewithal to look me in the eye. She did it pleadingly.

I sat in stony silence. I wasn't going to let her off that easily, no matter how sorry I felt for her. So I let the silence weigh on her.

She clasped her hands together again. With brows knitted, her anxious expression became even more troubled. She dabbed at her left eye - they were both wet and luminous. She sighed, her breath catching a little.

Then, she took a deep breath. "My husband says you should punish me," she said in a small voice, but clear and distinct.

I would not have believed what I heard, but my ears perceived her words perfectly.

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying not to betray an unavoidable prurience.

"I've been bad. Bad girls get punished," she said, her voice a little stronger.

"Is that what your husband said?" I wondered aloud. "Is that what your husband does?" I asked, barely daring to believe it. "Does he punish you?"

I had never met her husband. I remembered that she got married, back in the two-thousands, when she was still in her early twenties. No one knew anything about him, though there were rumors that he was much older and very controlling. Or maybe that just fit with her personality.

She nodded her head, biting her lower lip. Her eyes were very wide, staring at me, daring me to believe her.

"How does he 'punish' you?" I asked, daring her to tell me.

"He beats me..." she said. She started squeezing her legs together rhythmically, making her body rock back and forth just a bit. "...and other stuff..."

"You mean, like spanking?" I asked, watching her moving in a way that looked like it had to be stimulating her pussy. It was both repulsive and arousing.

"Yes, sometimes," she answered weakly, "but he likes to whip me." She was clamping her thighs faster. "When I've been bad," she added as if that explained it.

"With a whip?" I asked, more incredulous, yet wanting more for it to be true.

"Uh-huh." She nodded her head. Her eyes were glassy. "Different kinds."

"Different kinds of whips?" I asked stupidly. "Where does he hit you?" I added, trying to picture it.

"Different places. My tits. My ass. My pussy..." Her eyes stared blankly. "He likes to hurt me," she continued after a pregnant pause. "Especially my tits."

"Your tits?" I tried to visualize them, to see through her dress. Her bra did not flatter her.

Her lips had parted. Her breathing was becoming faster, shallow. Her hips were rocking in a more circular motion.

"Mm-hmm. He likes to..." Her voice took on an abstract quality. It sounded distant. "He tortures them... My tits." Slowly, her eyes refocused, looking into mine.

I didn't understand why, but I was totally aroused. And I was pretty sure she could tell. And I knew that that was her intention.

I threw caution to the wind. That happens sometimes when your dick is so hard it threatens to tear a hole in your pants. "I don't believe you," I said. "Show them to me."

She unbuttoned her dress - all of the buttons. They extended from her throat to her waist. She stood up and shrugged the top part off her shoulders, exposing a big, white brassier that my grandmother might wear. It looked like bullet-proof armor.

She stepped the two paces to the front of my desk while reaching behind her back to unclasp the bra. She leaned forward to let the bra drop, releasing her drooping white tits to flop out before my eyes. They were bruised. Purple blotches on the top and red streaks around the areolas.

But most striking were the rings in her nipples - metal hoops that passed through her long, dark red nipples - about an inch and a half in diameter. No wonder she wore that bra. Those rings would have been visible through anything less substantial.

She maintained her posture, her hands on the desk, leaning forward. Without thinking, I reached out and hooked my index finger through the ring on her left breast, testing it.

She closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "Pull on them."

I pulled, lifting the drooping tit so that it made an arc, sagging in the middle.

"Yes," she said again. "Twist it." Her eyes opened. Her jaw was slack.

I twisted the ring, contorting her nipple, stretching it obscenely.

"Yes!" Her voice was deep, more hoarse. "The other one, too. Please."

I grabbed the other ring and twisted them both in opposite directions, pulling and stretching her nipples obscenely while rotating my wrists in alternating directions. I was on my feet. My heart was racing, my cock pounding with its pulse.

"Yes! Yes!" She watched my face with feral, animal eyes as I hurt her.

I could smell her pussy. The scent of her arousal was pungent and strong. I wanted to... I wanted to rip the rings right out of her nipples and make them bleed.

No, no I didn't. I let go of them.

She slumped, her elbows on the desk. "Nooo..." she whined, "Don't stop! I've been bad... so bad..."

I couldn't help it. I grabbed her by her upper arms and pulled her across the desk, sliding some papers to my feet and knocking my laptop sideways. I pinned her down by her neck as I stepped around the desk and pulled her dress all the way off.

I stopped to view her nakedness. Red stripes across her back. No underwear. Her ass had welts on it and some black and blue spots. Her pussy, just visible between her thick thighs under her fat, saggy ass, was shaved bare and had piercings - another pair of rings. And it was wet. Weeping, seeping, dripping wet. Juice running down her legs.

I shoved my hand between her fat thighs and swiped my palm over her sopping slit. Her smell was rich. My hand was dripping. I tasted it; I tasted her. It tasted like raw, dirty sex.

In the blink of an eye, my pants were down, and I was shoving my erection into the tight gap between her thighs to slide it against her slick, inflamed labia. It missed her fuck-hole and slipped up along her slit without getting inside. Then I saw that the rings were interlocked, blocking access to her vagina. There was no getting inside. I stepped back and slapped her ass as hard as I could.

"Ow!" Daphne had been quiet, but now she had something to say. "Spank me. Please!" I smacked her ass again. "No, harder!" she whined. "Use your belt."

I reached between my ankles where my trousers had pooled, grabbed the belt, and pulled it free while shuffling my feet free. I folded the belt, halving its length, and swung it full force against her jiggling flesh. CRACK! It left a bright red stripe diagonally across her fleshy orbs. Again and again, I whipped her ass until it was bright red.

She had slipped a hand between her legs while I beat her and was frantically rubbing her sopping slit, making obscene, sloshy, splashing noises, like a kid stomping in a puddle. Her odor was rising, filling the room like a pungent mist. Her dripping grool was pooling on my desk beneath her.

By the time my arm was tired from beating her ass, she had climaxed and taken her hand away. Now she reached back with both hands and pulled her cheeks apart. Her crevasse was deep and long and tinged a dusky reddish brown. In the center was a small metal disk.

She knew I had tried to fuck her. "Fuck my ass. Pull out my plug and fuck me."

She slid back towards me, feet to the floor, lowering her ass to provide me a better angle of attack. I worked my fingers under the disk to get a grip on it and pulled hard. It took some strength to dislodge what turned out to be a huge anal plug that finally popped out, making a lewd noise and leaving her asshole gaping like a post hole.

She moaned and used her hands to keep her cheeks spread as I stared in wonder at the smooth, round tunnel to her innards. I stepped up and pressed the tip of my cock into the hole. My touch set off a spasm. I felt her legs quake. Was she having another orgasm?

Whatever the cause, it made her asshole clench, shrinking precipitously and forcing my cockhead out. I pressed back forcibly, wedging my turgid bulb in against her tightening ring. It was a battle I won, finally feeling the tight ring snap shut behind the flared ridge of my cockhead.

It felt great: she was hot and tight, but maybe too dry. A little friction is great, but this was too much; my efforts to plunge in deep were futile and becoming counterproductive as my frustration grew and my rigidity waned. Finally, I gave up and let my cockhead retreat.

In my frustration, I picked up the belt and began to beat her ass again. But she swiveled, turning over on her backside and presenting her pelvis instead. My next blows fell on the front of her thick thighs until she leaned back on the desk, lifted her knees, and spread them.

I stopped and stared at her lewd display. Her inflamed vulva was a target I couldn't resist. I shifted my position and began to whip her there, striking her dripping folds from her protruding clit to her stretched perinium. She screamed with every blow I dealt her as if each was another orgasm. Her juices splashed out, raining droplets of dew all over the place: her legs, my legs, my feet, the desk, the carpet, even my cock, which was fully enraged again. My entire office smelled like wet pussy.

I didn't stop, I couldn't stop, until after several sequential screaming orgasms, she went limp. Her legs collapsed and her head rolled back; she appeared to have passed out.

I staggered backwards and flopped onto the guest chair against the wall, breathing hard. My pulse was pounding in my ears, it was pounding in my raging cock too, throbbing insistently. Almost unconsciously, my hand grasped it and stroked, taking matters in hand, so to speak, without thought, with barely an awareness on my part. But it felt so good! I closed my eyes. I breathed deeply of the pungent, cunt-scented air and stroked. I was so close!

A rustling noise startled me, halting the wave just as it was about to crest. "Nooo!" cried Daphne, rolling to her feet and scrabbling towards me. "No, wait! Let me..."

She was on her knees at my feet. She wrested the cock from my fist and plunged her head down on it, mashing her face into my pubes and vibrating my shaft with a low moan and tremorous convulsions of her tight, silky throat. I threw back my head and groaned just as her tongue snaked out and licked my balls.

The ensuing eruption was epic! It was a huge, hot, angry explosion of pent-up emotion.

The proverbial smoke cleared, and I saw her face. It was still there, with cum dribbling from the corners of her timid little smile.

In a stupor, I watched her get up and gather her clothes. She turned to me, holding the bundle of cloth between her battered breasts, her eyes downcast.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Peabody. I can do better, sir." She raised her eyes demurely. "Same time tomorrow?"