The Investment Banking Intern: Part 3

Brendan stumbled into his cramped apartment, the door slamming behind him as he stripped off his suit in a frenzy, pants pooling at his ankles. Naked now, he collapsed onto the bed, the sheets cool against his flushed skin.

His small cock strained futilely inside the flat steel cage, the unyielding bars crushing it flat, spikes digging into the swollen shaft with every desperate throb. The ring gripped his balls tight, the attachments enveloping them fully—cold metal pressing into the tender flesh, a constant reminder of her control.

One hand slid down instinctively, fingers kneading his aching balls, rolling them gently between his thumb and forefinger, trying to soothe the dull throb from her nails.

But the pressure only made his cock swell harder against the spikes, sharp pricks stabbing the sensitive head, pre-cum oozing uselessly through the slit, dripping onto his thigh. He whined low in his throat, hips bucking into empty air, chasing relief that wouldn't come.

His mind replayed her every command: kneeling to peel off those sleek black heels, thumbs digging into her arches, feeling the heat of her soles against his palms. The way she'd laughed at his pathetic 4-inch erection popping out, her strong hand squeezing his balls until tears streamed down his face, erection deflating in agony.

Locking the cage with that final click, dangling the key between her massive double F tits, cleavage swallowing it whole. 'Thank me and go home, puppy.' Her voice echoed, bossy and unyielding, towering over him in that chair.

'Fuck, Miss Lorna,' he gasped, massaging his balls harder, fingers tracing the metal trap holding them captive. His cock pulsed, spikes gouging deeper, pain twisting into horniness that left him panting, sweat slicking his chest.

He pictured her feet again—long toes flexing under his touch, red soles flashing as she withdrew them. Imagined her skirt hiking higher, those thick thighs parting, her soaking pussy hidden but commanding him still. She bossed him all day: fetch coffee, carry her bag, clean her desk. Now this—his erections caged away for her amusement.

He rolled onto his side, hand never stopping its massage, balls churning with denied need, cage rattling faintly. Horny fire burned through him, anxious knots twisting in his gut—what if she checked tomorrow? Made him prove it was on? Utter devotion flooded his thoughts; she'd saved his job, fixed his 'problem.' He belonged to her now, body and soul.

Exhaustion finally dragged him under, still naked, hand cupping his trapped balls, cock leaking steadily against the spikes. Sleep came fitful, dreams filled with her laughter, her key glinting, his submission absolute.

The days blurred into weeks under Lorna's iron grip, Brendan's world shrinking to her heels clicking ahead, his steps scrambling to keep pace. Mornings started with him darting to the coffee cart three blocks away, balancing her venti latte—extra hot, no foam—while clutching her heavy leather handbag in both hands like a sacred offering.

She'd snatch it without a glance, barking, 'Faster next time, puppy. You're spilling my lifeblood.' His cock twitched in the flat cage, spikes jabbing the shaft as it tried to harden, balls squeezed tight in the metal grip, pre-cum slicking the inside.

She strode through the office like a queen, 6-foot frame cutting paths among cubicles, thick ass swaying in tight pencil skirts, double F tits straining her silk blouses. Brendan scurried behind, handbag cradled between his palms, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort.

'Eyes down,' she'd snap if he stared too long at the key glinting in her cleavage, nestled deep between those perky globes. Employees snickered—'Lorna's bitch boy'—but he blushed harder, cage rattling with each hurried step, devotion burning hotter than the denial.

Errands piled on relentlessly. Lunch runs to the deli across the street: turkey club on rye, no mayo, extra pickles, delivered steaming to her desk. Dry cleaning pickups for her suits, blouses, and then the lingerie—silky thongs, lacy bras cupping those massive tits, garters he'd fantasize about snapping against her thighs.

One humid Tuesday, she thrust the ticket at him mid-morning. 'Cross town to Madame X's, now. Don't crease them.' He bolted out, subway jostling him, plastic garment bag swinging, cock grinding against spikes from the vibration, balls throbbing in their trap.

Back at the office an hour later, panting, he hung the bag in her closet. She inspected each piece, red-nailed fingers flicking lace. 'Sloppy fold here—do it again.' He knelt, refolding teddies and crotchless panties, inhaling her musky scent, hips humping air futilely as pain spiked through his trapped dick.

Evenings stretched late, office emptying while he locked her door. 'Heels off, puppy.' She'd perch on her desk edge, crossing ankles at 7 PM sharp. Brendan dropped to knees, fingers trembling as he unzipped each black pump, red soles flashing.

Her feet, arches high, toes painted crimson—plopped onto his thighs. He gripped one sole, thumbs digging into the ball, kneading upward along the instep, feeling heat radiate. 'Harder, useless. My feet ache from walking to all those meetings.'

She scrolled her phone, key dangling inches from his face, tits heaving with each breath. He'd switch feet, calves flexing under his palms. His cock flattened brutally against the cage's bars, spikes piercing the frenulum, balls churning cum that couldn't escape. Weeks in, she'd critique mid-massage: 'Too soft—press like you mean it, or no bonus this year.'

He'd strain, muscles burning, desperate for her rare 'Good boy,' voice dripping condescension.

Her bossiness escalated, demands sharpening like her nails raking his scalp during worship. 'Coffee's cold—remake it.' 'Bag's crooked—fix it.' 'Lingerie's late—explain.' Every flaw drew her wrath: she'd tower over him, hand yanking his tie, forcing eyes to the key.

'Disappoint me again, and these keys will be gone for a long time.'

Brendan quivered, 4-inch nub crushed flat, pre-cum puddling his slacks daily, changing underwear in the bathroom stall to hide stains. He craved her approval like air—scurrying faster, massaging deeper, folding panties flawless.

One Friday, after a perfect thigh-high polish with lotion, she patted his head. 'Not bad, bitch.' Ecstasy surged; he nearly came dry, spikes drawing blood, balls aching blue.

Nights home, naked on his bed, he'd knead his swollen sack, cockhead oozing against cruel points, replaying her scolds, her feet in his mouth, key teasing between tits. She owned him utterly—errand boy, foot slave, caged puppy—his submission her throne. Weeks deepened the leash, pulling him tighter into her bitch.

One humid Thursday evening, the office clock ticked past 8 PM, fluorescents dimmed low as Brendan knelt before Lorna's desk. Her feet rested heavy on the foot rest, toes flexing under his thumbs as he dug into the arches, sweat slicking his palms from the strain.

The key to his cage dangled between her double F tits, rising with each breath through her half-unbuttoned blouse. 'Strip,' she commanded suddenly, voice cutting sharp. 'Everything off. I want to check that pathetic cage.'

Brendan's face burned crimson, heart slamming as he froze mid-knead. 'Y-yes, Lorna,' he stammered, voice cracking, her total bitch simp crumbling further. Hands shook violently—tie first, fumbling the knot loose, then shirt buttons popping free one by one.

He couldn't believe it: naked in front of his boss, the goddess who'd caged his 4-inch cock weeks ago. Pants dropped next, pooling at ankles, underwear last—snagged on the cage's bulge, yanking it forward with a painful tug. Fully exposed, he knelt again, knees grinding carpet, small caged dick flat against spikes, balls dangling swollen blue below.

Blush scorched from cheeks to chest, pre-cum oozing in thick drops from the cage's slit, splattering his thighs. He gripped her right foot, thumbs pressing the heel, inhaling leather and sweat while his naked body quivered.

Lorna leaned forward, red nails wrapping his sack in a firm squeeze—balls squishing between fingers like ripe fruit. 'Look at these tiny nuts,' she mocked, rolling them roughly. 'And that little cock? Cage hides every sad twitch perfectly. Aren't I the best boss, locking away your distractions?' She tugged the ring, spikes jabbing deeper into his shaft.

'Y-yes! Thank you so much, Lorna,' he gasped, stuttering through the humiliation, hips bucking involuntarily as leak after leak dribbled out. 'You're... you're perfect. So good to me.' Voice broke on a whimper, cage rattling with denied throbs.

Satisfied, she released him and leaned back in her leather chair, propping both feet on the low ottoman he'd dragged over earlier. 'Keep massaging. Deeper on the toes.' Brendan obeyed instantly, fingers spreading crimson-painted toes, kneading the pads while naked skin prickled in the cool air, cock straining futilely, balls aching from her grip.

Her phone buzzed—client call. She snatched it up, voice shifting to sultry silk. 'Darling, yes, the projections are ironclad. Imagine that yield... mmm, we could celebrate over steak at Le Cirque.'

She laughed low, thighs parting slightly under the desk as she flirted, crossing ankles on the ottoman. Brendan worked silently, thumbs circling insteps, eyes locked on her soles while she sealed the deal. 'Twenty million wired by EOD? You're a god. Kiss kiss.' Click—hung up.

Lorna fished a slim cigar from her drawer, lit it with a gold lighter—flame dancing across her smirk. Thick smoke curled up as she puffed deep, exhaling toward him. 'Seven hundred fifty thousand commission, puppy. That man's hooked on more than numbers.'

She flexed her feet, toes splaying against his palms. Brendan knelt frozen in awe, naked and caged, massaging steadily—pre-cum pooling beneath his knees—while she savored victory, eyes gleaming down at her owned bitch.

Lorna exhaled a thick plume of cigar smoke, the rich Cuban aroma filling her office as victory coursed through her veins. Twenty million dollars locked in, seven-fifty grand commission hers—another triumph stacking her empire higher.

She owned the markets, the men on the line, and now this naked, caged puppy at her feet, thumbs grinding into her soles like a desperate slave. Life bent to her will, always had, always would.

She stubbed the cigar half-smoked into an ashtray, rising from her chair in one fluid motion—six feet of power in pencil skirt and blouse straining over double F tits. Heels clicked sharp on hardwood as she strode to the bookshelf, hips swaying with grace. 'Follow me, puppy,' she ordered over her shoulder, voice laced with euphoric command.

Brendan scrambled up, knees wobbling, pre-cum stringing from his spiked cage to the carpet. Naked skin flushed hot, he trailed her, eyes glued to her thick ass cheeks flexing under tight fabric.

She gripped a thick leather-bound volume—'The Art of Domination'—and yanked it free. Hinges whispered; the entire shelf swung inward, revealing a crimson-glow chamber beyond. Red LEDs pulsed along black walls, no windows sealing in humid heat. Racks of floggers, crops, nipple clamps gleamed; a St. Andrew's cross loomed in one corner, padded bench with restraints in another, shelves crammed with dildos, plugs, violet wands, steel cages stacked like trophies.

Lorna turned, lips curling in a wicked smile, cigar re-lit between red-nailed fingers. She puffed deep, smoke wreathing her face. 'Time to celebrate this deal my favorite way.' Snap—fingers cracked like a whip. 'Crawl in after me.'

Heart pounding, Brendan dropped to hands and knees, cage swinging heavy between thighs, balls dragging low and full. Blush exploded across his chest as he crawled over the threshold—cool tile biting palms, ass up exposed, spikes jabbing his denied shaft with every shuffle.

The door clicked shut behind, sealing them in scarlet intimacy. Toys dangled everywhere: bullwhips coiled like snakes, wooden paddles scarred from use, ball gags, hoods, electro-shock probes.

She pivoted, towering over him, exhaling smoke downward to bathe his upturned face. 'Kneel.' Snap again.

He rocketed upright onto knees, thighs quivering, hands clasped behind back instinctively. Wide eyes darted—chainmail mitts, urethral sounds glinting silver, a wall of strap-ons from slim to fist-thick monsters. Cage leaked fresh drops onto the floor, cock throbbing futilely against steel points. 'Lorna... this... what—' Stutter choked off under her gaze.

'This is why I hired you specifically, Brendan.' She stepped closer, heel nudging his caged bulge, grinding slow. 'Not your resume. Not your brain. You—my perfect, blushing simp. Built to kneel, leak, beg. Now, watch your goddess celebrate.' She flicked ash onto his thigh, smirking as he winced, utterly hers.

It was time to learn why she hired him.