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covenofagatha · 2 days ago

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The Break Room

Harmony Cobel x female reader

You've been a Severed employee for two weeks now, and you are causing all sorts of problems with your unproductivity and your attempts to send a message to your outie. Ms. Cobel has no other choice but to see to it that you really learn your lesson in the Break Room

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: spanking (with a ruler), fingering, dub-con, mommy kink, bratty bottom reader, top Harmony, slight voyeurism (kind of?), no spoilers

A/N: wrote this to cope with finishing season two of Severance last night and I'm a sucker for a mean older woman (I'll be back to agatha shortly)

Ding!

The elevator doors open—you’re back again, like you never left. The white walls of the Severed Floor make you shudder as you step out. The seemingly infinite stretch of the hallways makes you want to scream. Every attempt at breaking out, of getting your outie to let you out, has been futile. Even your resignation attempt after your first day was denied.

You hear your first name and first initial of your last name being called and you turn around. Mr. Milchick, the supervisor of the Floor, jogs toward you with a dopey grin on his face. His cheerful demeanor does nothing to raise your sullen mood. You wonder if his superiors told him to be extra nice to you.

“Well, good morning to you too!” he says, chuckling at the frown that etches deeper into your face. “I just wanted to let you know how appreciative we are that you’re here with us. Lumon could not do it without you and we are eternally indebted to you for that.”

“I don’t even know what we’re doing here,” you scowl and he laughs joyfully, as if he didn’t hear anything you just said.

Mr. Milchick begins to talk about something else, but your mind is moving rapidly to figure out a way to get a message to your outie past the security detectors. Writing on yourself won’t work, swallowing a message won’t work. You hadn’t tried throwing a piece of paper into the stairwell and then stepping out to read it, but you suspected Lumon had detectors in that too.

Maybe…maybe if you could break up a message into parts and take them home one day at a time, it would be meaningless enough to get past the detectors. You’d just have to hope that your outie would be able to put it together.

A risky move, but it might be the only option. If that doesn’t work, you’re not sure what else to do.

“And here we are! Macrodata Refinement!” Mr. Milchick announces as he pushes open the white doors as he does every morning, like you’ve somehow forgotten where you live your small and meaningless life.

Your coworkers are already at their desks and they look up from their computers to smile at you. You give them a half-hearted wave as if to say yep, still here and briskly walk over to your seat.

The computer is already on and the rolodex flips to the second card. In the two weeks going on what feels like ten years that you’ve been here, you’ve gotten through one card. Everyone was so happy when you finally finished but it felt more like pity to you.

A sea of numbers stares at you, demanding to be sorted into four boxes. There isn’t much rhyme or reason to how to group them or which box to put them in; apparently you’re just supposed to know. It was explained on your first day that they evoke different feelings in you. You roll your mouse around aimlessly for five minutes—you know how long because you keep looking at the clock on the wall, willing time to move faster—looking for any sort of emotional response associated with the numbers, but there’s nothing.

Can the numbers sense your apathy at being here? Maybe you have to actually care about the job in order to get in touch with them.

That would certainly explain why Grant M. has the best performance in your department—he’s basically walking Lumon propaganda. You’re tempted to ask him how he comes to work every day so joyful: whistling down the corridors, bobbing his head to some imaginary tune while he sorts numbers, happily pouring the small container of dry roasted edamame from the vending machine into his mouth on breaks that he cuts short because he just can’t wait to get back to work. You’ve caught him reading the Lumon handbooks far too many times and he’s quoted it at you many times to show you why it’s a privilege and an honor to work here.

It’s even worse because Grant M. sits right to the left of you in the weird shape the desks are arranged in, so he’s able to peek over the mossy green partition at any point and make a passive aggressive comment about how he wishes his department members would take work as seriously as he does, or how he’s filled up fifty-seven percent of a box and he’d love to see that hard work from other people.

Even now, he’s peering over at you, just enough for you to see his messy brown hair sweeping across his forehead and the rim of his blue glasses that are too small for his face.

You roll your eyes and lower the partition and Grant lurches back like he’s been caught. His brown eyes meet yours, his lips curl into a sneer, and he jerks his head to the side to get his hair out of his face.

“Working hard or hardly working?” he asks in his voice that makes it hard not to slap him. It’s nasal and croaky and you repress a grimace.

You smile tightly at him. “Just getting into it.”

And before he can launch into a speech about the nine core principles of Lumon, you draw the partition back up and stare bullets at your computer.

As you absentmindedly draw circles with your mouse, you decide to try putting clusters of numbers into boxes at random, just to see what will happen. There’s a sick sort of pleasure you get from the thought of screwing up whatever data you’re supposed to be refining.

The numbers go into the box and your eyes widen—it worked. But then the box shakes from side-to-side and then throws up the six numbers, which slot neatly right back into the grid on your screen.

You slump back into your chair.

“Psst,” someone hisses and you look up to see your other desk neighbor, Nick S., looking over the partition at you. His straight brown hair falls to his shoulders and his eyes have a twinkle in them. He smiles at you, showing his crooked teeth, and you can’t help but grin back at him.

Nick is the closest thing to a friend you have. His rebellious streak calls to you, a twin flame to yours, and the two of you make it through the boring days together, mostly making fun of Lumon, or Grant when he’s not around.

“I can taste meat on my breath,” Nick whispers excitedly. “Do you think my outie had a date or something? Usually I taste nothing.”

You pretend to think about it before smirking. “Or maybe your outie just forgot to brush his teeth.” His face drops and you reach into the container of mints on your desk. It was a reward for being punctual every day your first week.

The participation prizes here are bleak.

Nick pops it into his mouth and crumples up the wrapper. “Hey, watch this.” He swivels around in his chair and tosses it in the direction of the trashcan about ten feet away.

The wrapper lands maybe five inches away and you cry out.

“Excuse me, some people are trying to work here,” Grant snipes and you and Nick look at each other, shoulders vibrating from your silent laughter.

“Can we all just please get back to work?” your other deskmate, Ryan W., asks exasperatedly. You’ve had the least amount of interaction with him. He’s the youngest and seems miserable, but it’s hard to tell if he’s miserable because of working here or because of the rift between you and Nick and Grant. He never picks a side, but you think you see him smirking sometimes when you and Grant are arguing.

Nick rolls his eyes but turns back to his computer so you’re left to your own devices. Because you’re still working through your new plan of how to get a message to your outie, you decide to shoot mints into the trash can while you mull it over.

The first one soars right in.

The second one misses by a mile.

The third one hits the edge of the can and bounces out and you groan audibly.

A warm hand touches your shoulder and you spin around. Mr. Milchick stands there, even his mustache looking displeased.

“Ms. Cobel would like a word with you,” he says. Grant snorts and you glare at him through the partition before standing up and smoothing your sensible gray dress. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to talk to Ms. Cobel, the manager of the Severed Floor. She’s intimidating, but there’s something about her cold exterior that does something to your stomach—like you want to get in trouble just to get her attention.

“Lead the way, then.”

You follow Mr. Milchick down the winding hallways, a right, a left, another right, another right, until you lose track of which way you’re even going. You suspect that he may have led you around in a circle a few times, just as retribution for the trouble you cause.

You finally get to the room with Mr. Milchick’s desk and then he knocks on the door to Ms. Cobel’s office.

“Enter,” a low voice calls out and Mr. Milchick gives you one last glance, maybe meant to be reassuring, before opening the door.

The office looks the same as it did on your previous visits: two chairs in front of the large wooden desk that Ms. Cobel sits behind, a few paper boxes stacked in the corner, the three piece artwork hanging behind the supervisor, depicting maybe a storm. On her desk is a thick computer, a speaker, a phone, and a small model sculpture of Kier Eagan’s head, the founder of Lumon Industries.

Ms. Cobel beckons you forward, her silvery hair, straight and falling past her shoulders, glinting in the light. She’s wearing a dark blue blazer over a dark blue turtleneck, which seems to bring out the color in her eyes. The swell of her breasts draws your gaze but then she says your first name and the initial of your last name in her slow, drawn out cadence, and it makes you shiver.

“It would appear that you are having trouble focusing,” she says quietly but commandingly. You look down at your black dress shoes against the blue carpet. “I know you are unhappy here, but you need to get your work done. It will do you no good to resist.”

You shrug and stay quiet. If you resist long enough, surely they’ll have no choice but to fire you.

Ms. Cobel’s lips draw into a thin line. “We have been patient with you these past two weeks. We at Lumon understand that it can be a tough transition for Severed workers. However, our leniency is waning. If you do not stop these foolish attempts to contact your outer self or to hinder your department’s progress, I think a trip to the Break Room will be in order.”

Mr. Milchick sucks in a breath next to you and you scoff. “What’s wrong with that?”

Your question is ignored and Ms. Cobel looks to the supervisor. “Mr. Milchick,” she says, her voice cutting deep, “can I trust that you will see to it that MDR has no more distractions?”

He nods and you half expect him to salute as well. “Of course, Ms. Cobel. You can rest assured that everyone in that department will be hyper-focused, absorbed, and concentrated on their work.”

Ms. Cobel tilts to her computer, no longer looking at either of you, and Mr. Milchick takes the dismissal as it is and leads you back to your office.

“It really is easier if you just do your work,” he tells you gently. “You need to accept that you’re a Severed worker now, and this is your job.”

You don’t answer and he stops walking, so you pause too. He steps closer to you and sighs heavily.

“I’m just—I’m just asking you to please try and make the best of it, okay? This can be a fun thing, if you let it. You have a great team in there, so let’s go in there with a new attitude and get some work done!”

It’s meant to be a pump-up speech, yet there is nothing it makes you want to do more than laugh hysterically. Did he really think that would work?

Mr. Milchick gives you what you think is meant to be a reassuring smile and resumes walking. It’s not much longer before you’re in front of the doors with Macrodata Refinement printed on the outside and he slips his keycard into the slot. The light flashes green and you reluctantly make your way to your desk, feeling the eyes of your colleagues on you.

Grant looks like he wants to gloat but you give him a nasty glare before he can open his mouth. Ryan turns back to his computer and you notice that his spiky hair is bleached blonde as opposed to the red it was before. His outie must’ve had a fun night.

“Everything okay?” Nick whispers and you nod, sitting down and pulling yourself to the desk. Mr. Milchick is standing in the corner of the room so you can’t say much more.

The numbers swim in front of you on your screen and you stare at them, trying to feel something. The only thing you feel is your eyelids starting to grow heavy.

What do the numbers represent?

Maybe they add up to a total for something?

Maybe they don’t actually mean anything and you’re getting paid to do meaningless work?

Maybe they represent letters—

You jolt, suddenly awake. Numbers representing letters. While you don’t know if that’s what it is, you just got an idea.

If you can figure out a way to get a number through the security detectors, one day at a time, you could spell out a message to yourself. You just need a way to make it look like not a message.

So that rules out writing numbers on scraps of paper, because they’ll argue that you had some sort of agenda by doing that and you’ll get caught.

But…

“I’m going to the supply closet,” you announce, shooting out of your chair. You hurry over and yank the doors open, switching on the lights. You grab a sticky note and look frantically because if they’re not here—and then you find them.

On the third shelf in the corner.

A mesh pencil cup containing four rulers sits sandwiched between glue sticks and tape dispensers. You grab one and walk back to your desk, trying to control your rapidly beating heart.

You write the numbers one through twelve on the sticky note and then the corresponding letters underneath. You can use the letter A through L to make a note.

How are you going to do this? Break the ruler into pieces? Make a little dash above each number and attempt to bring the whole thing out?

“Nick,” you hiss. He looks over at you. “Have you ever, like, brought office supplies home? From here?”

He leans in closer because Grant peers over the partition at you. “One time I forgot I put a pencil in my pocket when I left. It was there in my pocket the next day. I’m sure they checked it though.”

Your breath catches. So it’s possible, if it’s something mundane like that. Although you’re really regretting that you don’t wear a watch right now, because it seems much less of a risk to leave this kind of message that way.

But for the first time, you actually have hope.

You stare at the sticky note, trying to piece together what to say. You can’t spell OUT. You can’t spell HELP.

Something clicks and with a sharpie, you draw a dash above the eight, a dash above the five, and two dashes above the twelve.

H-E-L-L.

Will your outie understand what you’re trying to say? This might be your best shot. You just have to get lucky.

But the hand that clamps on your shoulder, the touch familiar at this point, drains you of all hope.

“Come with me,” he says, low in your ear, and your muscles tense. All his pleasantness from earlier is gone, replaced by a severe sternness he only has when someone is in trouble.

Nick gives you a compassionate look while you see Grant shaking his head at you. You’re tempted to throw the sharpie at him but you restrain yourself.

How’s that for exhibiting Benevolence, Grant? See, I know the nine core principles.

Mr. Milchick picks up the ruler and examines it, before sliding it into his pocket. He walks out and you get up and follow him. He takes you in a different direction than Ms. Cobel’s office and you get the strange sense that you’re descending, even though the floor is straight. The air seems to grow thinner and colder.

He pauses outside a smooth white door and inserts his keycard. On the wall next to is a plaque with the words Break Room. The hair on the back of your neck stands up.

The door opens, revealing a long, dark hallway, leading to another door.

Mr. Milchick gestures for you to go first and you hear his footsteps echoing behind yours as you walk down the corridor.

“We warned you,” he says gently before reaching around you to push open the door.

The room is dark, almost too dark for you to see anything, but you can make out the faint outline of a table and two chairs. You hear the faint sound of whirring and it’s familiar yet foreign all at the same time.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Milchick says, pointing to the chair against the wall. He sits in the chair on the other side of the table and there’s a click and then a bright light momentarily blinds you.

When you become adjusted to it, you realize that there’s a thick piece of glass between you and him with words written on it. He adjusts the knob of a machine on his side, the projector, you guess, and the words become more focused.

“You are going to read this statement to atone for your actions and you are going to mean it,” he instructs you.

Your forehead wrinkles as you scan over it. It’s a weird apology of sorts, but you’ll say anything at this point. You take a deep breath. “‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

Mr. Milchick purses his lips and there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach. “I’m afraid you did not mean that. Say it again.”

You laugh. “What? I’m not—”

“Say. It. Again.”

The words have burned themselves into your retinas and even when you close your eyes, you still see them. “‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

“You didn’t mean it. Say it again.”

This time, you slouch back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest. You’re not going to say it and you’re going to waste the rest of both your days. Will this be enough subordination to get fired?

“Say it,” he orders, his eyes glittering in the light.

“Or what?” you challenge. “Why the fuck am I going to repeat this stupid statement if I don’t mean it just so you can make me say it again?” You stare at him defiantly while he rubs his hands over his face, trying to figure out what to do.

And then the door opens.

It takes you a minute to make out the silhouette.

Ms. Cobel.

“Any chance you’re here to let me go?” you ask, voice cracking. She huffs and steps into the room, letting the door slam shut behind her, and you’re able to see the restrained fury on her face.

She slowly walks around to Mr. Milchick’s side until she’s behind him and rests her hands on his shoulders. “This must be a new record for the least amount of attempts completed before refusing to say the Compunction Statement.”

You shrug. “I aim to impress.”

One of the corners of her mouth quirks up, almost in amusement. “Well I’m afraid I will need to take matters into my own hands, due to Mr. Milchick’s incompetence.”

He splutters and looks up at her, agape. You watch her dig her fingers into his shoulders.

“Mr. Milchick, you are no longer needed here. Please attend to the rest of MDR and make sure none of them are attempting to write secret messages to their outies.”

He takes a deep breath, something looking a lot like contempt in his eyes, and stands up.

But before he can walk out of the door, Ms. Cobel adds one last thing. “Leave the ruler.”

Mr. Milchick freezes and withdraws it from his pocket before handing it over. Your eyes track the movement, feeling your heart race even more. There’s something happening in your stomach, a feeling you haven’t felt before, not in your two weeks of this Severed life.

He leaves and the door shuts behind him, leaving you alone with Ms. Cobel.

She tuts as she drags a finger down the length, pausing at each of the dashes you drew.

“This was a smart one,” she admits. “Took us a bit to realize what you were doing. But, as we’ve told you many times, any correspondence between your Severed selves is prohibited. So say it again.” She jabs the ruler at the projected words but you shake your head.

Ms. Cobel scoffs and stalks over. You watch until she’s right in front of you, and then her hand flies out to seize your hair. You let out a surprised gasp as she pulls you up.

But you’re only face-to-face for a moment before her hand moves to your back and she bends you over the cold table. You have to crane your eyes up to look at the words in front of you.

Your stomach is growing hot, an unfamiliar feeling between your legs, and Ms. Cobel chuckles from behind you like she knows.

“You could end this now,” she reminds you. “Just mean your apology and we can get back to work.”

“I can’t,” you choke out. “I’m not going to sit here and say it over and over again for the rest of the day.”

She sighs like she was expecting it and you feel the ruler against your spine. You suck in a deep breath. “Well, then,” she says quietly. “How about we make a deal?”

You don’t answer, but you tilt your head forward for her to go on.

The ruler moves lower. “You will say the Compunction Statement ten times, and after each time, you will receive a spank. After those ten times, your disobedience will be forgiven and you will be free to return to work. Or, you can just say it and mean it and I will spare you the physical punishment.”

You could fake it, you know. Maybe even pretend to cry a little bit so she’ll take you seriously.

But a part of you is curious. So you do nothing.

Ms. Cobel exhales slowly and the ruler is gone from your back. There’s a tense moment of nothing before you feel her fingers pulling at the hem of your dress. Your mouth parts but no words come out as she drags the fabric from your knees up until it’s hiked up around your waist.

Her breath hitches and she drags the ruler against the waistband of your underwear. “Well, well, well,” she drawls and you have no idea what she’s talking about. “That’s interesting.”

“What?” you croak, mouth dry.

But she slips back into her role. “Say it.”

This time, you do with no hesitation.“‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

The ruler snaps against your scantily clad ass before you have a chance to prepare and the sting shocks you. You jolt forward against the table, a whimper tearing itself from your throat, and you close your eyes to stop the room from spinning.

“Again,” she orders quietly.

“‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

She hits you even harder this time and you wonder how they’re going to explain this to your outie self. You’re certainly going to be feeling this tonight and tomorrow and probably for the next few days.

Without being prompted this time, you read it again.

Tears spring in your eyes after the third hit and the slap reverberates around the small room. Your skin is burning and you can almost see the red welt that you’re going to have.

Again.

“You could’ve avoided this,” Ms. Cobel says. “It didn’t have to be this way. But you will learn your lesson.”

You cry out on the fourth spank, tears leaking down your cheeks. You stick out your tongue to catch the saltiness.

Again.

The fifth spank makes you scramble for purchase on the table, nerve endings lighting up all through your body, and your head starts to swim. Every inch of your body is on fire.

“Remember this pain and why you are receiving it. If you follow the rules, you get rewarded. But if not…Again.”

The six spank feels dull compared to the other ones, but maybe that’s just because your skin has been hit raw to the point of losing feeling. The hurt is bleeding and blending into something else and your body is throbbing now, hungry but you don’t know for what. The ache is coming from between your legs, radiating through you and making you pant desperately.

Your seventh repeat is much more broken and slurred and you think you skip over some words here and there but you can’t focus your vision enough to confirm.

She spanks you again, but this time it’s below your ass on the very highest point of your thighs, so it burns all over again.

“Just to make sure you’re not getting too complacent,” she whispers and you can barely hear her over the sound of your breathing. “It seems that you’re enjoying yourself a little too much.”

You barely get through the eighth attempt and your hips are bucking wildly the whole time, trying to get some sort of relief between your legs.

“Stop squirming,” she hisses and then spanks your ass again.

The nine repeat comes out in breathy gasps and moans and is this what it’s like to be drunk? Not being able to think straight or talk normally? There’s a fog in your mind that’s overwhelming you and all you can think is one more.

What are you supposed to do after this?

Ms. Cobel tsks lightly before spanking you for the ninth time.

You stutter through the statement for the tenth and final time, definitely skipping and combining words but you couldn’t care less. She should be happy that you can still talk right now.

But for the tenth spank, she grabs you by the hair again and spins you around. Your bare and bruised ass hits the edge of the table and you gasp in pain. Ms. Cobel stands in front of you, a dark look in her blue eyes, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips. The ruler is still clenched in her hand and you’re not sure what’s going on.

She pushes on your shoulder and nods down, and you piece it together slowly. You sit on the table, wincing again, and slide back until you can lay down comfortably with your legs bent up so your feet are on the table. You finally look down and see what caught her attention earlier—your underwear is black and lacy and fancy.

What was your outie doing when she put these on?

“Last one,” Ms. Cobel says and then smacks the ruler down hard against your cunt. It connects with your clit and your back arches painfully off the table as you let out a loud moan. Sparks fly through your body and you lay there for a moment in a stupor, dazed with pleasure. Your clit is pulsing and you feel more wetness gush into your underwear.

You lie on the table, completely spent. Your cheeks are wet and sticky and your vision blurs. There’s a mess in your panties, you can feel it.

“Very good,” Ms. Cobel purrs, sounding different than she usually does. Like she’s affected too. “Since you took your punishment well, I think it’s fair you get a reward. Lumon is all about rewarding excellence.”

Before you can ask what she means—or laugh at the ridiculousness of that—her fingers cup your cunt over your underwear. You gasp loudly as she rubs up and down and tuts condescendingly.

Which only makes the problem worse for some reason.

“With all the acting out you do, I should’ve guessed you were just looking for someone to put you in your place,” she croons.

You open your mouth to retort, but she finds your clit and presses against it hard, shooting down any thought in your head.

“Maybe you won’t find your work here so unpleasant now,” Ms. Cobel muses as she pulls your underwear to the side. She strokes her fingers through your folds, spreading your wetness all around, and the squelching sounds make your cheeks burn.

She seems to like it.

And then she pushes two fingers into you roughly while she examines your face. Your walls clench around her and your hips buck up again to get her inside you. There’s already a mounting pressure inside your core and when she rubs at your clit, it intensifies.

“Oh—fuck,” you whine and you think she almost smiles.

Ms. Cobel curls them further inside you and the whirring sound from somewhere in the room grows louder. “Such a naughty girl,” she tuts, “breaking the rules like you do. But it’s okay now, because I think we’ve figured something out that works.”

An explosion of flashes happens from behind your eyes and words fall from your tongue uncontrollably. “Yes, please, mommy—”

She gasps, completely unrestrained, and her thumb swipes hard against your clit. Her fingers twist roughly, stroking your walls, and your head drops hard against the table. Your ass is throbbing and sore and it only makes the growing feeling in your core worse.

“You’re going to be mommy’s good girl from now on, aren’t you?” she asks and you nod frantically.

Ms. Cobel pauses for just a moment and you clench around her to draw her back in, but then she fits a third finger into you. You take it easily, the stretch only giving you more pleasure, and you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to get any work done ever again.

But why would you want to, if this is what it gets you?

Now the only message you want to give to your outie is to wear something a bit more scandalous tomorrow, rather than the business professional dress.

“When I count to three, you are going to come for me,” Ms. Cobel says, quiet but domineering. Heat flares inside of you. “You are going to come for mommy.”

“One.”

She thrusts inside you faster, waves of pleasure rushing over and over of you.

“Two.”

Her thumb circles your clit roughly and you let out a loud keen while trying your best to ride her hand on the table. You’re about to come, you’re struggling to hold it back, biting your lip until it bleeds, you can’t—you need—

“Three.”

You let go and your orgasm tears through you like an explosion, making your vision go blank and sending you into a state of euphoria you’ve never felt anything close to. She doesn’t slow down and keeps going and you choke out moans while you try but fail to catch your breath.

“I can’t take—please, mommy—too much,” you pant while she smirks wickedly, but slows and then stops.

Ms. Cobel pulls her fingers out of you and you feel a rush of liquid seeping from your cunt. She pulls your underwear back on and lays her hand on your thigh as a gesture of tenderness.

But she seems to realize what she’s doing once you sit up and she quickly steps back. “Get situated and then get back to work. I trust you’ll be able to focus much better now.”

In a haze, you nod and she forces a smile before picking up the ruler that she had thrown on the table beside you and then walks out of the room.

You carefully climb off the table and pull your dress down.

The clock above the door says that you still have six hours left in the workday.

——

Ding!

The elevators open—you’re back on the surface, back as your outie. When you step off, you notice the soreness in your backside.

The security guard scans you and permits you to go ahead into the changing room. You exchange your badges and grab your phone and keys and then go down to the parking lot.

There’s a note on your windshield, which will be the reason for your soreness.

Your full name is on the envelope and you open it.

While on the Severed Floor, your innie sustained a minor injury to her rear when she was reaching for paper clips in the supply closet, fell backwards, and hit the edge of a shelf. Included is a ten dollar gift card to a restaurant of your choice.

You snort. Surely that’s not really what happened.

But you know how to find out.

It’s a short drive home, only about five minutes since you live in the subsidized Lumon housing neighborhood. The white Volkswagen Rabbit is already parked in the driveway and you pull up next to it.

You unlock the door and step inside. The first thing you hear is the whirring of the coffee grinder and you smile to yourself. It’s a noise you’ve come to associate with home.

Kicking off your shoes, you walk into the kitchen, where your wife, Harmony, is cooking dinner and brewing a cup of coffee for herself. Her silver hair catches the overhead lights and contrasts nicely with her maroon robe. She smirks when you enter and you hold up the note.

“Apparently I hit my ass on the edge of a shelf in the supply closet,” you announce. “Seems like you had some fun. Is it bad that I find you fucking innie-me hot?”

“Oh, I did have fun,” she says, reaching into her robe and withdrawing a ruler. There’s a jolt inside you, like you recognize it but you don’t know why. “The underwear was a nice touch.”

You grin at your wife. “I’m glad you liked it. And I’m glad innie-me finally decided to act out enough to get your attention. I’ve been wearing lingerie for the past week ever since you said you like when she’s bratty.”

Harmony snorts and grabs her cup of coffee and walks over to the couch. You follow, still in your work clothes.

“Will you tell me about it?” you ask.

Her pupils dilate just a bit. “Oh yeah? You want me to tell you about how I bent her—you—over and spanked you with the ruler ten times? And how you got so fucking needy for me that I had to turn you over and fuck you with my fingers?”

Your breath catches. “Fuck.”

Harmony smirks. “You called me ‘mommy’. Like you fucking knew, even in there.”

A shiver runs through you, followed by a heavy heat. “Well, how about you, mommy?” you simper, fingers seeking her leg and pushing her robe up her thigh. “Did I take care of you?”

“That might be for tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll do something that warrants it,” she says, teasing slightly.

Your tongue pokes between your teeth and you move to straddle her. “Or,” you whisper, leaning down to nip at her exposed neck, “you could let me take care of you right now.”

Her underwear is already soaked through when you finally reach down between you.

“Yes,” she sighs and you can’t wait to hear about her and your Severed self more tomorrow.

#harmony cobel #harmony cobel x reader #harmony cobel x female reader #severance #harmony cobel smut #covsfics #the break room

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