The Helldesk Ch. 01

Author's note: This is the first piece I've submitted to Literotica. It's been an on-again-off-again work that I've dabbled in for the past few years, and as such, I'm surprised at the path that it has taken. The themes here are entirely non-consensual and not something I would condone in real life.

However, this is a work of fiction, and so I allowed myself to fill out and explore the kind of character I thought might be guilty of getting sucked down this kind of rabbit hole.

Edit - 6.30.17 - I have edited some of the female protagonist's responses to try and make her a little less mercurial.

*** If you have issues with themes of coercion or non-consent, or with reasonably intense S&M, I would suggest you read elsewhere ***

I hope you enjoy it!

*****

Chapter One

As a long-time IT SysAdmin, I've seen more than my fair share of fucked up encounters. Usually, but not always, it's the hardware (or software) that's been compromised, but there was one occasion I remember quite vividly where there was much fucking, and quite a good deal of compromising (not on my part though), and none of it involved hardware. Well apart from mine that is. But I'm getting ahead of myself, and being a tease again, but then what's new?

It had been a long week. One of those late August knuckle-draggers that involved too much holiday on the part of others, and too much handholding of idiot users on the part of mine.

Friday had been no different. I'd gotten sucked into helping out a very sweet young lady in finance who was caught in a very difficult situation - namely that her boss was a first class bag of the douching variety and had dumped a shitload of reports on her in a variety of formats at 4pm and told her to get them all cross-referenced and imported into a single spreadsheet by Monday. Her tearful phonecall to the helpdesk at about 415pm had caught me gleefully anticipating my early departure to ease my worldly worries at a fancy new bar that had recently opened downtown. Normally, I would have filed a ticket and told her we would have them done by monday lunchtime (I have some excellent conversion routines which can plough through stuff quicker than Casanova in a monastery), but her rather genuine distress had managed to trigger my less well known chivalrous side, and I'd just spent a little under three hours helping her get everything into one file, cross-referenced, and uploaded to the cloud so she could sort through the data over the weekend.

Back at the 'desk, I was rueing the fact that happy hour was long dead, and that the bar would be getting a little too busy for me to be able to work one of their super hot bartenders over for some free samples. As I was rummaging through the wreckage and debris in my duffel bag of one-too-many-nights-in-someone-else's-bed, the phone rang. I eyed it balefully, not wanting to stay any later. I let it ring and started digging through my desk drawers, looking for the ball gag I knew I had stuffed out of sight earlier in the week.

The phone gave up its insistent clamor and I exhaled, confident I could now escape without further delay. Resuming my search, the bottom drawer finally yielded up the missing oral restraint and I grabbed my sneakers and workout clothes from under the desk and zipped the duffel up. A final three line email to the weekend cover tech mentioning the plight of the financial geekette, and I was ready to head out. I turned to leave... and froze, fingers hovering over the hibernate button, unable to quite believe what I was seeing. Nobody came down to the basement at this time of night. Hell, most people didn't even know where we called home. The office should be empty by now, except...

She was cute, I would have to give her that, but in a kind of cold, remote, and entirely corporate way. The heels were hot, but the obviously expensive and sexually repressed pant suit just made her look like an affluent, over-dressed drone. A leather mini-skirt and halter top would have probably increased the relative local gravity by a factor of three or more and made it impossible for my jaw to resist diving floorwards.

Her voice was cold and imperious, "Leaving are we? Hmm, well, never mind, I have a problem that you need to fix. Come along!"

I was floored by her arrogance and presumptuousness, and it took about three seconds for my brain to stop issuing "Does not compute!" errors, and for me to actually understand that she really had used those words. A problem... that I NEEDED to fix.... Hmmm, clearly there was a new sheriff in town that I hadn't met before, and it appeared that it was about time she got ridden right back out of it again. Absently, I pondered the ball gag and accompanying riding crop in my duffel bag. Apparently she hadn't heard the whispers about 'The Helldesk' which those-in-the-know warned their friends of.

There is nothing quite so dangerous in the corporate world as a pissed off SysAdmin. Office slander and rumor is just that. It lacks substantiation. Servers and file systems, on the other hand, have logging and file access restrictions. So if the log files say that you uploaded porn to the company file server, even the Pope's testimony on your behalf wouldn't do you much good in an office tribunal. I wasn't one to dick around like that very often as there were checks and balances that made that kind of thing tricky, but I wasn't averse to planting the odd bit of malware in the personal files of those who pissed me off more than once. Having to explain to the helpdesk (and your boss) just why there was donkey porn in your personal folders was humiliating for the drone in question but fucking hilarious for the Admins.

"Coming!" I yelled as I exchanged my duffel for a rescue flash drive and basic toolkit and strode towards the elevators in an attempt to catch up. "So.... what kind of problem are we talking here?" I asked nonchalantly, as the doors swished shut behind me. I leaned against the back wall and studied her from behind as the display started to count its way up through the company hierarchy.

"You'll see when you get there," was her curt response. I could tell that tact and diplomacy were her speciality, and I was especially honored to be given such a rewarding and exciting opportunity to serve this particular Ice Queen.

"Well...." I smarmed, "....the more you can tell me in advance... the quicker I can have you going..."

My double entendre worked perfectly and she turned to face me, arms folded and a cold mask of disdain distorting her otherwise pretty features. She was classically thin, but quite athletic without being neurotically anorexic. A long and very graceful neck led the eye down to average sized but very firm looking breasts. She obviously worked out, judging by the narrowness of her waistline and by the very appealing view I had been given of the tight curve of her ass peeking out from beneath the hem of her jacket before she turned to vent the full brunt of her displeasure at me.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty sympathetic guy, and understand how very difficult it is to drive a keyboard and mouse these days, especially in the cut throat business world that we live in, but most of the problems I have to deal with are banal and rather simple to fix. It's only when a server goes on a full cybernetic bender that I tend to get a more challenging workout than setting up printers and recovering deleted files. I had no expectation of this being any different, and I'd only fed her that line so that she would turn round and I could get a chance to see closer up whether the front view was as appealing as the rear.

The very timely whooshing of the elevator doors opening allowed me to sail past her just before she shot herself in the foot prematurely - it was only a matter of time, after all.

"Please.... why don't you show me to your cube," I weaseled.

She didn't even look at me as she stomped out of the elevator and took off down the corridor on some very appetizing and well toned legs. I hurried to keep up, mainly because I didn't want to get too far behind and pass up the opportunity to ogle those curves, that I had glimpsed earlier, now in motion. No sign of a panty line, which meant that either she whistled when she farted, or she was going commando. (When Bach wrote Air on a G string, it was a simple auditory pun concerning the laws of physics). Maybe there was more going on beneath this wool and cashmere exterior than was initially apparent.

I smiled at the thought - in my own very personal experience, I've had fun testing my theory of a correlation between the harshness of the business attire and the degree of sexual repression. Of course, some of my fellow deviants like to play things safe and use camouflage to avoid as much suspicion as possible, but it's left me intrigued by the dichotomy of a particular variety of alpha female who will slice you in two and walk all over you in the boardroom without batting an eyelid, but will also cum her brains out if treated in the same way by her Master in the bedroom. I could entirely believe that this one fitted that particular mold, but I struggled to believe she had ever had the confidence to give that degree of control over to another. No, the name 'Ice Queen' seemed more than a little appropriate here.

I started to contemplate the prospect of what I might enjoy doing to thaw her out. Spreader bars, a butt plug, and a riding crop evaporated from my mind as I realised we had stopped outside one of the larger offices on this floor. It was a corner office which meant she was probably a senior manager, almost certainly visiting from one of the other offices as I didn't remember having seen her before. A glance through the glass partition revealed a suitcase, confirming my suspicions.

Excellent! She was extremely unlikely to be aware of the reputation I had worked so assiduously to promote in the office. Those who couldn't be bothered to be polite when asking for help, no matter how pressing their deadline, often wound up suffering the most unfortunate and mysterious technical repercussions. And then there was Brett, of course. He'd come down to see us, foaming at the mouth over how we had lost his data, and how we had better get it back or we would be looking for work before we could blink (apologies for the lack of visual illustrations to convey the accompanying hand motions involved in the original telling of that tale).

After proving that it was a rather clueless intern who had gotten all gung-ho with the delete key, and then after restoring the files from backup, everyone had been shocked when Brett hadn't been able to sit down for over a week after his chair suffered a freak mechanical failure in the seat structure, leading to a rather disturbing rectal intrusion he still hasn't managed to put to bed almost two years later. His manner towards me has been scrupulously polite and deferential ever since, which is entirely as it should be, but a huge change from our first encounter. Word can get around, and the office grapevine is the perfect means of sowing Fear, Uncertainty, Disorder, (and their very underrated cousin 'Discord'), when necessary.

"So... I believe you were wanting something?" I goaded.

"You're a smart one, aren't you?" she quipped back.

"Smart as a whip... or so they say," was my riposte. Ohhhhh, if only she knew.

"I really don't have time for this, just do your job. The laptop's on the desk, now get on with it."

The slight tic in my left eye must have looked a little incongruous with the half smile which tugged at the corners of my mouth.

"Why of course! I do so enjoy a life lived in service, but please do tell me, just what exactly does my job entail, in this instance?" My voice fairly dripped lubricant and could probably have serviced half the butt plugs in the tri-state area, but I couldn't help wanting to see just how short her fuse was. I could see a red flush starting to rise above the sharply creased white collar of her blouse. My smile cranked up another hundred lumens or so.

"How the hell should I know?" She squawked. "You're supposed to be the technical one, you work it out. It's just slow... or stuck... or something, and I have a report to finish before my dinner reservation at 830pm, so 'chop-chop', or I'll report you for insolence and incompetence."

"Right you are! You're the boss," I simpered.

Good lord! Not only was she an Ice Queen, but she was probably also a relic from the Victorian era, or had been raised by someone stuck in a time warp. Who on earth would file a memo reporting someone for insolence in this day and age? I stuffed the rescue USB stick into the back of the machine, more than a little pissed now, and tried not to focus yet on what I would like to stuff in the back of her as part of my revenge. It was difficult to remember the last person who had wound me up quite so easily or in as short a period of time as she had managed, Brett notwithstanding.

I fired up Treesize, a natty little utility which allowed me to see just where all the disk space has disappeared to (often the first cause of a slow and unresponsive machine), and within about ten seconds my suspicions were aroused by one massive folder, hidden away in her personal folders, which was taking up almost 35% of her hard drive.

The Ice Queen had stomped off somewhere else, so a few investigatory clicks later and I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing. It might not be donkey porn, but the filenames hinted at something almost as humiliating, and just as damaging. I killed a couple of applications to give the rather overtaxed and asthmatic laptop some breathing room and started a copy routine which would back up the folder in question and stick all the files on an unsanctioned 'personal' network storage device I had squirreled away in the server room. With another couple of clicks I had launched a neat little distraction program that makes it look like there are a handful of complicated routines chuntering away but actually locks the user out unless they know the key sequence that shuts it down.

"Just got to run back downstairs and grab a couple of disks and stuff," I yelled, already halfway out of the door and heading away from the mini kitchen she had taken refuge in.

Her "But.." fell on deaf ears as I rounded the corner and broke into a run towards the elevator.

Ohhhh, this was priceless. If the files contained even half of what was hinted at, I was going to have a field day with this and make the Ice Queen regret having ever darkened my door.

I was almost hopping from foot to foot as the elevator dropped towards the basement, and I wasted no time getting to my desk and un-hibernating my PC. A couple of clicks and the first file, already copied to my little refuge, fired up, bringing a VERY different Ice Queen into view. Gravity was definitely playing up now as my jaw sagged, and I had to blink a couple of times to assure myself that I wasn't daydreaming.

The outfit was VERY different - much less Ann Klein, more something from one of Alexander McQueen's kinkier dreams. Way more leather and latex than your average boardroom could handle. Ohhhh wait, this was getting better by the minute! I actually recognized the John she was laying into with a riding crop. He was a shy and quiet middle manager from somewhere like the Chicago office. Rather unremarkable, and only registering on my radar as he had been here the previous week and had called me regarding problems with the video-conferencing system.

Holy Canoli!!! Her technique with the riding crop was terrible, but I had to give her bonus points for enthusiasm. The John was going to be whistling 'Ring of Fire' for at least a week when he peed.

So, she liked to bring her personal life to work, did she? Hmmm, well her work life was about to get intensely personal if I had anything to do with it. I paused the video on a full length shot of her standing behind her naked and penis-encaged victim, with her hand on his throat and both of their faces clearly visible... a particularly heart-warming scene, I thought. A couple more mouse clicks and the printer spat out a copy of their little Kodak moment, and after copying that video to my phone, I grabbed the longest network cable I could see, and stuffed it into my larger troubleshooting bag-on-wheels with a handful of other six foot long cables, and dumped my duffel on top for good measure.

As the elevator disgorged me back onto her floor, it required a positively heroic effort for me to stop grinning inanely, and to replace it with an air of studious concentration as I resumed my position behind her desk. I'd glanced her way as I headed into her office and noted that she'd seen the bags I was dragging behind me. It shouldn't be long, I thought, as I killed the 'Boss Screen' and verified that the copy routine had almost finished carrying its sweet mana to my own personal heaven. It was time to turn up the heat on the Ice Queen. I queued up the video I had copied to my phone, and held it ready under the desk as I watched her come down the hallway on the other side of the glass partition.

Her opening shot was particularly delicious... "Well, how much longer is this going to take? I have to leave in twenty minutes, and I..."

"Ohhhhh, well, no.... you see..." I cut her off with a sucking in of air through my teeth in the same manner your average plumber might employ before delivering the bad news as to just how expensive your callout is going to be.

Her brow creased, and, just as she was opening her mouth to sear my ears with an equally snarky demand, I hit play on the phone, and watched her face turn a very telling shade of grey, one which matched her suit surprisingly well, as the sounds of leather on flesh flooded the room. Her eyes widened and it took at least three seconds before she threw herself at the laptop and yanked it away from me. Her surprise turned to confusion as the sound stayed resolutely in front of me, and her laptop screen showed nothing even close to what we were hearing.

I allowed a small smile to tweak the corners of my mouth as I lifted the phone above desk level and turned it around to show her slapping the living crap out of Mr Chicago's equipment. She slowly placed the laptop back on the desk and stared across the space between us, probably wishing for a rogue meteorite, large laser pistol, or some similar method of wiping the ever expanding smile off my face. She leaned forward and slowly placed her hands on the desk, and I just couldn't help myself when I burst out laughing uncontrollably.

"Oh honey... ohhhhh, no.... no, that's not going to get you off the hook. No, you're mine now. Completely, and absolutely, and for as long as I desire it. And believe me when I tell you that this could so easily not have happened if you had been anything but a gin-u-wine, Cast Iron Bitch. You will pay for your attitude, and I'm going to have a lot of fun breaking that tight-ass wannabe Domme persona you've been playing."

"You can't make me do anything!" She snarled as she lunged across the desk for the phone. The perfectly oiled bearings of her stupidly expensive office chair carried me just out of reach as I pushed back, grabbing her outstretched hand with mine and twisting hard to rotate her arm into a very uncomfortable position. Her gasp was real, and the surprise and pain in her eyes told me she had no idea that I had been waiting for her to do exactly that.

"Oh but I think I can. In fact, I know I can. You do know how damaging this would be to your career, especially given how closely you appear to work with your colleagues?" I asked. When she didn't reply but only struggled weakly, trying unsuccessfully to untwist her arm, I continued, "well... whilst the simplest and most efficient solution would be to mail this picture to your boss, and offer to meet him for lunch to discuss disturbing evidence I might have uncovered about one of his employees, where's the fun in going all Gestapo on your very tight, and may I say 'quite delicious looking', corporate ass?