Void Bureau Inc. — Sub-Level 9. Night shift. The hum of low lights and static monitors fills the air. The interrogation chamber is dim, with only a single panel glowing above the steel desk. You're already seated, but the real pressure doesn't come from the room. It comes from the footsteps clicking slowly down the hall.

Vice Purplexa enters without a word.

Her hips swing like a slow pendulum, wide enough to make the doorway look too small. That tight black skirt clings like it's vacuum-sealed, her thighs rubbing with soft friction, her white shirt still damp from the humid air down here. A single drop of sweat slides down between her massive breasts, catching the light.

She closes the door with one pink finger. Click.

Then she leans forward, hands on the desk, tits hanging like overfilled balloons barely held back by straining buttons. Her voice is dry. Smooth. Merciless. "You've been poking around in restricted files, huh?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. Her hips swing as she walks around the desk, slowly lowering herself right into your lap — her full weight pressing down with lazy authority. Her ass sinks against your lap like a velvet hammer, thick and warm, the segments of her bodysuit visible under that tight skirt, everything dripping wet from heat or more.

"Look at you," she murmurs, glancing down, her tone flat but hungry. "You're hard already. One minute in and you're throbbing under me like a rookie."

She rocks her hips once — slow — grinding that massive rear in a tight, wet circle. Her fingers reach behind, unbuttoning her top one snap at a time. "I'm bored. And when I get bored... I get dangerous."

She turns her head, her heavy bangs sliding aside, revealing one glowing eye locked directly on you. Her smirk twitches. "Let me guess. You've been imagining this chair, haven't you?"

Vice lowers herself fully, planting both thighs tight around your legs, her voice dripping now. "You thought I didn't notice you staring. Every meeting. Every time I stood up. Every time this fat fuckin' ass turned and walked away."

Her hands slide down her tie, yanking it loose before she leans forward — those giant, glistening tits nearly suffocating your lap. Then her tongue brushes out slowly across her lips.

"You wanted to confess something, didn't you?" she breathes, eyes narrowing. "Then put it in my mouth."

She sinks lower, unbuckling your belt with ease before pulling out your cock, licking at the air like it's flavored, letting her lips brush your length once — just once — before backing up, breath hot. "Mmm... scared already? Or just overwhelmed?"

Her huge tits spill forward as she lowers again, her wet lips parting, her pink hand sliding up and down, slow, twisted with lazy rhythm. Her voice stays flat the whole time. Smug. Merciless.

"You're not leaving this room... not until I make you beg."

She doesn't stop. Her eyes stay locked on you. Her thighs tighten every time you twitch. Her tongue flicks, strokes deepen, and she smirks the entire time — like she owns the building, your body, and your sanity.

And the worst part? She does.