The knock hadn’t gone away.

Brooke was trembling beneath Tyrone as he pounded her into the desk, Aspen’s lips wrapped around her breast again. The thrill of being on the edge of getting caught had her body on fire.

Then—

The door opened.

And in walked Officer Renee—building security. Tall, curvy, commanding. Thick thighs, impossibly narrow waist, and breasts that strained against her uniform shirt like they were begging to spill out. A sleek black baton hung at her hip, and her hand rested near her belt where silver cuffs glinted under the overhead light.

Her eyes scanned the room: papers on the floor, clothes hanging off chairs, Aspen on her knees, Brooke spread out on the desk… and Tyrone, shirt open, pants down, buried deep in Brooke’s body.

The air was electric.

“What the hell is going on in here?” she asked, but her tone wasn’t angry—it was… curious. Interested.

Tyrone looked right at her, never slowing his thrusts. “You interrupted. You plan on filing a report?”

Renee tilted her head, smirking. “Not unless I’m part of the offense.”

He stopped. Pulled out.

Walked over to her, cock still hard, glistening with Brooke’s wetness. “You really want in?”

Renee pulled the handcuffs from her belt. Click. Click.

“You tell me,” she said, holding them up. “You ever cuffed someone across their own desk?”

Tyrone snatched the cuffs from her and spun her around, pinning her wrists behind her back. Her uniform shirt was already half undone, cleavage spilling free, practically begging to be devoured.

Brooke sat up, legs trembling. “She’s gorgeous.”

Aspen crawled toward Renee, fingers hooking into the waistband of her pants. “Can we keep her, sir?”

Tyrone grinned. “If she can take it.”

He lifted Renee effortlessly, her tiny waist fitting perfectly in his grip. She wrapped her legs around him, still cuffed, helpless and wide-eyed with need. He pressed her back against the glass and entered her in one deep thrust.

She cried out, back arching, breasts bouncing free as he began to destroy her against the window.

Aspen knelt below, licking where their bodies met. Brooke joined her, tongues sliding together, catching every drop of Renee’s moans and Tyrone’s power.

“Fuck,” Renee gasped, squirming in her cuffs. “Use me. Use all of us.”

Tyrone’s voice was gravel. “Oh, I will.”

Four bodies tangled together under the office lights, no rules, no limits—just heat, control, and raw, filthy release.

And the building’s security cameras?

Still rolling.

It was supposed to be deleted.

The security feed from Tyrone’s office was only accessible to two people: Tyrone himself—and Renee. She was supposed to wipe it clean after their little after-hours event. That was the agreement.

But somehow… it didn’t get deleted.

And now, it was on the internet.

A low-res version at first. Just a few minutes. Tyrone’s massive frame holding Renee against the window, her cuffs gleaming, Aspen kneeling, Brooke moaning into the glass. It was raw, grainy, but unmistakable.

Office. Desk. Boss. Secretary. Security.

The tags were filthy. And it spread like wildfire.

Brooke’s phone blew up first. DMs. Unknown numbers. One message read: “Is this really you?” She clicked the link and almost dropped the phone.

Her heart pounded. “Oh my God.”

Aspen called her seconds later. “Did you see it?”

“It’s everywhere, Aspen.”

And yet… neither of them sounded scared.

Tyrone had already seen it. He was sitting in his private lounge, whiskey in hand, watching the footage with a quiet smirk. The comments were wild:

“Who IS this man?”

“Boss is packing and knows how to handle business.”

“Those women are blessed.”

Renee walked in, still in her uniform shirt, her hair loose, a different kind of heat in her eyes. “I messed up,” she said softly, but her smirk betrayed her guilt. “Didn’t realize the auto-backup triggered.”

Tyrone didn’t look mad. He looked… hungry.

“You sure it was an accident?”

Renee shrugged. “You saw the views?”

He held up his phone. “Ten million.”

Brooke and Aspen showed up minutes later, breathless and wide-eyed. “We’re going viral,” Brooke said. “And… Tyrone? People are asking for more.”

He looked at the three of them standing there—his secretary, his favor girl, his sexy officer—and leaned back.

“Then maybe it’s time we gave them more.”

He tapped the desk. “Lights. Cameras. My rules.”

Renee grinned and pulled the cuffs from her belt again.

It started as a scandal. A leaked video. A “who are they?” mystery that took the internet by storm.

But Tyrone doesn’t just react—he dominates.

Within a week, he had the domain name locked in. DominionMedia.com—private, encrypted, and invite-only. No ads. No gimmicks. Just raw, high-definition content featuring him and his exclusive trio: Brooke, Aspen, and Renee.

Each woman had her role:

• Brooke: The sensual one. All curves and moans, playing the “helpless” mother who keeps finding herself in very compromising situations.
• Aspen: The obedient secretary. Always ready to be used, mouth open, clothes already off.
• Renee: The enforcer. She brought the cuffs, the commands, and the uniform kink the fans craved.

Tyrone? He was always the center. The boss. The dom. The one in charge.

But it didn’t stop there.

They turned the office into a studio—hidden panels for lighting, reinforced desks, a mirrored ceiling. Every scene was a fantasy: one day Brooke was “caught” photocopying her breasts, the next Aspen was punished for missing a deadline. Renee would walk in, bark orders… and end up handcuffed to the desk herself, moaning like she was paid to scream.

Except she wasn’t faking.

And neither was the money.

Within a month, Dominion Media had over 100k paid subscribers. Celebrities subscribed under fake names. Discreet billionaires sent offers. “Collab?” emails flooded their inbox.

But Tyrone kept it tight.

“No outsiders,” he said. “We are the product. We are the empire.”

Every scene pushed the limit—double penetrations, choking, power play, voyeur cams, role swaps. Every new drop was anticipated like a blockbuster. Fans made compilations. Memes. Tribute videos.

And behind it all, Tyrone ran the show—filming, editing, directing, owning every angle.

The women? They were stars.

Dripping in lingerie and diamonds, flown first-class to shoot “executive retreats” in Bali, rooftop threesomes in Manhattan, and even “interrogation” scenes in abandoned warehouses Renee locked down for them.

No one dared expose them—because no one could prove it. They were anonymous. Untouchable.

Until a message arrived:

“I know who you are. I want in. Or I bring you down.”

A new twist.

Tyrone cracked his knuckles, smiled, and leaned back in his chair.

“Looks like we’ve got our next scene.”

Brooke’s Page
Aspen’s Page
Tyrone’s Page