Moira/Mercy – humiliation; fucking machine – Moira has work to do and Angela is distracting her.

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“You are being unreasonable, now. Keep quiet.” Moira is frowning as she stares at the screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard. She has been in the middle of writing up the results of one of her experiments, but Angela’s consistent whining in the background is decidedly distracting.

She glances into a small mirror on her desk, strategically placed to keep her most sophisticated test subject under scrutiny.

Angela looks dishevelled, crouching in front of the machine that is fucking her not slow and not fast; an exact pace that is designed to keep her on edge and not give her what she desperately yearns for.

Her hair is clinging to her sweaty, flushed cheeks, eyes looking glassy. Moira can tell when another orgasm is rolling up on her again, because her breath quickens and her little sounds become high-pitched and distressed; but the machine keeps on working without fail and without hitch, not giving her that last thrill that she desperately needs before she slowly comes down from the sharp, now painful precipice.

Angela’s eyes roll in their sockets as she screams in frustration, the sound barely muffled by the muzzle Moira put in place, knowing very well that Angela would not behave. Moira frowns and finally turns around, staring at her imperiously from her spot on the chair, clothes perfectly in place, demeanor calm. Her palms lie on her knees. Relaxed. Watching her with detached scrutiny.

“Do you need help staying quiet?” she inquires in what she thinks is a very generous offer. Angela does not answer as such. She only makes more frustrated sounds, angry tears rolling down her cheeks. Her pretty round tits swing with every motion as she tries to chase that elusive orgasm.

It is not like Moira tethered her to the ground or strapped her onto one of the stools to keep her in place. No; she hadn’t needed to fixate her in a long while. Angela stays put on her own merits, and lets herself get tortured. Which in and off itself is already fascinating.

Moira sighs and drags herself closer on her chair. When she’s close enough, she extends a leg, nudging the impeccably shined tip of her dress shoe beneath Angela’s chin. She stares at her flushed, wild face until the scrutiny penetrates even the hazy fog inside Angela’s brain, and her eyes slant away to the side, body eerily still again.

A prize bitch waiting to be judged.

“I thought as much,” Moira murmurs. She lowers her leg, then extends it further between Angela’s trembling arms.

“You seem unhappy with the arrangements,” she continues. “You’re not having as easy a time when it’s your pussy getting rawed, is it?” She nudges the tip of her shoe against her abdomen, wandering down, close to her clit sitting there almost grotesquely engorged – but never touching. Just one more point of frustration that makes Angela tremble.

“If only your esteemed colleagues could see you,” Moira says on a long, bored sigh. She braces her chin on the palm of her hand, eyes on Angela’s face as she further elaborates: “I would love to study their responses to seeing you like this. To realizing that the perfect, darling Dr. Ziegler lives and dies for her orgasms. And that she throws temper tantrums like a three year old when she doesn’t get them.”

She pulls her leg back suddenly, sitting like royalty while Angela whines behind her muzzle. “If only they knew their pretty little doctor is an anal slut and gets wild for anything that I shove into her ass. What do you think they would do, hm? Would they be disgusted? Horrified? Would they line up to rail you like you secretly dream off when you lie in your prim little bed at night, trying not to touch yourself?”

Angela groans low and needy, her cheeks burning cherry red, nipples plump and pert. Aroused by Moira’s words, though she can’t pinpoint which of the scenarios does it more for her.

Moira snorts in disgust and swings around in her chair, dragging herself back towards her work.

“Keep quiet and maybe I’ll give you what you crave later.”