The light filtering through the thin curtains does nothing to warm the chill on my skin, but the ache deep in my muscles feels like a badge of honor. I am still naked, curled in a fetal ball on the mattress, the crust of dried cum and urine flaking off my thighs and stomach. The smell of the office—the stale coffee, the metallic tang of old cum, the sharp scent of my own humiliation—clings to me like a second skin. My cunt feels swollen, fucked out, a loose, gaping mess that pulses with a dull, rhythmic throb every time I shift my legs. I don’t want to shower. I want to marinate in this filth, letting the memory of the glass table and the security guard’s clip sear into my brain.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, jarring me out of the haze. I reach for it with a trembling hand, my breath hitching in my throat as I see the notification. It’s Him. The Boss.