Stealth Control: Protest

I’m Emily, 23, a fierce advocate for women’s rights, and today’s bullshit has me raging. We’re ten women at this sleazy tech company, all hired for our looks, treated like eye candy while the bosses pay us peanuts. Enough’s enough, so we’re protesting outside the office, chanting for equal pay, our signs high. Then these assholes blast us with a fire hose—cold water soaks my blouse, plastering it to my tits, my skirt clinging to my thighs. Just a cheap tactic to shut us up, I think, spitting water, tasting a faint metallic tang. What I don’t know is it’s laced with stealth-control nanobots, and I’ve swallowed a shit-ton, being front and center.

Furious, I storm into the building, my heels clicking, water dripping from my hair, smelling like wet cotton and iron, weird. In the elevator, a shiver hits me, sharp and icy, like I’m standing in a freezer. Must be the wet clothes and AC, I tell myself, shaking it off. The mirrored wall shows my soaked reflection—blouse see-through, nipples hard as diamonds. I smile, weirdly smug, and grab my tits, squeezing their heavy softness. “Oh my god, she’s hot,” I say, voice low and lecherous. Just hyping myself up for the bosses, I think, my fingers lingering, sending a jolt to my pussy.

The elevator dings, and I step out, wobbling in my heels like I’ve never worn them before. The office floor’s full of guys—catcalls and whistles hit me like a wave. “Pigs!” I snarl in my head, but my lips curl into a grin, and I yank up my blouse, flashing my bare tits, nipples stiff in the cool air. “Like what you see, boys?” I yell, my voice bold and slutty. That’ll show ‘em, I think, strutting toward the CEO’s office, my wet pussy throbbing, soaking my panties. My brain’s screaming this is right, a feminist power move, but it’s all lies.

I burst into the CEO’s office, and there he is—slumped in his chair, some weird headband on his skull, passed out like a drunk. “There’s my ugly body!” I sneer, thinking I’m roasting him. My eyes flick to the corner mirror, and I start peeling off my clothes—blouse, skirt, bra, panties—tossing them in a wet pile on the floor. Naked, I stare at my reflection like it’s a porn star’s body—curvy hips, perky tits, pussy glistening. Had to get out of those wet clothes, don’t wanna get sick, I tell myself, but my hands grab my tits, kneading roughly, thumbs flicking my nipples.

I hop onto the CEO’s desk, legs spread, and start furiously rubbing my pussy, fingers plunging into my slick, tight hole. “Fuck yeah,” I moan, my clit pulsing under my thumb, wet and sensitive. This’ll show that bastard for soaking us; I'll soak his desk, I think, my brain twisting it into revenge. 

What I don’t know is that the CEO’s in my head, feeling my pussy clench, while I'm justifying everything he's doing as my own actions. My fingers move clumsily, like it’s my first time touching my vagina, and I’m dripping, the desk slick with my cum. Somewhere, I hear moans—my coworkers, also dosed with nanobots, are getting off in other offices, some bold enough for the meeting rooms, controlled by the COO and other C-suite creeps. 

I’m lost in my own orgasm, screaming, thinking it’s my feminist fury, while the CEO’s jerking me like a puppet.