Autistic screenwriter in training / fanfic author / translator (EN/IT/FR) ※ they/them ※ 25 ※ obsessed with the Devil || Fandoms: Gwendoline Christie ※ Sandman (comics & series – NOT a NG SUPPORTER) ※ Devil Wears Prada ※ Good Omens ※ Sherlock BBC ※ Severance || https://en.pronouns.page/@ash_thmz
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Masterlist
The Sandman
Last Night In Hell (Lucifer Morningstar x Mazikeen | Kinktober 2025) Posted, one-shot
Summary: Lorne is sent to a new department for a mandatory wellness session of sorts.
Tags: corporate setting, kink discovery, praise kink, first time, fingering, slight manipulation (if you squint)
Trigger warnings: NSFW (minors DNI), graphic descriptions of sex
A/N: To the Anon who waited +1 year for this fanfic (and to all the others still waiting for theirs): I AM SO DEEPLY SORRY!!!
As you put your pencil down, your eyes flick to your monitor. On it, your schedule displays a single appointment for the morning: Lorne, Wed. 7, 10:00. You check your wristwatch right as the minute hand locks into place over 9:59, and you smile, congratulating yourself for finishing your previous task in an exemplary amount of time.
You realign a few items on your desk and take one last look around your wood-and-phthalo-green office. Innie Fulfilment, as the department your office is located in is called, was created after the Board decided that unfulfilled innies were unproductive innies. Helping innies figure out what they need begins with a safe and orderly place. So you need to make sure this one will feel welcoming to the head of Mammalians Nurturable.
Content with your organisation, you stand, smooth your blue blazer and adjust your badge, then walk to the door.
You find Lorne behind it, pacing rather than sitting in the waiting room, her convocation securely pinched between her thumb and index finger while her other hand contracts rhythmically. She is tall and muscular, rather unkempt, but you immediately sense unease. So you straighten your back and lift your chin a little, imposing yourself as a grounding figure for her right from the start.
“Lorne?”
Your voice is calm but firm enough to stop her in her tracks.
“What am I doing here?” she asks, closing the distance. “I have work to do. I have no time for a wellness session. Certainly not with an imposter.”
“This is not a wellness session,” you reply, ignoring the reference to the regretted Ms Casey.
“Then what is this?”
Lorne swiftly brings the card up to your face. It reads:
Undeterred by her provocation, you slowly lift your hand and point to the small plaque by your door that she clearly hasn’t read.
“The Wellness wing has been reallocated.”
Lips pinched, Lorne takes a step back, and her shoulders hunch ever so slightly in the face of her mistake. She appears somewhat smaller now, more vulnerable. You smirk, finding that you prefer it this way.
“Come in,” you offer as you show her the way.
Lorne reluctantly follows you.
“How is this going to differ from a wellness session, then?” she asks as you reach your desk.
You sashay behind it and turn to face her.
“Wellness has always supported Lumon’s employees, but Innie Fulfilment is here to support you even further. Sessions are less about me talking without listening and more about helping you explore your needs. Today is just a conversation to see what comes up. No pressure.”
You gesture towards the chair across your desk, but Lorne ignores your invitation.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she says instead.
“Your body language tells me otherwise.”
Lorne tenses slightly, and you know you hit the nail. You indicate the chair once more.
“Sit.”
You notice her swallowing, but she complies and lowers herself onto the chair, clasping one of her hands in the other. You take a moment to appreciate your position of physical dominance over her.
“Good,” you eventually say as you sit in your own chair. “Now tell me, Lorne. Is there something you need right now?”
“I need to get back to my goats.”
The dry reply forces a small laugh out of you.
“I’m sure the flock will be fine without its queen for a little while. Or do you not trust your team?”
“Of course, I trust them.”
“Then what’s the rush? Do you love your goats that much?”
“I… Yes. They need me.”
Your eyes instinctively squint as you try to deduce a deeper connection between those words.
“Do you like being needed?”
Lorne’s jaw clenches at your question, but you’re perceptive enough to also notice her nostrils flaring and her pupils dilating almost imperceptibly.
“I thought this was not about you talking without listening,” Lorne says to avoid your question and to further provoke you.
You wonder if this is a conscious choice of hers and whether she expects submission or some fighting back. You don’t care much for unruly manners, so you know you’d better soothe her before she gets the latter.
“I would be happy to remain silent and to listen to you for the duration of this session. You need only tell me and be the one who talks.”
Lorne sighs wearily, wringing her hands with obvious discomfort.
“I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to… feel.”
“Feel what?”
“I don’t know.”
Your eyes fall on Lorne’s lap where she is furiously rubbing —or rather, abrading— her hands.
“Pain, perhaps?” You offer gently.
Lorne lifts her head with a quiet ‘Hmm?’ so you nod at her hands.
“You’ve been fidgeting nonstop. Do your hands hurt?”
This time, instead of an immediate rebuttal or deflection, you are met with a contemplative pause. You understand from the way Lorne looks down at her hands that she is trying to reconnect —or perhaps solely connect— with her body.
“Working with goats is certainly not for the weak,” she says more calmly, though not without a hint of superiority.
Your mouth curls up at the idea of breaking through her walls. For some reason, you have made this a personal goal already.
Silence sets in for a second before you stand up and move unhurriedly to a nearby shelf. You can feel Lorne’s piercing gaze on your back as you select an essential oil and place exactly six generous drops onto a receptacle. Soon, a light mist spreads across your office and, behind you, Lorne gasps.
“Are you trying to poison me?”
You can’t help a giggle.
“No. I have a diffuser system. This is lavender,” you say as you show her the small vial to prove you mean no harm. “I thought you might like it.”
Lorne looks around nervously, her breath too restrained for your liking.
“Well, do you?” you ask. “I can change it. Any scent you like.”
“Lavender is fine,” Lorne finally admits.
“Good. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.”
Lorne raises a suspicious eyebrow at the command, but you don’t let her win.
“Go on.”
Without much conviction, she obeys, her eyelids closing and her taut shoulders rising as she inhales before sagging much further down than their original position when she breathes out. Your lips part in a proud smile.
You stay right where you are for a little while, letting her enjoy the peaceful space, the silence, the floral scent. Your patience gives her the illusion of control and evidently makes her feel safer.
But she is still wringing her hands, and you realise you cannot stand the thought of having her in pain in a way that seems to go beyond the scope of your profession. So you close the distance, gracefully drop to your knees before her, and catch one of her hands.
“What are you doing?” she practically barks, pulling her hand away as if you’d burnt her.
“Shh… I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite, actually. Close your eyes and trust me.”
Lorne doesn’t close her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away any further nor make a move to leave. So you take her hand again and let her keep her eyes open if that pleases her.
“Suit yourself.”
You begin with a few slow caresses along her hand and wrist, letting her get used to the feeling of another in her private space, then start massaging her palm with practised ease, rubbing your thumbs along the lines there.
You’re painfully aware of her staring at your face —and perhaps lower too, considering the angle— but don’t give her the satisfaction of reacting. In fact, you observe her, too. Despite the faint goat smell on her teal uniform and her messy hair, you realise it is impossible to be indifferent about her. In fact, you find her hard-working but oh-so-delicate hands particularly fascinating, and the way she seems to naturally hold her middle and ring fingers together gives you visions you need to shake off.
Lost in your thoughts, your movements become more instinctive but also apparently better because Lorne lets out the inception of a moan before interrupting herself. It takes all your willpower not to look up and let your pride show in a mischievous smile.
“You’re not used to being touched, are you?”
“My… position does not require physical contact,” Lorne retorts with as much propriety as she can muster under your touch.
“No, of course not.”
You gently let go of her hand and switch to the other.
“Would you like to be touched more often?” you ask —with a purely professional curiosity, naturally.
But Lorne pretends not to hear you, and when you do finally look up, she has closed her eyes, leaving no room for further investigation. So you focus on giving her a much-deserved moment of calm, keeping silent until you’re done with your task.
When you are, it takes Lorne a moment to reopen her eyes. You wait patiently and prepare a smile for her to find when she does.
“See?” you say as you stand up, reassuming your dominant posture. “It isn’t so bad, is it?”
“I… suppose not.”
You know just how much admitting this cost her, and your smile widens to convey appreciation.
“Good.”
You walk back to your desk, sit with a smooth and elegant cross of your legs, and immediately undertake to type out your report. Lorne sits still and lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Is that all?”
You turn to her, feigning obliviousness.
“Well, yes.”
A pause. You sense she will not settle for this answer.
“I can work with no talking,” you add. “I can work a little less with no feeling. But I can’t work at all if you have no desire to be here. So… You are free to go.”
Lorne blinks and remains unmoving before she seems to remember how her inferior limbs work and stands up.
“But if you ever need more of this,” you say, purposely keeping your eyes on your screen as you type away, “or anything else… appointments can be scheduled from your personal employee space.”
You finally look at her, your gaze piercing even if you’re the one below her now.
“Anything.”
When Lorne leaves your office, she makes an effort to hold her head up as if to tell you this is the last of her you will ever see. But you know better.
And that evening, indeed, as you clean up your desk and reach behind your monitor to turn it off, a notification pops up.
Lorne, Wed. 14, 10:00.
The next time you open the door to your office to meet Lorne in the waiting room, she is actually sitting on the dedicated green sofa. You almost congratulate her, but you don’t want to give her this satisfaction just yet.
“You came back,” you simply state instead.
Lorne shrugs.
“I had time.”
She’s lying. It makes you smirk —though you are particularly good at making it seem like a perfectly polite smile and nothing more. You step aside, a hand slowly rising to invite her in, and she complies right away.
As she passes by you, closer than needed, you notice her posture is less rigid than last time, though her hands still worry at her uniform. The faint scent of goats clings to her as well, but she has made an effort —her hair is neater, her skirt less rumpled, her face fully clean.
Inside your office, Lorne doesn’t find the chair she sat on last time —or not only. The lights are already dimmer, you have already let some faint lavender mist spread across the room, and in the centre stands a massage table. Lorne turns to you with a questioning look.
“Oh, the office can be rearranged, tailored to each employee and their needs,” you explain with corporate pride.
“And you thought… I needed to lie down for a massage?”
You rest one hip against your desk and place a well-manicured hand on the other.
“Well, last time you didn’t seem to know what you needed. Or you didn’t tell me. So I thought that I would take a load off your shoulders and decide for you.”
You lean forward, your eyes narrowing.
“Working with the goats and being the head of a full team must be demanding. Your body has accumulated so much tension. Wouldn’t it be nice to just… rest for a while and trust someone to make all the decisions and take care of you?”
Lorne looks at the massage table again, then back at you. You sense she needs a bit more convincing.
“I truly believe this would do you good, Lorne. You won’t have to talk. You won’t even have to think. If it seems too absurd, you may think of it as… maintenance. Like oiling a machine so it runs smoother.”
Lorne scoffs.
“I’m not a machine.”
“Don’t you behave like one?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.
Lorne opens her mouth to argue, but you raise your eyebrows, and she closes it.
“Take off your jacket and shoes,” you instruct, pushing yourself off your desk to walk towards a cabinet standing in a corner.
As you do, you discreetly look above your shoulder to see if Lorne is doing as instructed, and you can read from her expression of barely contained surprise that she didn’t expect obedience to be so easy. You smile to yourself, turning back to the cabinet from which you withdraw a nicely wrapped massage kit —a baby blue bandeau stamped with the Lumon logo, tiny shorts of the same colour, a white terry headband, and a large towel.
“The door behind you leads to a small restroom,” you tell her when you give her the kit. “Go change.”
“Is this… approved?”
You nod reassuringly.
“I did mean it when I said I could cater for every need. Save perhaps from showing an Innie the outside world, of course. And physical well-being is part of mental well-being, wouldn’t you say?”
You see Lorne’s shoulders slightly moving as she tries to shrug. Seeing that her attempts at appearing nonchalant or assertive around you keep failing, she turns on her heels and promptly exits through the door you indicated. Another win for you.
When Lorne comes back, she has wrapped the towel around herself, so you walk up behind her and wrap your arms around her torso to take it off. Surprisingly —but is it, really?— she lets you without any additional commentary.
“Come lie down. Face up first,” you command after neatly spreading the towel onto the table.
Lorne hesitates for a second, her eyes darting around the room, but she soon steps closer and lies down stiffly, arms crossed over her chest like an armour.
“There are no cameras here, I promise,” you say softly. “No microphones either. Perks of this department, I suppose.”
“And I should simply trust you?”
“Yes.”
You are firm with this affirmation, but not unkind. Never unkind. You want her to let her guard down, to have access to the whole of her. So you bend above her, take her hands with infinite care, and place them by her hips.
“Relax your arms. Let your muscles rest.”
Your eyes stay locked a moment on her hands, still restless, fingers gripping the edge of the towel. You lock her wrists into place and let your tone switch to a coercive whisper.
“Relax.”
You wait. One second, two, then perhaps ten. And finally Lorne’s body listens.
“Good.”
Slowly, you take off your shoes and push them under the table. You lose a few precious inches without the heels, but it’s not like Lorne will notice lying down, and you don’t want to disturb whatever semblance of peace she may find. Then, you walk up to the head of the table, making sure to let your hand run along her arm as you do. You notice goose bumps forming.
You begin the massage with her shoulders, your palms warm and your fingers tugging at any tension you feel with practised, precise, corporate efficiency —the way Lumon would approve of a task being performed. Your thumbs press into the knots around her trapeziuses and deltoids, drawing circles, and Lorne lets out a quiet hiss while you catch yourself wanting to have your thumbs draw those circles elsewhere.
Now that she is half naked, you cannot help but take a better look at the head of Mammalians Nurturable. She is impossibly tall, with legs for days, and lean too, despite a soft swell in her lower belly. The one-size-fits-all ensemble provided by the company barely covers her gigantic body, and you realise that, if a misfit would deeply annoy you with any other innie, with Lorne, you find the size most convenient.
But you also realise Lorne has her eyes still wide open, so unabashed staring is most untimely.
“You’re very tight,” you observe before clearing your throat and moving away for a bit.
Lorne’s eyes follow you as you go retrieve a hot towel that you had set to warm up before her appointment, then come back.
“Close your eyes.”
“Well, I—”
“Tsk. No arguing.”
You lower the hot towel over Lorne’s face, forcing her to close her eyes.
“Good. Now, stop thinking.”
You resume your massage and work your way down her arms, her sides, eventually reaching the muscles and ligaments just above her hips. When you start working there, kneading the tightness away, Lorne’s breath intakes grow stronger —shakier, too. She shifts slightly, pressing her thighs together, then apart, then together again.
At first you think she might be in pain. So you reduce the amount of pressure you put on that area, opting for a gentler, soothing touch, with one hand providing warmth around her hip and another on her thigh, forcing her legs to part so they remain in a natural position. You devote an equal amount of time to each hip.
Lorne stops squirming for a moment, though her breathing remains heavy but shallow. You wonder why —or rather, your professional self wonders why because deep down you already know. But when your hands brush the waistband of her tiny shorts and her hips give the faintest thrust upwards, you understand very well that this is not about the sort of ache you initially intended to treat.
Your pulse quickens, but you manage to keep your face neutral. It’s not like she can see it with the hot towel across her face, but you cannot let control slip away so easily. That wouldn’t represent Lumon. That wouldn’t represent you.
You make quick work of the rest of her legs on this side before you discard the hot towel and invite Lorne to flip onto her stomach. You have a theory to test.
“Well, look at you following my instructions without arguing,” you murmur as she settles face down. “Good…”
Her breath catches, and her hips twitch again, though you notice the way she tries to recover by pretending she is not quite done finding the right position. You decide to place a hand on her shoulder blade, applying gentle pressure to force her to calm down, and lean forward.
“Are you ready to go on?” you whisper in her ear.
She replies with more of a needy groan than a hum of affirmation.
“Perfect.”
You start from her neck again, then her arms and back, your touch deliberate and purposely lingering too long on the spots she seems to like most. Slowly, her hips resume their dance, and she presses her thighs together again. You consciously avoid her lower back and hips for now, however, and look at your wristwatch again. 10:38. This session is supposed to end in about twenty minutes, but your next appointment won’t be in for close to another hour. You have time to explore these new sensations Lorne seems to be discovering.
You move to stand at the foot of the massage table and place your hands on Lorne’s calves. You lift your head mechanically then, and your eyes fall right between her legs. That is when you notice it: the small, dark spot of wetness on her shorts. It is barely discernible in the dim light of your office, but it is there.
You smile proudly. This is too interesting, and Lorne doesn’t know it yet, but she is perfect for this —for you.
She sighs as you work your way up the back of her legs, loosening any tension you encounter along the way. By the time you reach her upper thighs and let your hands repeatedly run down to their inner side, about one in three of her exhales has turned into a quiet whimper. And in just under five minutes, you’re quite sure you’ve made the damp spot on her core spread a little. You realise your own breathing has quickened and grown stronger. You allow it.
Eventually you move your hands to her lower back, your thumbs drawing tight circles around the soft dimples there. Lorne presses her pelvis down against the table with a frustrated sound, barely audible but like music to your ears. So you finally decide to help her —after all, this is what you’re here for, is it not?— and press the heel of your palm to her upper glutes. You’re not preventing her from moving per se, but rather letting your weight offer pleasant resistance so she can fully enjoy the sensation of compression against her lower abdomen.
Lorne's body knows how to respond to this. Her hips begin to rock, if only faintly, in that tiny, relaxing space you’ve created. Her fingers grasp at whatever they can under the table. You swallow hard, your own body reacting to the sight.
Suddenly, it dawns on you: Lorne can’t possibly know what she’s doing. Innies like her, raised in Lumon’s sterile environment with no knowledge of a life beyond work, are so innocent about these things. Mentally, you congratulate yourself for making her find out.
“That’s it,” you encourage, your voice slightly less steady than you had hoped. “Listen to your body. Just like that…”
Soon, Lorne’s whole body tenses for a moment. Her hips press down one final time, her thighs press against each other until they shake and then go still.
You wait, your hands still on her back. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t seem to understand what just happened. But the wetness between her legs is wider. Much wider. So you do.
And you know with absolute certainty that she will be back without needing any further convincing. You feel happy for her. Thrilled for yourself. Her next appointment will never come fast enough.
It is 9:47 the following week when a strange feeling rises in your chest—a presentiment, of sorts, telling you that many things will stray from their usual paths today. Mustering your calm, you put your pencil down and align it perfectly with your notepad. Your monitor is off, reflecting a darker, convex version of you. Even in this distorted reflection, you find yourself pleased with what you see, ready to face whatever might be coming your way.
You stand and take off your blazer as though taking off armour —you don’t need it— then roll up your sleeves. The top buttons of your white shirt are already undone, and you intend to leave them this way for Lorne.
Sure enough, when you step out of your office, she is already here, just closing the door to the waiting room. Your instinct never betrays you, and you are grateful for it.
“Hello, Lorne. I had a feeling you would come in early today.”
Lorne gulps, surely surprised that you caught her premature arrival.
“I’ve done a lot already,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her. “I delegated the rest of my morning tasks. I wan—”
She stumbles upon the words and clears her throat, lifting her chin up to give herself a sense of composure.
“I wanted to be here.”
Your smile brightens, showing teeth.
“Well, look at you, finally making decisions for yourself. I’m proud of you.”
You let the words hang for a second, then step aside and gesture for her to come inside.
“Please, do come in. See how I’ve adjusted the setup for today’s session.”
Once again, your office has been transformed. On the floor, right in the centre, lies a thick, foamy futon —Lumon-issued, marketed as an ‘ergonomic floor rest appliance’— covered with a soft phthalo-green blanket. Around it, you’ve methodically placed spherical candle holders, as well as plants and pebbles for decoration. You’ve also placed a neatly folded towel at the head of the futon and a small side table next to it with a few extras such as a clay bowl of water and various lotion bottles.
You walk to the cabinet and withdraw the same single-use ensemble as last time, and by the time you turn around to hand it to Lorne, she is already taking off her jacket and other accessories.
“You’re a fast learner,” you tell her softly.
Something lights up in her eyes. She likes being praised —this much you’ve learnt about her. You give her the wrapped massage kit, and she heads to the small restroom with a certain thrill in her stance.
As she disappears behind the door, you turn to your essential oil shelf. Your hand instinctively moves to lavender but stops. You need something else today. So you let your pointer finger glide past the vials, back and forth, until it settles on the evidence: amber vanilla —warm, comforting, more sophisticated, too.
You put a few drops into the diffuser’s receptacle to get it started and close your eyes. The sweetness of vanilla pairs perfectly with amber. You smile, most definitely content with your choice.
The bathroom door opens, pulling you out of your meditative moment.
“Would you like a soundscape today, or some—”
Lorne steps closer, entirely naked, the massage kit still wrapped and pressed against her stomach like a shield. Her eyes flick to yours, then down, then back up, as if asking if this was a good decision, if you like what you see. And you do. Your breath falters for a moment, but you recover before she notices any weakness. Instead, you look her up and down. Silence stretches. You let her feel the weight of your gaze.
“Is this what you want, Lorne?” you ask eventually.
Your tone is already more voluptuous, though still somewhat cautious. Lorne nods slowly.
“This is what I need.”
Happy that she has finally identified and expressed a desire, you gesture towards the futon, eager to fulfil it.
“Please, lie down. On your back.”
Lorne doesn’t make you say it twice and lowers herself onto the futon with more grace than you would have expected from the head of Mammalians Nurturable. Rather embarrassed of herself despite the evident anticipation in her eyes, she crosses her arms over her chest and presses her knees together.
“Arms at your sides. Let me see you,” you command as you kneel beside her, comfortably installed on a cushion, and allow yourself another look at her body.
Lorne hesitates before inevitably obeying. Her nipples are taut, her skin is covered in light goosebumps.
“Are you cold?” you whisper. “I can turn on the heating for you.”
Lorne shakes her head.
“Excited then?”
A shy hum answers this last question.
“That’s very good,” you say, your voice seamlessly shifting to a low, breathy timbre. “This is going to feel very nice, Lorne. Better than last time, you know that.”
You’re not asking this time, but Lorne still nods.
You reach for one of the lotion bottles next to you. The label reads ‘Almond & Jojoba Blend’ in small, official-looking text. You pour a generous amount into your palm, rubbing your hands together to warm the oil before placing them on Lorne’s collarbones.
You can’t just give her what she seeks quite yet: she is too unsure, too tense for now. So you start with a regular massage, oil gliding effortlessly over her skin and tinting it with golden highlights, thumbs pressing into the knots you find. Lorne sighs.
“Your shoulders are still tense, but not as bad as before,” you remark. “Have you abstained from heavy lifting recently?”
“Something like that.”
The reasons don’t seem that important right now, so you don’t ask her to elaborate. What matters most to you is the way her breath seems to grow steadier and deeper, shifting to this indescribable but oh-so-beautiful sound between a sigh and a moan.
You work your way down her arms, then her hands, massaging each palm and each finger individually, with great consideration, showing that you care and making sure her muscles won’t feel sore when she inescapably clutches at the blanket later from what you intend to do.
You move back up her arms, then to her chest. You avoid her breasts at first —with immense self-restraint— and rather let your hands glide over her ribs and along her solar plexus.
“Breathe…”
Soon, your fingers move of their own accord and naturally include Lorne’s bust in their strokes. Her breasts are small, but you find that they fit perfectly in your hand, soft and malleable, like her. You squeeze them gently, kneading them. The massage has definitely shifted to something much more sensual. This is the point of no return.
Lorne lets out a quiet gasp, her back slightly arching. Her breath is coming a little faster now, too.
“I said breathe,” you scold her without any real edge to your tone. “You don’t want this to end in a matter of seconds, do you?”
Lorne shakes her head, now holding her breath altogether, her eyes wide with something akin to worry. It almost makes you chuckle.
“So breathe. Calmly.”
When Lorne’s nipples are too sensitive to keep the teasing going but you feel her getting too used to your touch on the rest of her breasts, you move lower to her stomach and down to her hips to revive her arousal. The oil glistens on her skin in the candlelight, and the scent of amber vanilla mixes with it. She looks and smells exquisite, making your own arousal increasingly hard to ignore.
Still, you remain focused and as impassive as possible, working around her hips and lower abdomen. You have now reached a dangerous zone, and it is rather impossible to ignore the gentle patch of hazel curls that cover her mound. More specifically, you struggle with not letting yourself drown in the thought of how wet she might be getting. But the more you massage the soft swell above her pubis, the more Lorne presses her thighs together, locking that secret away —for now…
When she starts whimpering, your hands move to her thighs. You don’t force them to part —you want her willing and happy to comply.
“Now, Lorne… Be good. Relax and open those legs for me.”
Your tone is sultry but uncompromising. But the strictness is not needed: Lorne slowly, deliberately spreads her legs, and a third scent mixes with the previous ones —musky, vaguely agrarian, undeniably her, and intoxicating.
Lorne has indeed been getting impossibly wet during your little foreplay. The hairs that frame her lips are drenched and stuck together, and a trickle runs from her entrance to the blanket under her body. There is something so innocent and yet so desperate about the way she is offering herself to you. Your pupils double in size at the sight.
“That’s it. You’re beautiful.”
Her body responds to the praise, her hips shifting slightly, calling for your touch. So you finally look up to seek her eyes. The trust you find in them makes you shiver. Still, you want —no, you need— to make sure she is aware of what is about to happen.
“Do you want me to touch you down there, Lorne?”
She gives you a couple of quick nods. Your lips purse in dissatisfaction.
“Say it. It is very important to me that you voice your desire. This is what Innie Fulfilment is for.”
“I do. T-touch me. Please.”
Her request comes out in a stammering gasp, but you know to put it down to trepidation rather than uncertainty.
So, without tearing your eyes from her face, you let your dominant hand fall between her legs, while the other rests reassuringly against her plump inner thigh. Your fingers meet her outer lips. She starts panting, and you stop.
“Shh… Calm down. This will feel really good. You want this.”
Lorne takes a shaky breath, and you resume your exploration, unrushed. Soon you decide you want more and reach for a small bottle of ‘skin hydration serum’. It is lubricant, in all honesty, but the official Lumon label makes the whole situation seem somewhat respectable. You pour some onto your fingers before pressing your index finger past her slit to give her clit a gentle stroke. You find it already swollen and throbbing under your touch.
Then your fingertips trace the soft folds of her vulva, like checking the edges of an intricate piece of origami. She’s drenched, her arousal mixing with the lotions on your skin. Her hips shift, seeking more, but not really knowing in which direction to thrust. When you finally decide to help her and circle her entrance, the muscles there clench, and she cries out.
“You’re so very wet,” you observe in a low murmur. “The body knows exactly what it wants, doesn’t it?”
Lorne only replies with a strangled sound.
“And you knew from our first session you could trust me to understand what yours needed.”
Lorne nods with great effort before her head drops back on the futon, rolling from side to side as she writhes. You wish she used her words, but you decide not to torture her any further today.
“You, on the other hand, don’t have to understand anything,” you say instead. “You just have to trust me…”
You push your middle finger inside her, slow but deliberate.
“And feel.”
A soft, needy ‘Oh’ escapes her as her hips lift off the futon. You drape your free arm from her right iliac region to the left, pressing down on her lower abdomen so she stays in place, incapable of shimmying away from your touch.
“Ah!”
“You’re so responsive, Lorne… I really like that about you.”
As the words leave your mouth before you even finish conjuring them in thought, you realise this is the first time you reveal your own preferences. You almost berate yourself mentally for being so unprofessional, so not detached. But Lorne lets out her first real moan at that, and her walls open to welcome your finger knuckle-deep before they squeeze around you, so perhaps this was not entirely wrong.
“That’s it.”
You take your time to let Lorne’s body accommodate. Most severed employees are not virgins outside of the workplace, but you can only guess how emotionally loaded this second loss of virginity of sorts can be.
But then, as soon as you feel like one finger has become too manageable, you slide another in, stretching her gently before curling those digits to find her most sensitive spot. You can sense her pleasure rising quickly, and you find that there is no point in drawing out a first time unnecessarily.
You coo as you watch her mouth fall open. She is holding her breath —the pink hue spreading across her upper chest and neck and the tightness around her throat betray it.
“There… You can be as loud as you want, Lorne.”
“C-Can’t.”
The word comes out strained and hoarse but still so innocent and desperate.
“Yes, you can. I want to hear you.”
Your words are accompanied by a more insistent curl of your fingers inside her, and Lorne’s lungs fill up dramatically like those of a newborn babe before she releases the air in one long, continuous cry.
“Yes… You are being so good, Lorne.”
Your fingers work her with precision, only slightly faster now. Your thumb joins in as well, circling her clit tightly as you finally put those massage techniques to better use. Lorne’s entire body is quivering in even less time than you had hoped.
Suddenly, her eyes find yours, and you don’t even need to tell her to come. The pride on your face is enough for her to let go. She throws her head back and contracts around your fingers as the orgasm crashes over her. You keep your fingers moving, helping her through the potent sensations, feeling every pulse of her release and the juices finding their way past your hand.
Lorne doesn’t even dare to say a word when she is done, even though she is visibly overwhelmed and you are now overstimulating her.
“Poor you…” you coo again. “That was a lot, wasn’t it?”
Progressively, you stop moving and let her inner muscles do all the work of pushing you out. Your gaze drops to your fingers then, coated with the evidence of her pleasure. You consider bringing them to your lips or perhaps even to Lorne’s. But the latter would be too much for her, and the former might make you seem too invested. Instead, you crawl up her body to whisper some last praise in her ear, then stand up to put an end to the session like nothing ever happened.
That Friday, you press a neatly manicured finger on the power button of your terminal at 17:22. It is a bit earlier than usual, but it has been quite the eventful week, and the weekend calls for you to take care of your own needs. So you gather your belongings, drape your coat nicely across your arm and head out.
Stepping out into the waiting room, your hand fumbles into your bag for your key. Your hair gets in the way and, as you lift your head to shake it aside, you notice Lorne, sitting on the green sofa, wringing her fingers anxiously in her lap. You straighten your back, not letting her see any other version of you than the professional one.
“Lorne. I didn’t expect you. Did you take an appointment I was not aware of?”
The mere idea of a schedule malfunctioning makes your body tense. You do hate it when things don’t go according to your plans.
“No,” Lorne reassures as she stands up and smooths her skirt. “I… wanted to talk to you. Needed to, in fact.”
You swallow hard. She has destabilised you. You need to regain control. So you check your watch, pretending to have to think about it, as if you had not already made up your mind and the Innie Fulfilment protocol did not obligate you to help severed employees who requested it. But you rapidly give in and open your door once more.
“Come on in then. We have about an hour before the building closes.”
Lorne nods with gratitude and hurries inside like you could reconsider any second.
“So… You need to talk to me. Quite the progress we’ve made there, Lorne,” you say as you close the door and join her further into your office.
Lorne looks around, unused to seeing the room so empty and no longer tailored to your sessions. You take a good look at her and notice not only her nervousness growing, but also how neatly she is presenting herself to you today.
“I’m not sure what I’m doing here,” she mumbles, turning to you but now looking at her feet.
“Oh, I think you are.”
You lean back against your desk, eyeing her with patient strictness.
“I was merely thinking about what happened on Wednesday.”
“Yes?”
“My mind keeps circling back to what you said. About… making you proud. Being good.”
Your eyes darken, and your lips part in a small smirk.
“Did you like being praised, Lorne?”
Lorne doesn’t reply, but the expression on her face tells you more than enough. You tilt your head to the side, and your smile widens.
“Do you want to be good again?”
Lorne says nothing for a moment. It feels like an eternity. And then you see it: the nod, faint but desperate. You turn your back to her to put your bag and coat down on your desk, but not only. You also seize the occasion to unbutton your blouse some more, and this time, your bra actually shows.
Sure enough, Lorne gawks at it when you face her again, her nostrils flaring, her pale skin flushing. Good. This is exactly how you want her.
Or, actually… Not quite yet.
There is only a tiny adjustment needed to get this extra session started. You’re going to ask, and you know she’s going to obey. So you say the word without any preamble or caution.
I do not agree with veganism as a moral standard. If it is your personal moral stance, that is fine. If you think humans eating meat is inherently immoral, I don’t want to deal with you, you’re hopeless. Vegan ideology behaves more like a sect of evangelical Christianity than a dietary choice.
Veganism is better for the environment, but claiming that it's a morally superior choice ignores cultural and economic factors that make people eat animal products.
It is not inherently better for the environment. That is the thing. When you begin trying to explain that local, sustainably sourced animal protein is better for the environment than imported plant proteins that are farmed 3,500 miles away using slave labor, they start tuning you out. Down is better for the environment than polyester stuffing, leather is better for the environment than pleather. We should work on making animal agricultural practices more sustainable instead of trying to shame everyone into eating plant products that are also farmed unethically and unsustainably.
Veganism - vegetarianism, even - is only viable for
Wealthy people
People who live in a very small part of the world that produces enough protein-based plants year round to sustain the locals.
For everyone else, it's a diet based on colonialism and imports. The ancient nordic people were not omnivores because they disdained plants as real food; they were omnivores because THERE ARE NO EDIBLE PLANTS IN WINTER.
Repeat for desert regions that have several months of "it's too hot and dry for plants to feed people and still survive themselves" and rocky coastline areas with "if you don't eat fish & eggs, you won't get any protein because there aren't enough seeds or nuts and you can't grow things that produce them."
We do live in a society where most people can afford to be vegetarian. We have plenty of imported plants, including protein-heavy plants. But locavore beats the hell out of herbivore for sustainability and ethical environmentalism.
Summary: Lorne is sent to a new department for a mandatory wellness session of sorts.
Tags: corporate setting, kink discovery, praise kink, first time, fingering, slight manipulation (if you squint)
Trigger warnings: NSFW (minors DNI), graphic descriptions of sex
A/N: To the Anon who waited +1 year for this fanfic (and to all the others still waiting for theirs): I AM SO DEEPLY SORRY!!!
As you put your pencil down, your eyes flick to your monitor. On it, your schedule displays a single appointment for the morning: Lorne, Wed. 7, 10:00. You check your wristwatch right as the minute hand locks into place over 9:59, and you smile, congratulating yourself for finishing your previous task in an exemplary amount of time.
You realign a few items on your desk and take one last look around your wood-and-phthalo-green office. Innie Fulfilment, as the department your office is located in is called, was created after the Board decided that unfulfilled innies were unproductive innies. Helping innies figure out what they need begins with a safe and orderly place. So you need to make sure this one will feel welcoming to the head of Mammalians Nurturable.
Content with your organisation, you stand, smooth your blue blazer and adjust your badge, then walk to the door.
You find Lorne behind it, pacing rather than sitting in the waiting room, her convocation securely pinched between her thumb and index finger while her other hand contracts rhythmically. She is tall and muscular, rather unkempt, but you immediately sense unease. So you straighten your back and lift your chin a little, imposing yourself as a grounding figure for her right from the start.
“Lorne?”
Your voice is calm but firm enough to stop her in her tracks.
“What am I doing here?” she asks, closing the distance. “I have work to do. I have no time for a wellness session. Certainly not with an imposter.”
“This is not a wellness session,” you reply, ignoring the reference to the regretted Ms Casey.
“Then what is this?”
Lorne swiftly brings the card up to your face. It reads:
Undeterred by her provocation, you slowly lift your hand and point to the small plaque by your door that she clearly hasn’t read.
“The Wellness wing has been reallocated.”
Lips pinched, Lorne takes a step back, and her shoulders hunch ever so slightly in the face of her mistake. She appears somewhat smaller now, more vulnerable. You smirk, finding that you prefer it this way.
“Come in,” you offer as you show her the way.
Lorne reluctantly follows you.
“How is this going to differ from a wellness session, then?” she asks as you reach your desk.
You sashay behind it and turn to face her.
“Wellness has always supported Lumon’s employees, but Innie Fulfilment is here to support you even further. Sessions are less about me talking without listening and more about helping you explore your needs. Today is just a conversation to see what comes up. No pressure.”
You gesture towards the chair across your desk, but Lorne ignores your invitation.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she says instead.
“Your body language tells me otherwise.”
Lorne tenses slightly, and you know you hit the nail. You indicate the chair once more.
“Sit.”
You notice her swallowing, but she complies and lowers herself onto the chair, clasping one of her hands in the other. You take a moment to appreciate your position of physical dominance over her.
“Good,” you eventually say as you sit in your own chair. “Now tell me, Lorne. Is there something you need right now?”
“I need to get back to my goats.”
The dry reply forces a small laugh out of you.
“I’m sure the flock will be fine without its queen for a little while. Or do you not trust your team?”
“Of course, I trust them.”
“Then what’s the rush? Do you love your goats that much?”
“I… Yes. They need me.”
Your eyes instinctively squint as you try to deduce a deeper connection between those words.
“Do you like being needed?”
Lorne’s jaw clenches at your question, but you’re perceptive enough to also notice her nostrils flaring and her pupils dilating almost imperceptibly.
“I thought this was not about you talking without listening,” Lorne says to avoid your question and to further provoke you.
You wonder if this is a conscious choice of hers and whether she expects submission or some fighting back. You don’t care much for unruly manners, so you know you’d better soothe her before she gets the latter.
“I would be happy to remain silent and to listen to you for the duration of this session. You need only tell me and be the one who talks.”
Lorne sighs wearily, wringing her hands with obvious discomfort.
“I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to… feel.”
“Feel what?”
“I don’t know.”
Your eyes fall on Lorne’s lap where she is furiously rubbing —or rather, abrading— her hands.
“Pain, perhaps?” You offer gently.
Lorne lifts her head with a quiet ‘Hmm?’ so you nod at her hands.
“You’ve been fidgeting nonstop. Do your hands hurt?”
This time, instead of an immediate rebuttal or deflection, you are met with a contemplative pause. You understand from the way Lorne looks down at her hands that she is trying to reconnect —or perhaps solely connect— with her body.
“Working with goats is certainly not for the weak,” she says more calmly, though not without a hint of superiority.
Your mouth curls up at the idea of breaking through her walls. For some reason, you have made this a personal goal already.
Silence sets in for a second before you stand up and move unhurriedly to a nearby shelf. You can feel Lorne’s piercing gaze on your back as you select an essential oil and place exactly six generous drops onto a receptacle. Soon, a light mist spreads across your office and, behind you, Lorne gasps.
“Are you trying to poison me?”
You can’t help a giggle.
“No. I have a diffuser system. This is lavender,” you say as you show her the small vial to prove you mean no harm. “I thought you might like it.”
Lorne looks around nervously, her breath too restrained for your liking.
“Well, do you?” you ask. “I can change it. Any scent you like.”
“Lavender is fine,” Lorne finally admits.
“Good. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.”
Lorne raises a suspicious eyebrow at the command, but you don’t let her win.
“Go on.”
Without much conviction, she obeys, her eyelids closing and her taut shoulders rising as she inhales before sagging much further down than their original position when she breathes out. Your lips part in a proud smile.
You stay right where you are for a little while, letting her enjoy the peaceful space, the silence, the floral scent. Your patience gives her the illusion of control and evidently makes her feel safer.
But she is still wringing her hands, and you realise you cannot stand the thought of having her in pain in a way that seems to go beyond the scope of your profession. So you close the distance, gracefully drop to your knees before her, and catch one of her hands.
“What are you doing?” she practically barks, pulling her hand away as if you’d burnt her.
“Shh… I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite, actually. Close your eyes and trust me.”
Lorne doesn’t close her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away any further nor make a move to leave. So you take her hand again and let her keep her eyes open if that pleases her.
“Suit yourself.”
You begin with a few slow caresses along her hand and wrist, letting her get used to the feeling of another in her private space, then start massaging her palm with practised ease, rubbing your thumbs along the lines there.
You’re painfully aware of her staring at your face —and perhaps lower too, considering the angle— but don’t give her the satisfaction of reacting. In fact, you observe her, too. Despite the faint goat smell on her teal uniform and her messy hair, you realise it is impossible to be indifferent about her. In fact, you find her hard-working but oh-so-delicate hands particularly fascinating, and the way she seems to naturally hold her middle and ring fingers together gives you visions you need to shake off.
Lost in your thoughts, your movements become more instinctive but also apparently better because Lorne lets out the inception of a moan before interrupting herself. It takes all your willpower not to look up and let your pride show in a mischievous smile.
“You’re not used to being touched, are you?”
“My… position does not require physical contact,” Lorne retorts with as much propriety as she can muster under your touch.
“No, of course not.”
You gently let go of her hand and switch to the other.
“Would you like to be touched more often?” you ask —with a purely professional curiosity, naturally.
But Lorne pretends not to hear you, and when you do finally look up, she has closed her eyes, leaving no room for further investigation. So you focus on giving her a much-deserved moment of calm, keeping silent until you’re done with your task.
When you are, it takes Lorne a moment to reopen her eyes. You wait patiently and prepare a smile for her to find when she does.
“See?” you say as you stand up, reassuming your dominant posture. “It isn’t so bad, is it?”
“I… suppose not.”
You know just how much admitting this cost her, and your smile widens to convey appreciation.
“Good.”
You walk back to your desk, sit with a smooth and elegant cross of your legs, and immediately undertake to type out your report. Lorne sits still and lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Is that all?”
You turn to her, feigning obliviousness.
“Well, yes.”
A pause. You sense she will not settle for this answer.
“I can work with no talking,” you add. “I can work a little less with no feeling. But I can’t work at all if you have no desire to be here. So… You are free to go.”
Lorne blinks and remains unmoving before she seems to remember how her inferior limbs work and stands up.
“But if you ever need more of this,” you say, purposely keeping your eyes on your screen as you type away, “or anything else… appointments can be scheduled from your personal employee space.”
You finally look at her, your gaze piercing even if you’re the one below her now.
“Anything.”
When Lorne leaves your office, she makes an effort to hold her head up as if to tell you this is the last of her you will ever see. But you know better.
And that evening, indeed, as you clean up your desk and reach behind your monitor to turn it off, a notification pops up.
Lorne, Wed. 14, 10:00.
The next time you open the door to your office to meet Lorne in the waiting room, she is actually sitting on the dedicated green sofa. You almost congratulate her, but you don’t want to give her this satisfaction just yet.
“You came back,” you simply state instead.
Lorne shrugs.
“I had time.”
She’s lying. It makes you smirk —though you are particularly good at making it seem like a perfectly polite smile and nothing more. You step aside, a hand slowly rising to invite her in, and she complies right away.
As she passes by you, closer than needed, you notice her posture is less rigid than last time, though her hands still worry at her uniform. The faint scent of goats clings to her as well, but she has made an effort —her hair is neater, her skirt less rumpled, her face fully clean.
Inside your office, Lorne doesn’t find the chair she sat on last time —or not only. The lights are already dimmer, you have already let some faint lavender mist spread across the room, and in the centre stands a massage table. Lorne turns to you with a questioning look.
“Oh, the office can be rearranged, tailored to each employee and their needs,” you explain with corporate pride.
“And you thought… I needed to lie down for a massage?”
You rest one hip against your desk and place a well-manicured hand on the other.
“Well, last time you didn’t seem to know what you needed. Or you didn’t tell me. So I thought that I would take a load off your shoulders and decide for you.”
You lean forward, your eyes narrowing.
“Working with the goats and being the head of a full team must be demanding. Your body has accumulated so much tension. Wouldn’t it be nice to just… rest for a while and trust someone to make all the decisions and take care of you?”
Lorne looks at the massage table again, then back at you. You sense she needs a bit more convincing.
“I truly believe this would do you good, Lorne. You won’t have to talk. You won’t even have to think. If it seems too absurd, you may think of it as… maintenance. Like oiling a machine so it runs smoother.”
Lorne scoffs.
“I’m not a machine.”
“Don’t you behave like one?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.
Lorne opens her mouth to argue, but you raise your eyebrows, and she closes it.
“Take off your jacket and shoes,” you instruct, pushing yourself off your desk to walk towards a cabinet standing in a corner.
As you do, you discreetly look above your shoulder to see if Lorne is doing as instructed, and you can read from her expression of barely contained surprise that she didn’t expect obedience to be so easy. You smile to yourself, turning back to the cabinet from which you withdraw a nicely wrapped massage kit —a baby blue bandeau stamped with the Lumon logo, tiny shorts of the same colour, a white terry headband, and a large towel.
“The door behind you leads to a small restroom,” you tell her when you give her the kit. “Go change.”
“Is this… approved?”
You nod reassuringly.
“I did mean it when I said I could cater for every need. Save perhaps from showing an Innie the outside world, of course. And physical well-being is part of mental well-being, wouldn’t you say?”
You see Lorne’s shoulders slightly moving as she tries to shrug. Seeing that her attempts at appearing nonchalant or assertive around you keep failing, she turns on her heels and promptly exits through the door you indicated. Another win for you.
When Lorne comes back, she has wrapped the towel around herself, so you walk up behind her and wrap your arms around her torso to take it off. Surprisingly —but is it, really?— she lets you without any additional commentary.
“Come lie down. Face up first,” you command after neatly spreading the towel onto the table.
Lorne hesitates for a second, her eyes darting around the room, but she soon steps closer and lies down stiffly, arms crossed over her chest like an armour.
“There are no cameras here, I promise,” you say softly. “No microphones either. Perks of this department, I suppose.”
“And I should simply trust you?”
“Yes.”
You are firm with this affirmation, but not unkind. Never unkind. You want her to let her guard down, to have access to the whole of her. So you bend above her, take her hands with infinite care, and place them by her hips.
“Relax your arms. Let your muscles rest.”
Your eyes stay locked a moment on her hands, still restless, fingers gripping the edge of the towel. You lock her wrists into place and let your tone switch to a coercive whisper.
“Relax.”
You wait. One second, two, then perhaps ten. And finally Lorne’s body listens.
“Good.”
Slowly, you take off your shoes and push them under the table. You lose a few precious inches without the heels, but it’s not like Lorne will notice lying down, and you don’t want to disturb whatever semblance of peace she may find. Then, you walk up to the head of the table, making sure to let your hand run along her arm as you do. You notice goose bumps forming.
You begin the massage with her shoulders, your palms warm and your fingers tugging at any tension you feel with practised, precise, corporate efficiency —the way Lumon would approve of a task being performed. Your thumbs press into the knots around her trapeziuses and deltoids, drawing circles, and Lorne lets out a quiet hiss while you catch yourself wanting to have your thumbs draw those circles elsewhere.
Now that she is half naked, you cannot help but take a better look at the head of Mammalians Nurturable. She is impossibly tall, with legs for days, and lean too, despite a soft swell in her lower belly. The one-size-fits-all ensemble provided by the company barely covers her gigantic body, and you realise that, if a misfit would deeply annoy you with any other innie, with Lorne, you find the size most convenient.
But you also realise Lorne has her eyes still wide open, so unabashed staring is most untimely.
“You’re very tight,” you observe before clearing your throat and moving away for a bit.
Lorne’s eyes follow you as you go retrieve a hot towel that you had set to warm up before her appointment, then come back.
“Close your eyes.”
“Well, I—”
“Tsk. No arguing.”
You lower the hot towel over Lorne’s face, forcing her to close her eyes.
“Good. Now, stop thinking.”
You resume your massage and work your way down her arms, her sides, eventually reaching the muscles and ligaments just above her hips. When you start working there, kneading the tightness away, Lorne’s breath intakes grow stronger —shakier, too. She shifts slightly, pressing her thighs together, then apart, then together again.
At first you think she might be in pain. So you reduce the amount of pressure you put on that area, opting for a gentler, soothing touch, with one hand providing warmth around her hip and another on her thigh, forcing her legs to part so they remain in a natural position. You devote an equal amount of time to each hip.
Lorne stops squirming for a moment, though her breathing remains heavy but shallow. You wonder why —or rather, your professional self wonders why because deep down you already know. But when your hands brush the waistband of her tiny shorts and her hips give the faintest thrust upwards, you understand very well that this is not about the sort of ache you initially intended to treat.
Your pulse quickens, but you manage to keep your face neutral. It’s not like she can see it with the hot towel across her face, but you cannot let control slip away so easily. That wouldn’t represent Lumon. That wouldn’t represent you.
You make quick work of the rest of her legs on this side before you discard the hot towel and invite Lorne to flip onto her stomach. You have a theory to test.
“Well, look at you following my instructions without arguing,” you murmur as she settles face down. “Good…”
Her breath catches, and her hips twitch again, though you notice the way she tries to recover by pretending she is not quite done finding the right position. You decide to place a hand on her shoulder blade, applying gentle pressure to force her to calm down, and lean forward.
“Are you ready to go on?” you whisper in her ear.
She replies with more of a needy groan than a hum of affirmation.
“Perfect.”
You start from her neck again, then her arms and back, your touch deliberate and purposely lingering too long on the spots she seems to like most. Slowly, her hips resume their dance, and she presses her thighs together again. You consciously avoid her lower back and hips for now, however, and look at your wristwatch again. 10:38. This session is supposed to end in about twenty minutes, but your next appointment won’t be in for close to another hour. You have time to explore these new sensations Lorne seems to be discovering.
You move to stand at the foot of the massage table and place your hands on Lorne’s calves. You lift your head mechanically then, and your eyes fall right between her legs. That is when you notice it: the small, dark spot of wetness on her shorts. It is barely discernible in the dim light of your office, but it is there.
You smile proudly. This is too interesting, and Lorne doesn’t know it yet, but she is perfect for this —for you.
She sighs as you work your way up the back of her legs, loosening any tension you encounter along the way. By the time you reach her upper thighs and let your hands repeatedly run down to their inner side, about one in three of her exhales has turned into a quiet whimper. And in just under five minutes, you’re quite sure you’ve made the damp spot on her core spread a little. You realise your own breathing has quickened and grown stronger. You allow it.
Eventually you move your hands to her lower back, your thumbs drawing tight circles around the soft dimples there. Lorne presses her pelvis down against the table with a frustrated sound, barely audible but like music to your ears. So you finally decide to help her —after all, this is what you’re here for, is it not?— and press the heel of your palm to her upper glutes. You’re not preventing her from moving per se, but rather letting your weight offer pleasant resistance so she can fully enjoy the sensation of compression against her lower abdomen.
Lorne's body knows how to respond to this. Her hips begin to rock, if only faintly, in that tiny, relaxing space you’ve created. Her fingers grasp at whatever they can under the table. You swallow hard, your own body reacting to the sight.
Suddenly, it dawns on you: Lorne can’t possibly know what she’s doing. Innies like her, raised in Lumon’s sterile environment with no knowledge of a life beyond work, are so innocent about these things. Mentally, you congratulate yourself for making her find out.
“That’s it,” you encourage, your voice slightly less steady than you had hoped. “Listen to your body. Just like that…”
Soon, Lorne’s whole body tenses for a moment. Her hips press down one final time, her thighs press against each other until they shake and then go still.
You wait, your hands still on her back. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t seem to understand what just happened. But the wetness between her legs is wider. Much wider. So you do.
And you know with absolute certainty that she will be back without needing any further convincing. You feel happy for her. Thrilled for yourself. Her next appointment will never come fast enough.
It is 9:47 the following week when a strange feeling rises in your chest—a presentiment, of sorts, telling you that many things will stray from their usual paths today. Mustering your calm, you put your pencil down and align it perfectly with your notepad. Your monitor is off, reflecting a darker, convex version of you. Even in this distorted reflection, you find yourself pleased with what you see, ready to face whatever might be coming your way.
You stand and take off your blazer as though taking off armour —you don’t need it— then roll up your sleeves. The top buttons of your white shirt are already undone, and you intend to leave them this way for Lorne.
Sure enough, when you step out of your office, she is already here, just closing the door to the waiting room. Your instinct never betrays you, and you are grateful for it.
“Hello, Lorne. I had a feeling you would come in early today.”
Lorne gulps, surely surprised that you caught her premature arrival.
“I’ve done a lot already,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her. “I delegated the rest of my morning tasks. I wan—”
She stumbles upon the words and clears her throat, lifting her chin up to give herself a sense of composure.
“I wanted to be here.”
Your smile brightens, showing teeth.
“Well, look at you, finally making decisions for yourself. I’m proud of you.”
You let the words hang for a second, then step aside and gesture for her to come inside.
“Please, do come in. See how I’ve adjusted the setup for today’s session.”
Once again, your office has been transformed. On the floor, right in the centre, lies a thick, foamy futon —Lumon-issued, marketed as an ‘ergonomic floor rest appliance’— covered with a soft phthalo-green blanket. Around it, you’ve methodically placed spherical candle holders, as well as plants and pebbles for decoration. You’ve also placed a neatly folded towel at the head of the futon and a small side table next to it with a few extras such as a clay bowl of water and various lotion bottles.
You walk to the cabinet and withdraw the same single-use ensemble as last time, and by the time you turn around to hand it to Lorne, she is already taking off her jacket and other accessories.
“You’re a fast learner,” you tell her softly.
Something lights up in her eyes. She likes being praised —this much you’ve learnt about her. You give her the wrapped massage kit, and she heads to the small restroom with a certain thrill in her stance.
As she disappears behind the door, you turn to your essential oil shelf. Your hand instinctively moves to lavender but stops. You need something else today. So you let your pointer finger glide past the vials, back and forth, until it settles on the evidence: amber vanilla —warm, comforting, more sophisticated, too.
You put a few drops into the diffuser’s receptacle to get it started and close your eyes. The sweetness of vanilla pairs perfectly with amber. You smile, most definitely content with your choice.
The bathroom door opens, pulling you out of your meditative moment.
“Would you like a soundscape today, or some—”
Lorne steps closer, entirely naked, the massage kit still wrapped and pressed against her stomach like a shield. Her eyes flick to yours, then down, then back up, as if asking if this was a good decision, if you like what you see. And you do. Your breath falters for a moment, but you recover before she notices any weakness. Instead, you look her up and down. Silence stretches. You let her feel the weight of your gaze.
“Is this what you want, Lorne?” you ask eventually.
Your tone is already more voluptuous, though still somewhat cautious. Lorne nods slowly.
“This is what I need.”
Happy that she has finally identified and expressed a desire, you gesture towards the futon, eager to fulfil it.
“Please, lie down. On your back.”
Lorne doesn’t make you say it twice and lowers herself onto the futon with more grace than you would have expected from the head of Mammalians Nurturable. Rather embarrassed of herself despite the evident anticipation in her eyes, she crosses her arms over her chest and presses her knees together.
“Arms at your sides. Let me see you,” you command as you kneel beside her, comfortably installed on a cushion, and allow yourself another look at her body.
Lorne hesitates before inevitably obeying. Her nipples are taut, her skin is covered in light goosebumps.
“Are you cold?” you whisper. “I can turn on the heating for you.”
Lorne shakes her head.
“Excited then?”
A shy hum answers this last question.
“That’s very good,” you say, your voice seamlessly shifting to a low, breathy timbre. “This is going to feel very nice, Lorne. Better than last time, you know that.”
You’re not asking this time, but Lorne still nods.
You reach for one of the lotion bottles next to you. The label reads ‘Almond & Jojoba Blend’ in small, official-looking text. You pour a generous amount into your palm, rubbing your hands together to warm the oil before placing them on Lorne’s collarbones.
You can’t just give her what she seeks quite yet: she is too unsure, too tense for now. So you start with a regular massage, oil gliding effortlessly over her skin and tinting it with golden highlights, thumbs pressing into the knots you find. Lorne sighs.
“Your shoulders are still tense, but not as bad as before,” you remark. “Have you abstained from heavy lifting recently?”
“Something like that.”
The reasons don’t seem that important right now, so you don’t ask her to elaborate. What matters most to you is the way her breath seems to grow steadier and deeper, shifting to this indescribable but oh-so-beautiful sound between a sigh and a moan.
You work your way down her arms, then her hands, massaging each palm and each finger individually, with great consideration, showing that you care and making sure her muscles won’t feel sore when she inescapably clutches at the blanket later from what you intend to do.
You move back up her arms, then to her chest. You avoid her breasts at first —with immense self-restraint— and rather let your hands glide over her ribs and along her solar plexus.
“Breathe…”
Soon, your fingers move of their own accord and naturally include Lorne’s bust in their strokes. Her breasts are small, but you find that they fit perfectly in your hand, soft and malleable, like her. You squeeze them gently, kneading them. The massage has definitely shifted to something much more sensual. This is the point of no return.
Lorne lets out a quiet gasp, her back slightly arching. Her breath is coming a little faster now, too.
“I said breathe,” you scold her without any real edge to your tone. “You don’t want this to end in a matter of seconds, do you?”
Lorne shakes her head, now holding her breath altogether, her eyes wide with something akin to worry. It almost makes you chuckle.
“So breathe. Calmly.”
When Lorne’s nipples are too sensitive to keep the teasing going but you feel her getting too used to your touch on the rest of her breasts, you move lower to her stomach and down to her hips to revive her arousal. The oil glistens on her skin in the candlelight, and the scent of amber vanilla mixes with it. She looks and smells exquisite, making your own arousal increasingly hard to ignore.
Still, you remain focused and as impassive as possible, working around her hips and lower abdomen. You have now reached a dangerous zone, and it is rather impossible to ignore the gentle patch of hazel curls that cover her mound. More specifically, you struggle with not letting yourself drown in the thought of how wet she might be getting. But the more you massage the soft swell above her pubis, the more Lorne presses her thighs together, locking that secret away —for now…
When she starts whimpering, your hands move to her thighs. You don’t force them to part —you want her willing and happy to comply.
“Now, Lorne… Be good. Relax and open those legs for me.”
Your tone is sultry but uncompromising. But the strictness is not needed: Lorne slowly, deliberately spreads her legs, and a third scent mixes with the previous ones —musky, vaguely agrarian, undeniably her, and intoxicating.
Lorne has indeed been getting impossibly wet during your little foreplay. The hairs that frame her lips are drenched and stuck together, and a trickle runs from her entrance to the blanket under her body. There is something so innocent and yet so desperate about the way she is offering herself to you. Your pupils double in size at the sight.
“That’s it. You’re beautiful.”
Her body responds to the praise, her hips shifting slightly, calling for your touch. So you finally look up to seek her eyes. The trust you find in them makes you shiver. Still, you want —no, you need— to make sure she is aware of what is about to happen.
“Do you want me to touch you down there, Lorne?”
She gives you a couple of quick nods. Your lips purse in dissatisfaction.
“Say it. It is very important to me that you voice your desire. This is what Innie Fulfilment is for.”
“I do. T-touch me. Please.”
Her request comes out in a stammering gasp, but you know to put it down to trepidation rather than uncertainty.
So, without tearing your eyes from her face, you let your dominant hand fall between her legs, while the other rests reassuringly against her plump inner thigh. Your fingers meet her outer lips. She starts panting, and you stop.
“Shh… Calm down. This will feel really good. You want this.”
Lorne takes a shaky breath, and you resume your exploration, unrushed. Soon you decide you want more and reach for a small bottle of ‘skin hydration serum’. It is lubricant, in all honesty, but the official Lumon label makes the whole situation seem somewhat respectable. You pour some onto your fingers before pressing your index finger past her slit to give her clit a gentle stroke. You find it already swollen and throbbing under your touch.
Then your fingertips trace the soft folds of her vulva, like checking the edges of an intricate piece of origami. She’s drenched, her arousal mixing with the lotions on your skin. Her hips shift, seeking more, but not really knowing in which direction to thrust. When you finally decide to help her and circle her entrance, the muscles there clench, and she cries out.
“You’re so very wet,” you observe in a low murmur. “The body knows exactly what it wants, doesn’t it?”
Lorne only replies with a strangled sound.
“And you knew from our first session you could trust me to understand what yours needed.”
Lorne nods with great effort before her head drops back on the futon, rolling from side to side as she writhes. You wish she used her words, but you decide not to torture her any further today.
“You, on the other hand, don’t have to understand anything,” you say instead. “You just have to trust me…”
You push your middle finger inside her, slow but deliberate.
“And feel.”
A soft, needy ‘Oh’ escapes her as her hips lift off the futon. You drape your free arm from her right iliac region to the left, pressing down on her lower abdomen so she stays in place, incapable of shimmying away from your touch.
“Ah!”
“You’re so responsive, Lorne… I really like that about you.”
As the words leave your mouth before you even finish conjuring them in thought, you realise this is the first time you reveal your own preferences. You almost berate yourself mentally for being so unprofessional, so not detached. But Lorne lets out her first real moan at that, and her walls open to welcome your finger knuckle-deep before they squeeze around you, so perhaps this was not entirely wrong.
“That’s it.”
You take your time to let Lorne’s body accommodate. Most severed employees are not virgins outside of the workplace, but you can only guess how emotionally loaded this second loss of virginity of sorts can be.
But then, as soon as you feel like one finger has become too manageable, you slide another in, stretching her gently before curling those digits to find her most sensitive spot. You can sense her pleasure rising quickly, and you find that there is no point in drawing out a first time unnecessarily.
You coo as you watch her mouth fall open. She is holding her breath —the pink hue spreading across her upper chest and neck and the tightness around her throat betray it.
“There… You can be as loud as you want, Lorne.”
“C-Can’t.”
The word comes out strained and hoarse but still so innocent and desperate.
“Yes, you can. I want to hear you.”
Your words are accompanied by a more insistent curl of your fingers inside her, and Lorne’s lungs fill up dramatically like those of a newborn babe before she releases the air in one long, continuous cry.
“Yes… You are being so good, Lorne.”
Your fingers work her with precision, only slightly faster now. Your thumb joins in as well, circling her clit tightly as you finally put those massage techniques to better use. Lorne’s entire body is quivering in even less time than you had hoped.
Suddenly, her eyes find yours, and you don’t even need to tell her to come. The pride on your face is enough for her to let go. She throws her head back and contracts around your fingers as the orgasm crashes over her. You keep your fingers moving, helping her through the potent sensations, feeling every pulse of her release and the juices finding their way past your hand.
Lorne doesn’t even dare to say a word when she is done, even though she is visibly overwhelmed and you are now overstimulating her.
“Poor you…” you coo again. “That was a lot, wasn’t it?”
Progressively, you stop moving and let her inner muscles do all the work of pushing you out. Your gaze drops to your fingers then, coated with the evidence of her pleasure. You consider bringing them to your lips or perhaps even to Lorne’s. But the latter would be too much for her, and the former might make you seem too invested. Instead, you crawl up her body to whisper some last praise in her ear, then stand up to put an end to the session like nothing ever happened.
That Friday, you press a neatly manicured finger on the power button of your terminal at 17:22. It is a bit earlier than usual, but it has been quite the eventful week, and the weekend calls for you to take care of your own needs. So you gather your belongings, drape your coat nicely across your arm and head out.
Stepping out into the waiting room, your hand fumbles into your bag for your key. Your hair gets in the way and, as you lift your head to shake it aside, you notice Lorne, sitting on the green sofa, wringing her fingers anxiously in her lap. You straighten your back, not letting her see any other version of you than the professional one.
“Lorne. I didn’t expect you. Did you take an appointment I was not aware of?”
The mere idea of a schedule malfunctioning makes your body tense. You do hate it when things don’t go according to your plans.
“No,” Lorne reassures as she stands up and smooths her skirt. “I… wanted to talk to you. Needed to, in fact.”
You swallow hard. She has destabilised you. You need to regain control. So you check your watch, pretending to have to think about it, as if you had not already made up your mind and the Innie Fulfilment protocol did not obligate you to help severed employees who requested it. But you rapidly give in and open your door once more.
“Come on in then. We have about an hour before the building closes.”
Lorne nods with gratitude and hurries inside like you could reconsider any second.
“So… You need to talk to me. Quite the progress we’ve made there, Lorne,” you say as you close the door and join her further into your office.
Lorne looks around, unused to seeing the room so empty and no longer tailored to your sessions. You take a good look at her and notice not only her nervousness growing, but also how neatly she is presenting herself to you today.
“I’m not sure what I’m doing here,” she mumbles, turning to you but now looking at her feet.
“Oh, I think you are.”
You lean back against your desk, eyeing her with patient strictness.
“I was merely thinking about what happened on Wednesday.”
“Yes?”
“My mind keeps circling back to what you said. About… making you proud. Being good.”
Your eyes darken, and your lips part in a small smirk.
“Did you like being praised, Lorne?”
Lorne doesn’t reply, but the expression on her face tells you more than enough. You tilt your head to the side, and your smile widens.
“Do you want to be good again?”
Lorne says nothing for a moment. It feels like an eternity. And then you see it: the nod, faint but desperate. You turn your back to her to put your bag and coat down on your desk, but not only. You also seize the occasion to unbutton your blouse some more, and this time, your bra actually shows.
Sure enough, Lorne gawks at it when you face her again, her nostrils flaring, her pale skin flushing. Good. This is exactly how you want her.
Or, actually… Not quite yet.
There is only a tiny adjustment needed to get this extra session started. You’re going to ask, and you know she’s going to obey. So you say the word without any preamble or caution.
Looking at Gwendoline GIFs, I've realised.... I'm so obsessed with her I can lip read what she says even if it's from something I've never seen (a skill I don't normally have, mind you)
I can excuse a lot of inaccuracies in other people's writing. But if there is something not completely historically correct in the fic that I don't even plan to post, backed up with scholarly research, I cannot continue to write.
