Executive Disfunction

Chapter 5
Some things can’t be undone - or wiped clean

Chapter Description: Whatever left of his dignity didn’t survive the smell

Monday Morning

07:52 AM

The elevator doors whispered open.

He stepped out like command incarnate.

Tailored charcoal suit, immaculately fitted to his lean, athletic frame. Shirt crisp. Tie navy, knotted with precise symmetry. His shoes gleamed with a mirror finish, every step silent and efficient. He moved like a man used to taking space and never giving it back. Like someone who made decisions—not someone they were made about.

His hair was slicked back with surgical neatness, not a strand out of place. His jaw was clean-shaven, face set in the smooth confidence of a man who closed deals before breakfast.

He carried a phone in one hand, a coffee in the other. The sleeve bore his initials. The world bent to men like him.

Except—

Something was wrong.

The lobby buzzed, yes—but not the usual Monday churn.

There was a low murmur. Clusters of employees gathered around corners, glancing at one another, faces full of alarm, confusion—barely concealed glee.

His step faltered in pause. 

And then he saw the screens, their furtive glances shifted to. 

All of them.

Mounted high above every floor’s glass mezzanine. Along the walls of the open-concept café. In the lobby by the security desk.

Dozens of screens.

Usually reserved for weather reports, internal stock info, the day’s lunch menu.

Now?

Him.

Not as he stood now.

Not the sharp jaw, the pressed wool, the gleaming watch.

But Friday night.

Wide-eyed. Flushed. Crying. Pacifier between trembling lips.

One photo showed him mid-whimper, arms limp, the seat of his diaper bulging wet and full, legs spread as she wiped between them with gloved hands. Another, mere seconds later, showed him redressed—new diaper, pastel pink. A frilly dress gathered at his chest. He was staring downward, lip quivering, helpless.

Seven seconds.

And then another.

The photo caught him mid-yelp, bent over her lap, diaper peeled halfway down to expose flushed, trembling skin. His cheeks were bright red—raw, welted in perfect handprint patterns. His toes curled. The pacifier bobbed in his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut in shame and shuddering need.

Another showed a close-up: his hips pinned down by her arm as her palm arced through the air in perfect form. His cock was fully hard—visible through the stretched front of his soaked diaper, the fabric tented and glistening, impossibly full.

A third image captured the aftermath. He lay flat on his stomach, diaper fastened back up tight, the seat rounded and crinkled, but the angry red flush of his thighs still visible beneath the leg cuffs. One hand was curled near his face, and a thread of drool glistened at the corner of his mouth. The caption overlay simply read: “Still hard.”

Every screen rotated.

Not the same photo.

All different.

All from her collection.

Documenting him.

Unmaking him.

Frame by frame.

One image showed him across her lap, stark naked from the waist down, his suit jacket bunched uselessly around his elbows. His ass was flushed deep red, already glowing with the heat of repeated strikes. The angle caught the tension in his thighs—trembling, flexed—and the unmistakable hardness of his cock, pressed against her stockinged leg.

He froze in the lobby as the sound whispers rose. 

His eyes pinned to the screens, gasp held. 

The cup in his hand trembled. The heat of it suddenly unbearable against his palm.

Another screen turned.

This one showed her leaning down, her lips brushing his ear, his eyes dazed and swollen. The caption bar—where the stock ticker should’ve been—now read in looping script:

“Her Good Girl.”

His knees nearly buckled.

And somewhere, deep inside—

The part of him that had moaned and mewled and leaked for her—

Shivered.

Because it knew.

There was no undoing this.

Only living with it.

Or being owned by it.

He took one step.

Then another.

Then the weight hit.

Not all at once—but in slow, rolling gravity that started in his chest and sank to his knees. His foot hesitated. His calf buckled.

He crumpled.

Not dramatically.

Just folded down onto the cool stone tile of the company lobby, landing hard on one knee, then both. The impact shot a dull pain through his kneecaps, bone against polished marble—but he barely registered it.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react.

His eyes were still fixed—glued—to the screen above reception.

A new image now.

He was suckling on a bottle, cheeks flushed, hands tucked under a pastel blanket. Her hand cupped the back of his head gently, the other holding the bottle steady. He looked content. Distant. Gone.

Seven seconds.

The screen changed.

His legs were splayed. The dildo gleamed wet under soft light. His body was arched, back tense, expression broken. He was mewling.

He remembered that sound.

He remembered making it.

Seven seconds.

Another.

It showed a rear view: his back arched, hands gripping the edge of her velvet ottoman, cheeks streaked with angry red welts. His erection stood rigid beneath him, hanging heavy and untouched. The expression on his face was pure desperation—eyes glassy, mouth slack with soundless pleading.

He couldn’t breathe.

Another blink

The photo captured the moment just after a blow. Her hand still hovered mid-air, fingers splayed, while his entire body jolted in response. His cock twitched visibly, glistening at the tip. Beneath his bent knees, a small smear of pre-cum stained the polished wood floor.

The crowd around him was growing now—not rushing forward, but circling. Quiet. Unsteady. Like spectators at the edge of a car crash. A few faces twisted in confused disgust. One of his analysts—a sharp, bright kid he’d once barked at for missing a decimal—was pale, stunned.

Others whispered.

A few glanced at him directly.

Then their gazes dipped lower.

Not to his face.

Not anymore.

He followed their eyes.

And then he felt it.

A tickle.

A warmth.

Something slow… and spreading.

He looked down—

And froze.

His tailored trousers had darkened. Just below the zipper, an irregular shape bloomed across the fine wool—a wet patch, yellow-gold, trickling down his thigh in branching lines. A dark stream dripped steadily into the space between his knees. The puddle beneath him reflected the screen overhead in fragments.

He was pissing himself.

Right there.

In front of everyone.

No restraint. No warning. Just warmth. Shame. And the sickening weight of inevitability.

A fresh wave of gasps cut through the room. Softer, more human.

Then came the worst of it—

The pity.

He could feel it in their eyes.

Disgust was something he could fight.

But pity?

Pity meant they no longer saw someone who could recover.

They saw someone lost.

Someone ruined.

Her good girl.

His mouth moved soundlessly.

But there were no words left.

Only the hiss of fabric releasing liquid, the trembling ache of his bladder emptying freely, and the soft whir of another screen rotation overhead.

He was still kneeling when the heels clicked toward him.

Not her heels.

But not unfamiliar.

Measured steps—controlled, deliberate. High-end leather on tile, slow enough to draw attention, fast enough to promise purpose.

The murmurs softened as she approached, like even the air around her dared not intrude. He didn't have to look. He knew.

Then—her fingers on his chin. Manicured. Cold.

They lifted his gaze, gently. Almost tender.

And there she was.

Vivienne.

Cool. Immaculate. Radiant in a dove-grey blouse tucked into a pencil skirt that matched her smirk. Her eyes sparkled—pitying, maternal, cruel. She crouched gracefully to meet his level, one hand still cupping his chin as the other braced casually on her thigh.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, head tilted. “What happened to you?”

His breath caught, chest trembling. His lips parted to speak, but nothing came out—only the weight of memory, hot and shattering behind his eyes.

Friday.

He’d won.

He was chosen.

The board’s decision had come down at 3:42 p.m. sharp: the Senior Strategy Lead appointment was his. Not hers.

He remembered the grin he’d hidden behind a congratulatory handshake.

He remembered the almost imperceptible tightness in her jaw. The flicker of rage buried beneath corporate poise.

He’d gone out that night to celebrate. Reserved the corner booth at that exclusive club downtown. Smiled into too many bourbons. Met a woman in a pencil skirt and a voice that made him forget Vivienne’s narrowed eyes.

He never once questioned how she already knew his name.

He thought he was the one winning.

Until now.

Her eyes scanned his ruined form—his soaked trousers, the puddle spreading around his knees, the faint glisten of sweat still clinging to his temple. The screens above changed again—this one showed him in a fresh diaper, frilly dress pulled taut over his chest, cheeks flushed, thumb in his mouth as he was powdered between the legs.

She gave a soft tsk.

“Should we get you cleaned up, darling?” she said aloud, voice syrupy with mock concern, pitched just high enough for the surrounding crowd to hear.

His eyes welled again. His jaw trembled.

She leaned in.

Close.

Her breath was warm at his ear. Her voice dropped to a whisper, honeyed and vicious.

“You really shouldn’t have taken my promotion,” she breathed.

He whimpered.

She smiled against his skin.

“It was a bit too easy,” she purred, patting his dumbstruck cheek, jaw slack in horror. 

Then she stood—slowly, beautifully, rising like someone ascending to a throne.

She didn’t need to look back.

He was already beneath her.

And now?

Everyone could see it.